Читать книгу Unfaithful - Devon Scott - Страница 10

The interior of the sedan is warm. He scans the dash, noting the time. Over an hour late to this preordained meeting, his eyes pan across Miles’ smooth, shadowy face. Even dappled in darkness, he is ruggedly handsome—strong angular lines, piercing eyes, inviting smile. He knows why she chose him.

Miles is chewing on an unlit cigar, the image propelling him back to the party—and to her, clad only in a man’s button-down shirt—her wares spilling out enticingly.

Stop it.

That precious moment, captured eternally in mid-flight, emblazoned in his mind like a high-resolution photograph, is gone forever.

Never to return.

He understands that now, yet ponders how everything went wrong so quickly.

Back to the present. He’s late.

Miles’ clenched jaw line tells him so, and that the man in the driver’s seat is not amused.

Patience running thin.

Gas tank on reserve.

He’s been driving around the city, attempting without success to find a solution to this problem.

His situation.

But situations like this don’t have easily defined solutions or answers.

He’s been avoiding Miles as if he were the plague, knowing he has to face his demons, his nemesis, sooner rather than later.

However, he never counted on it all crashing down this soon.

“Hey,” he mutters, breaking the silence.

Miles turns the radio down, glancing his way.

“Expected to see you about an hour ago.”

He grins nervously. Raises his shoulders as if to imply that shit happens.

Miles clears his throat, then lowers the window and chucks out his now-cold cigar. Turns to Ryan and says, “Time we talked, you and I, don’t you think?”

He merely grunts.

Miles launches. “I’m aware of this…this thing with Olivia. Have known for some time, actually.” He pauses, glances over at the passenger side, at the figure whose stare is riveted to his clenched hands, heart racing, afraid to breathe. Afraid not to—unsure of which is worse.

They are in a quiet park at The Point, a hundred yards from a lazy river, airport lights twinkling in the background. A huge sculpture is buried in the sand and dirt to their left, an outstretched hand reaching for the sky, veined and grotesque. At least it appears that way from his vantage point.

“Can’t blame you, actually. I mean, look at her—what an incredible woman she is.”

He listens. Wonders for a brief instant how this will end.

Knife in the heart?

Fingers gripping his neck until life ebbs away?

His candle blown out—way too soon?

“Even though you’ve got someone beautiful at home, a man’s gotta roam, right? In the genes—innate to all males, handed down, species to species, since long before dinosaurs roamed the earth.”

He continues.

“You’re obsessing. Can’t help yourself. Over your head. In too deep.” Miles turns his body to stare at him, giving him his full profile. “Understand what I’m saying?”

He nods silently.

“Problem is, you’re obsessing over the wrong one.”

Sharp glance his way.

“I don’t understand,” Ryan says, finding his breath, fighting the demons that live within.

“Obsession—it’s a terrible thing. Makes one lose sight of what they’re searching for.”

Slow, sharp exhale. Resolve—resolve to settle this thing, this situation, no matter what, no matter how fucked up it is, regardless of the outcome, like men—man to man.

“Listen, Miles, I didn’t come here—”

“You need to know she wasn’t the one who tasted you,” Miles says.

He is rising out of his seat now, anger bubbling to the surface, unfettered. Facing Miles, he swallows hard.

“Just what are you talking about?!” he yells incredulously. “What the fuck are you saying?”

“I think you know. Search deep within your soul, and I trust you’ll uncover the truth. I have—and I’m in a better place because of it. The truth, as someone once said, will set you free.” Miles grins, emits a sharp laugh.

“You’re crazy, you know that, Miles? What shit have you smoked?”

“Am I? I think you know it wasn’t Olivia who took you deep into her mouth that night after the party…”

Split-second pause.

A smile—not wicked, but filled with something else Ryan’s yet to comprehend.

“It was me that night, Ryan. Yours truly. Me.”

Then Ryan is scrambling out of the car and running full force, arms flailing; branches and vines are stinging his face and cheeks as he sprints blindly into the darkness, eyes wide and mouth open in a silent scream. And Miles sits patiently, fingers tapping to some unnamed, noiseless beat, waiting for him to return, as he knows he will, sooner rather than later, to face his passions and his demons—two opposite ends of the same, god-damned spectrum—the same way he has—like a man….