On the Steamy Side - Louisa Edwards [124]
Or unrepentant until recently, anyway.
But just because he was suddenly aware of and embarrassed over his own shortcomings didn’t mean Frankie could suddenly grow a whole new personality, like growing out his hair after a bad bleach job.
It sucked, but there it was. He’d never be different. Never be better. Never be good enough for Jess.
“She knows why I don’t want to live in crappy student housing,” Jess groused. Sly, happy mischief twisted the annoyance on his handsome face into something almost elfin. “I’d rather live in crappy housing with you.”
This was why Frankie had to end it. Jess was forever trying to give up bits and pieces of his life as a student, as a young man with a future, to hang out with Frankie at Frankie’s grotty attic flat. It had to stop.
Instead of defending the Garret, as was Frankie’s vociferous habit whenever anyone slighted his much-loved domicile, he said, “I think your sister might be right.”
All movement stopped.
Frankie froze like he’d been cornered by the police and Jess had the unnatural stillness of someone who’d been dealt a killing blow.
When Jess’s voice came, it was careful. Quiet. “If you want me to move out, that’s all you have to say.”
He waited and Frankie could almost taste his desperate hope that the response would be anything other than what it had to be. “Yeah. You should move out. You should turn in those forms, get yourself a nice roommate.”
“I thought I had one,” Jess whispered, then squeezed his eyes closed. “Fuck. Forget I said that.”
Frankie was sure he’d never forget it; memory wasn’t usually kind enough to allow him to remember only the lovely bits of life. Still, he waved it away.
“No worries, Bit.” The nickname almost made him flinch as it came out of his mouth here in this kitchen, where he’d thought it upon seeing Jess for the first time: a bit of all right.
Frankie didn’t let it show, though. He gave Jess a grin and said, “All settled, then? It’s been fun and all, but it’s time to move on. For both of us.”
And the band said Frankie didn’t have the onstage persona to be front man. Frankie deserved a fucking Tony for this performance.
As expected, Jess read between the lines and cast the worst—or best, depending on if what you were trying to accomplish was to rip his sweet heart out—possible interpretation on Frankie’s words.
“Bored with me, are you?” Jess shook his head, anger finally spilling in to displace the lost misery clouding his blue eyes. “Looking back, I guess I’m only surprised it took this long. I mean, what could someone like you want with a pathetic, inexperienced little twat like me?”
Frankie couldn’t help flinching, and of course, Jess caught it. Eyes narrowed, color up, he looked magnificent, like an avenging angel out for blood. “And that’s all bullshit, isn’t it?” Jess breathed. “Whatever’s behind this, boredom isn’t it. I know you, Frankie, better than anyone. I see you.”
“What do you see?” Frankie asked, voice destroyed like he’d shrieked along with the chorus to God Save the Queen. The Sex Pistols version.
Jess stalked him like a lithe young tiger, all slink and slide. Pinned by that hot blue gaze, Frankie let him get closer. Closer.
Until Jess was a breath away. “I see somebody who’s scared. Scared of responsibility, of commitment, and most of all, scared of what he feels. For me.”
Frankie’s mouth felt dry and cracked like the morning after a bender. Something in his face must have communicated his sudden, intense panic because Jess pulled back, a grim set to those pretty lips.
“Don’t worry,” Jess said. “I’m not going to fight you on this. If you can’t be bothered to fight for us, why should I?”
Fair point.
“I want you to know,” Jess went on, relentless. “I want it out on the table, so we both know, this isn’t about what’s best for me and my future, or whatever piece-of-shit excuse you’re giving yourself. It’s about you. And your fear. And the fact that even though I know--I know, Frankie--that