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The second he stopped fighting, I rushed to Jason’s side, cooing to him that it was okay, touching his arms, his shoulders, his face.
I watched his chin buckle as he curled up into the fetal position and buried his face in my lap. His body shivered against the freezing cold cement, and his quiet, keening sobs broke my heart.
Stroking his short brown hair and trying not to let him hear me cry, I glanced over at Ken. He had scooted as far away from us as he could get and was sitting with his back against the farthest wall of the balcony. One leg was out straight in front of him. The other was bent with his knee pulled up toward his chest. His eyes were wider than I’d ever seen them, and they were fixed on mine in the dark.
I stared at him in wonder.
Ken, the man who didn’t believe in gifts, had just given me my friend back.
Because he was sober, he’d been alert. Because he was an infuriating gentleman, he’d accompanied me outside. Because he was freakishly calm, he’d kept his cool during a crisis. And, because he was a jock, he’d had the reaction speed and strength to pull a grown man to safety. All the things I’d considered turn-offs, all the qualities I’d rolled my eyes at, I suddenly saw them as assets. They were the reasons Jason’s head was in my lap instead of splattered across the sidewalk.
I watched Ken watching us—so uncomfortable in the presence of emotion, so unsure of what to do now that the time for action was over—and I was overcome with appreciation. For him. As a person. For the things that made him different from everyone else. Everyone else was partying in the living room but not Ken. Ken didn’t care about fun. Ken cared about shit that mattered, like art and music and his credit score.
And, evidently, his friends.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Ken replied immediately, his voice cold, his face once again hard as stone.
“I think he’s out,” I said, looking down at Jason’s slack-jawed face smooshed against my thigh.
“Let’s get him inside.” Ken’s voice was all business as he stood and approached us. Leaning over so that we were almost eye-to-eye, he reached under Jason’s armpits and hoisted him to a standing position.
Revealing a huge wet spot on the crotch of his khakis.
Jesus Christ.
I hustled across the balcony to a set of French doors. Trying the handles, I exhaled in relief when they swung open, revealing Jason’s large, sparsely decorated bedroom. Ken dragged his unconscious body over to the bed and laid him gently on his side. I hustled to lift his legs onto the mattress and remove his one remaining shoe. Once we got him tucked into his black satin sheets and placed a trash can next to the bed, Ken and I tiptoed out of the room and into the hall.
“You saved his life.” The whispered words tumbled from my mouth the second the door clicked shut behind us.
Ken shrugged, his features severe. “I’ve never seen him this fucked up.”
He didn’t take credit for his heroism. In fact, he didn’t acknowledge it at all. I added that to the long list of things I was learning to appreciate about Ken Easton that night.
“Me either.” The pulsing techno from the living room mimicked my heart as it pounded in my chest. “Maybe we should stay, just to keep an eye on him until he sobers up.”
Ken’s eyes were shrouded in shadows as we stood a foot apart in Jason’s darkened hallway. “Okay.”
“Okay.” I looked up at him as the warm buzzing hum of his bubble enveloped me. “So, what do we do now?”
I didn’t even know which question I was asking. What do we do for the rest of the night? What do we do about Jason? What do we do about this weird thing between us that seems to be going nowhere?
But it didn’t matter because Ken’s answer would be the same for all three.
Lifting a noncommittal shoulder, he said, “Whatever you want to do.”
Whatever you want to do.
What if I want to kiss you?
What if I want to go home with you and make love to you and spend the night with you and wander around museums with you tomorrow, looking at French art?
What if I want more?
There was only one way to find out. Pushing up onto my tiptoes, I leaned forward slowly, making my intentions clear. I was prepared for my lips to hit the unyielding marble that Ken sometimes turned into whenever I touched him. I readied myself for the emotional blow of yet another unreciprocated advance. I had not readied myself for the rush of adrenaline that shot through my bloodstream when Ken actually fucking kissed me back.
Clutching the lapels of his wool coat in my fists, I backed Ken against Jason’s bedroom door. Electronic dance music rattled the thin walls all around us as I pressed my chest against his, but Ken’s hands barely skimmed my sides. I sucked on his bottom lip and swirled my tongue around his, but his kisses remained featherlight. I was desperate for him to make me feel better. To make me forget my fear for Jason, my breakup with Hans, my altercations with Knight, hell, my own name, but Ken wasn’t cooperating. He was infuriating.
