Page 75 of Damián

I can’t imagine how Oliver manages to live this way.

And just like that, my mind drags me somewhere else; the same place it drags me to whenever I think about Oliver.

A dark parking lot.

Since yesterday, whenever I close my eyes, it is as if I am right back there. I can feel the seat pressing into my spine and the weight of Oliver’s body straddling my hips. I hear the delicious little sounds he made. I feel the desperate grind of his hips against mine as he chased his release.

I can still taste his tongue and feel the way his arms clung to my shoulders as I wrapped my hand around both of us and took us over the edge.

My groin hardens, and my eyes snap open.

No… not going there.

Ugghh… Oliver would be horrified if he found out I’ve been acting like a freaking teenager, just constantly thinking about how good it felt to kiss him.

I pull out my phone to check what Oliver has sent me, but once again, the screen is blank… No texts, no missed calls, nada.

Mmm… okay.

This is… unusual.

Is he just being cautious? Or did something happen?

Nah… maybe he is used to never contacting anyone after getting off.

Trying to ignore the weird twist in my stomach, I stretch my legs out over the coffee table and kick a very heavy, Grim Reaper-looking bust.

“Shit!” I jump off the couch, lunging forward to snatch the ugly sculpture mere inches before it smashes against the hardwood floor.

Annoyed, and with my headache flaring up again, I place the damn thing onto the absolute furthest corner of the table. I sit back down, crossing my arms as I stare around at my cold, lifeless home.

Ugh. Couldn’t Elijah be into something else?

Like, I don’t know… a car collector? Or a foodie?

Fuck, I would love to be a foodie.

But no. Mr. Monster-drug trafficker had to like weird sculptures and art dealers with boring-ass apartments.

And so, with absolutely nothing else to do and no one I am allowed to talk to, I grab the remote control. I turn on the TV and just binge on a series until I finally pass out.

TUESDAY

It’s been four days since our hookup in the parking lot, and I haven’t heard a single word from Oliver. No text, no call, no encrypted email.

Nothing.

Not even a fucking carrier pigeon, and I am strangely… confused.

If you can call it that.

¡Qué mierdas!

Am I the only one thinking about what happened and how good it felt? Am I the only one fucking hoping we can do it again?

I thought by now there would be some word about how he was doing, or at least about the mission. But there is just radio silence.

I mean… I did give him the last part of the list. Shouldn’t he at least contact me with questions or notes?