Page 8 of Jealous Guy

Ugh.

Jordan loves cereal.

Fucking loves it.

The entire time he eats, he makes these little sounds. Soft, happy sounds that aren’t markedly different from the sounds he made last night. My dick hears them and takes it the wrong way.

What happened last night rushes back, landing with a red-hot sting of shame. It hits hard, like a punch, blooming in my chest near the site of the impact and traveling slowly up my neck and down my legs. It’s such a vast, limitless feeling that it absorbs me headfirst into its shadow, as if it means to consume me. As I watch Jordan eat, I shrink into a smaller and smaller version of myself until there are no parts of me left that weren’t born in shame.

I hate what I did last night. Absolutely hate it. I hate that I see Jordan in a way he doesn’t see himself. A way he doesn’t choose to be seen. A way he definitely doesn’t see me.

I hate that I’ve known him for so long, and I still do it.

I hate that I’ve tried so hard not to. I’ve done everything humanly possible not to do it, but I can’t make myself stop.

Jordan glances up at me and stops chewing. He puts the bowl down on the counter and looks at me harder. His eyes bore into me, stripping away layer upon layer until I’m naked.

My throat aches where it meets my jaw and something clicks when I swallow.

“Are you feeling low today, bud?”

There’s no smile in his voice. No humor, none of his trademark comicality. Just the bare sincerity of someone who cares deeply about me. The concern of a human being who reads my moods better than I’m able to explain them. A person who’s more in tune with me than anyone I’ve ever met. A friend who gets everything about me without me having to explain it.

Well. Not everything.

Almost everything.

Jordan doesn’t get everything about me because I won’t let him. Because I hide parts of myself from him. Big parts. Important parts. He doesn’t know everything there is to know about me because every day I wake up, smile and drink coffee, talk shit about unimportant things, and lie to him about a very big thing.

“I’m fine,” I say, holding my hands up to placate him.

I know him well enough to know what he’s going to do next. I’m several yards away from him and the kitchen island separates us, so I have the tactical advantage of a physical barrier today. I keep my eyes on him and take a couple of steps back to be on the safe side. I’m quick, but he’s quicker. He’s also crazier than I have any hope of being, and he uses that against me.

He doesn’t hesitate when he sees me move. He simply dives over the counter, arms out, eyes closed, rolling into a messy, dangerous-looking somersault as he lands on the floor with a spectacular crash. My jaw drops. Despite knowing damn well he’s unhinged, I didn’t see that coming. We’ve lived in this apartment together for over a year, and it’s the first time he’s ever resorted to dive-bombing over the island to get to me.

I didn’t even know he could do that without breaking something. It sure as hell doesn’t seem like a good idea. He was standing dead still before he did it. He didn’t even take a run-up.

Damn, he’s athletic.

He’s so strong and fit and—

No. No, that’s not the point.

He uses my shocked pause to close in on me, jumping to his feet and straight into a tackle that almost knocks me off my feet. The impact is hard. Solid and strong. Muscle and bone slamming into me almost exactly how I want it. I squirm out of his grip before my body has time to react, batting him off me with elbows and loosely clenched fists, and then I tear down the hallway toward the bathroom because it’s the only room in the apartment that locks.

He races after me, breathing hard, and catches me before I get to the bathroom door. He grabs hold of the back of my T-shirt to slow me. I turn, and we wrestle for a few seconds, grunting and swearing under our breath as we indulge in a very undignified struggle that involves a lot of open-handed slapping and poorly aimed punches that don’t really find their targets. Confused pleasure centers light up at the site of each impact, prickling across my skin and causing something low in my body to catch alight.

Panic spikes.

I need to get away from him. Fast.

I spot an opening and take it, shoving him away with a hand on his chest. It’s a quick touch. Fleeting. There for less than a second and then gone. Unfortunately, it’s enough to remind me how ripped he is.

How smooth his skin is.

How warm it is.

I snatch my hand off him before he has time to swat it away. It doesn’t dissuade or slow him. He pounces again before I’ve had time to get very far.