Christian's affirmative answer, pulled out a checkbook.
Christian made him show his ID the second he saw the name on the check. John Loring. The last thing he needed was to have Misery reenacted in his own home. John produced it, though, and rocked on his heels while Christian peered from the tiny picture of a light-haired, awkwardly smiling twenty-one year old man to the dark-haired confident twenty-six year old god standing in front of him. "This is actually you?" he asked, staring.
"Mom always said I was her little butterfly." John grinned and held his hand out for the ID. "So, since you got as far as carding me, does that mean I get the room?"
When Christian told him why he’d asked to see ID, John thought it was hilarious. "I’m a barista, and I sing in a band. Literary impersonation isn’t really my thing."
"Just an amazing coincidence, I guess." Christian wondered if his continued staring made John uncomfortable, but he couldn’t stop.
“Fuck coincidence. This is fate,”John said. He looked delighted.
Christian didn’t find out until after John moved in that he’d read the books and loved them, which made him a great roommate because he kept quiet as a result.
“If my being quiet means you write faster, that’s fine by me. You need to get that guy laid.”
“You’ve been talking to my agent,” Christian said, and John laughed.
C HRISTIAN stared at the folded pile of fluffy towels sitting on the bathroom shelf. He touched them as if to check their existence. They were warm .
“Oh yeah, I did the laundry,” John said, coming up behind him.
Turning, Christian’s eyes flicked down John’s bare chest as he realized that John had one of the towels wrapped around his waist. He wondered why John had decided to come upstairs after his shower instead of getting dressed in his room, which was right next to his bathroom. Stopping in to say he’d done the laundry didn’t seem enough of a reason. Christian snapped his gaze back up to John’s eyes. It almost looked like John was laughing at him.
“Uh, wow.” He hoped John would interpret his speechlessness as shock about the laundry being done and not as having anything to do with being inches away from John’s chest, which was still glistening wet. John's distribution of water-darkened strawberry blond chest hair made a futile attempt to hide the freckles that washed across his skin.
John slipped past him into the bathroom. Opening the medicine cabinet, he took out the sunscreen. “Yeah, I thought after I fucked up dinner last night, I should do something.” He stepped back into the hall and stretched the arm that held the bottle over his head to rest it there, shifting his hip so the towel dropped a fraction of an inch.
Christian’s mouth went dry as a drop of water traveled from John’s armpit down his side to settle in the curve of his hip, pale skin stretched taut from John’s position. He sucked his lips into his mouth, trying to work up saliva so he could speak. “It’s not your fault. Who knew that french fries were so flammable when applied directly to fire?” Christian asked.
John’s mouth quirked up into a half-smile. “Yeah, and clumsiness is inherited. I’ve been using that one my whole life.” He dropped his arm. Christian watched with regret as the sliver of exposed hip disappeared beneath the fluffy yellow towel. “I’m off to the beach. You want to come?”
Christian glanced toward his office. He infused as much regret as he could into his response. “Deadlines.”
John shrugged like yeah, been there . Even though, as far as Christian knew, he hadn’t. “After you’re done, we’ll go out and celebrate. If you want, I mean.”
“Oh, sure,” Christian said, surprised. “Yes.”
John smiled. Christian stared after him as he walked away. Broad shoulders stretched atop an expanse of back that looked like it carried the strength needed to swing a sword and cut down villains while his thighs squeezed around
Christian made him show his ID the second he saw the name on the check. John Loring. The last thing he needed was to have Misery reenacted in his own home. John produced it, though, and rocked on his heels while Christian peered from the tiny picture of a light-haired, awkwardly smiling twenty-one year old man to the dark-haired confident twenty-six year old god standing in front of him. "This is actually you?" he asked, staring.
"Mom always said I was her little butterfly." John grinned and held his hand out for the ID. "So, since you got as far as carding me, does that mean I get the room?"
When Christian told him why he’d asked to see ID, John thought it was hilarious. "I’m a barista, and I sing in a band. Literary impersonation isn’t really my thing."
"Just an amazing coincidence, I guess." Christian wondered if his continued staring made John uncomfortable, but he couldn’t stop.
“Fuck coincidence. This is fate,”John said. He looked delighted.
Christian didn’t find out until after John moved in that he’d read the books and loved them, which made him a great roommate because he kept quiet as a result.
“If my being quiet means you write faster, that’s fine by me. You need to get that guy laid.”
“You’ve been talking to my agent,” Christian said, and John laughed.
C HRISTIAN stared at the folded pile of fluffy towels sitting on the bathroom shelf. He touched them as if to check their existence. They were warm .
“Oh yeah, I did the laundry,” John said, coming up behind him.
Turning, Christian’s eyes flicked down John’s bare chest as he realized that John had one of the towels wrapped around his waist. He wondered why John had decided to come upstairs after his shower instead of getting dressed in his room, which was right next to his bathroom. Stopping in to say he’d done the laundry didn’t seem enough of a reason. Christian snapped his gaze back up to John’s eyes. It almost looked like John was laughing at him.
“Uh, wow.” He hoped John would interpret his speechlessness as shock about the laundry being done and not as having anything to do with being inches away from John’s chest, which was still glistening wet. John's distribution of water-darkened strawberry blond chest hair made a futile attempt to hide the freckles that washed across his skin.
John slipped past him into the bathroom. Opening the medicine cabinet, he took out the sunscreen. “Yeah, I thought after I fucked up dinner last night, I should do something.” He stepped back into the hall and stretched the arm that held the bottle over his head to rest it there, shifting his hip so the towel dropped a fraction of an inch.
Christian’s mouth went dry as a drop of water traveled from John’s armpit down his side to settle in the curve of his hip, pale skin stretched taut from John’s position. He sucked his lips into his mouth, trying to work up saliva so he could speak. “It’s not your fault. Who knew that french fries were so flammable when applied directly to fire?” Christian asked.
John’s mouth quirked up into a half-smile. “Yeah, and clumsiness is inherited. I’ve been using that one my whole life.” He dropped his arm. Christian watched with regret as the sliver of exposed hip disappeared beneath the fluffy yellow towel. “I’m off to the beach. You want to come?”
Christian glanced toward his office. He infused as much regret as he could into his response. “Deadlines.”
John shrugged like yeah, been there . Even though, as far as Christian knew, he hadn’t. “After you’re done, we’ll go out and celebrate. If you want, I mean.”
“Oh, sure,” Christian said, surprised. “Yes.”
John smiled. Christian stared after him as he walked away. Broad shoulders stretched atop an expanse of back that looked like it carried the strength needed to swing a sword and cut down villains while his thighs squeezed around
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