Читать книгу Unfaithful - Devon Scott - Страница 15

Ryan blinks.

He is sitting on a high stool, a thick, dark bar curving away from him in both directions. The shiny surface holds an untouched beer in a tall mug, which has been set directly in front of him. He is staring at the glass, attempting to focus on the details, seeing without truly seeing. He has no idea how it came to rest there. No idea at all how he came to be here.

The bile remains lodged in his throat. Ryan winces and reaches for the beer, hoping to erase the taste. Hoping to erase everything about the evening. But so far, that’s proved impossible.

How long? How long has he been sitting here?

Ryan does not know.

He glances around. A bar, for sure; name, unknown.

Low-lit, windowless, typical bar atmosphere almost to the point of clichéd: pool table towards the back, a few dartboards hanging on walls to his left, several patrons at the bar with heads down, lost in their thoughts or their sorrow. A few more at two-person tables. Mostly white folks; a few black people—none of them paying him any mind.

The bartender catches his eye and asks if she can get him anything.

Ryan takes a moment to consider her.

Brown skin, nice smile, hair done in afro puffs, slightly large—thick is the politically correct term these days—round ass in tight, low rider jeans. Pink Von-Dutch baseball tee showing off her D cups. A bottle opener stuck into the back pocket of her blue jeans. A short vertical stud bisects her right eyelid. Tiny diamond embedded in her left nostril. When she speaks, he observes a blue barbell in her tongue. When she turns and bends down, a hint of a tribal band tattoo peeks out, just above her café au lait butt.

Twenty-two, twenty-four years old—max.

Ryan’s been staring during the few moments it takes to consider her request. Now, he merely shakes his head, feeling nothing—not hunger, not thirst. Only the bile in his mouth is constant, and it won’t go away.

I received oral sex from a man…

The bartender nods and moves off. A second later, Ryan clears his throat and she stops in mid-stride, head turned his way. He waves her back over.

“Anything sweet,” he says barely above a whisper, then winces, swallowing hard. “Nasty taste in my mouth.” He starts to say something else, but shuts it down. Pushes the mug away.

She nods understandingly, and goes to work fixing him something else. A chilled martini glass is placed before him. She’s grabbing this liquor and that—a clear bottle followed by others he does not recognize. She is watching him, silent as she crafts his drink, giving him a smile when they make eye contact. He glances away.

She shakes the concoction in a cocktail shaker, does a show of twirling the gleaming metal in one hand in a quick flourish before pouring the frothy mix. She wipes her hand off on her jeans before she extends it to him.

“I’m Reese. Let me know if I can get you anything else.”

Ryan takes her hand, offering a weak handshake in return. Her hand lingers a bit before dropping to her side. He doesn’t provide his name—and she doesn’t press him for it. Reese walks away a moment later to attend to other customers, and Ryan watches her go.

The interior of Miles’ car; the unspeakable things he said, and all it entailed; passenger door flung open; Ryan stumbling, running; leaves and branches stinging his face and cheek; guttural screaming—emanating from his throat. Ryan touches his face and winces in horror as he feels the welts on his cheek. Engine turning over, tires squealing, Ryan peeling away; cars, taxis, streetlamps, government building…all a rush of imagery as he passes them by, seeing without truly seeing.

How he got here, he does not know.

He remembers pulling over beside some trash-strewn, vacant liquor store in D.C., thick black bars on the doors and windows. His driver’s side door left open as he went to the curb and vomited, the grotesque foul-smelling chunks nearly missing his shoes as he retched. He remained doubled over for nearly a minute, the pain so deep and intense he thought he would pass out, then righting himself because he suddenly felt the chill associated with premonitions—hair on his forearms standing up straight as if his life would momentarily be snuffed out on some nameless, ghetto street. So he bolted—reached the car in three quick strides and careened away, almost hitting a parked car as he fought to control his vehicle.

Not feeling safe.

Pulse not recovering until he was miles away.

Ryan blinks.

Reese is standing in front of him, stealing a quick sip from a glass of water.

“Drink okay?” she asks.

Ryan hasn’t touched it. He does so now, takes a slow sip…testing the waters, so to speak. He nods. Reese nods in return, then hands him a bar napkin filled with ice chips.

“For your face,” she says, gesturing towards him. He cautiously takes hold and applies it to his cheek, eyes never leaving hers.

I received oral sex from a man…

Am I a faggot?

Ryan scrunches his face as he considers the cold ice pack and the question that looms in front of him as clear as day.

Reese watches him, but says nothing.

He has regarded this question and the associated thoughts over and over for the past two and a half hours. Has pondered Miles’ words—dissected them over and over, reviewed them from left to right and then again from right to left—looking for an opening, a weakness he could exploit.

Nothing.

Miles was fucking with him. Telling lies.

Had to be, right?

Guys fuck with one another, right?

Poor choice of words, considering the circumstances. But the answer still is no.

There’s no way what Miles said could be true. What Miles was implying couldn’t be true—not in Ryan’s case.

Could it?

A woman’s touch. He felt it on his face and chest, moving downward, experiencing the fingernail as it grazed skin and navel before ending at the top edge of his boxers. He held his breath, and held his cock in his palm, as in offering. Take it, he willed her, before I go insane.

Could what Miles be implying be true?

Ryan didn’t know.

So, he forces himself back to that evening.

Measures the details as if he were reliving the entire episode frame by frame.

The feeling was indescribable. Her mouth was an oven and he thrust toward the back of her throat as he reached for her locs, the ferocity within causing him to tremble. Toes curling on the cool carpet, legs outstretched, holding her head in his hands while bucking his hips slowly. Darkness settled around them like a blanket. Occasional house creaks and groans, spiking the otherwise silent hush of the night.

And finds nothing.

Nothing of substance to clear him from the truth.

Am I a faggot?

Because I let another man…

“STOP IT!”

Reese glances up sharply. He is yelling—not at her. Not at anyone in particular.

He drops his head and shakes it forlornly. This whole thing has been blown way out of proportion, and if he just closes his eyes, blinks back the tears that seem to be waiting in the wings, he’ll be alright.

He’ll wake up tomorrow, snug and warm in the confines of his bed, Carly on her side, spooning him as she’s fond of doing, everything the way it was before. Everything okay.

He hasn’t done what Miles alleges.

Ryan blinks.

He did not allow another man to fellate him.

He did not.

Could not.

Blinks again.

No heterosexual man in his right mind would.

Or could…

Right?

Ryan looks to Reese for an answer.

She smiles sheepishly when their stares meet and lock.

Sorrowfully, she lacks the answer to this fundamental question.