Page 9 of On Your Knees

I don’t type any of it. I just stare at Patrick’s text from 4:03: He’s coming.

I gave Levi a choice, an easy out, because part of me knows this is a bad idea. That’s why I left the gala last night. I can feel something dangerous in this, in myself. In Levi too.

But I couldn’t stay away. I think Patrick knew before I did. He let the car idle in the parking garage while I sat in the back, thinking about John-fucking-Clifford touching Levi’s arm, John-fucking-Clifford smiling at him.

And yet, when I offered Levi a choice last night, I knew what he’d choose. So I guess I only pretended it was a choice, both for him and for me. I knew it even in his silence and shock, and when he looked back at me last night before going inside his building, I saw in his face that he actually saw me. For the first time, he saw the truth. A piece of it anyway. Enough of it. And I still knew what he’d choose.

The dot on the map reaches the building. It goes still when they park.

I set my phone down. I clasp my hands together on the counter. I close my eyes and bow my head and put my demons in their places.

When the doorbell chimes, I leave the kitchen and walk through the entryway. When I open the door, Levi’s breath catches. Mine would too if I let it, but I have enough control to appear unmoved.

My mental image of him was wrong. Instead of being slicked back, his dark blond hair hangs around his face, soft and a little shaggy. It’s not as straight as I thought either. I like it, even if it does hide some of the exquisite structure of his face.

I did get the hands right. They’re in his jacket pockets. It’s the same jacket he was wearing last night, a navy blue satin bomber with a color-block sunburst on the back. It’s distinctive and interesting, and his Converse shoes are red instead of a subtler color. He wants attention, even though he pretends to himself that he doesn’t. That’s why the color is on his back and his feet. The central pieces are all plain: faded blue jeans, gray T-shirt, no jewelry.

His blue eyes are wide, like he’s surprised at the sight of me, like maybe he’d forgotten what I look like. I probably do look different in my jeans and off-white henley.

“Hello, Levi.”

“Hi.” He sounds breathless. He’s nervous.

I open the door wide and stand back for him to enter. As I close us in, I watch for a flinch, but there is none. He’s nervous but not scared, which means he’s anxious about himself, not me.

I lead him into the vaulted space of the open-plan kitchen and living room. His eyes are bouncing around, so I let him look.

This part of the penthouse is pretty standard: wood floors and black leather furniture, a modern chandelier, and a few pieces of abstract, goldleaf artwork. Beyond, the floor-to-ceiling windows frame an expensive view of Manhattan. The galley-style kitchen behind me is sleek and clean. I wonder if it’s obvious that I don’t spend much time here.

Levi’s eyes bounce back to me. “Wow.”

A little huff escapes me. Was I ever that innocent, even when I walked into a space like this for the first time?

Probably not.

My mind trips back twenty-some years.

Definitely not.

“There’s some paperwork we need to deal with,” I remind him as I walk past.

He follows me down the couple of steps into the recessed space of the living room. When I go to sit on the couch, Levi stops at the end of the coffee table. He almost looks like he’s going to sit on the floor, so I point to the cushion beside me on the couch. He obeys me, but he’s so nervous that he perches on the edge of the seat. His back is stiff.

I don’t want him to be quite this nervous, which means I need to talk to him. Sometimes I forget that part with people.

“Are you okay?” I make my voice a soft caress, but Levi doesn’t seem to feel it. He doesn’t soften in response, doesn’t even look at me.

He just replies, “Yeah.”

A dark feeling rolls through me at his lie. I know it’s automatic, that he’s not trying to deceive me, but it doesn’t matter. He’s going to have to learn not to lie to me.

“Levi.” My voice remains quiet, but it’s heavy now. He didn’t feel my softness, but the way he shifts on the couch tells me that he feels my disapproval.

“Sorry,” he mutters, hands still in his pockets. “I’m nervous.”

“That’s all right,” I tell him, softening my tone again at his compliance. “It’s normal to be nervous about something new.”

“And you’re sure you want… me?”