Rock N Soul (32 page)

What was so fucking
fascinating
about Eric? I mean, sure, he was pretty hot. But not, like, the hottest guy I’d ever seen. More like upper-middle hotness. And sure, I couldn’t sing or play any instruments or whatever, but Jesus, what the fuck was wrong with
me
?

The guitar music had stopped. I wrinkled my nose and wondered if they had their tongues down each other’s throats already or if they were going to gaze into each other’s eyes for a while first. Chris had told me several times that Eric was totally straight, but then Chris had
also
told me that there was nothing between them. Well, all evidence to the fucking contrary, now.

Chris had never promised me anything. And the whole point of this thing was to finish up his business so he could go back to being dead. So why did I feel like such a dick for wanting it over with all of a sudden? I thumped my head against the wall again.

“What’s your problem?”

I jumped about a foot in the air. You’d think that after being around Chris for so long I would have stopped freaking out like an excitable squirrel whenever he snuck up on me, but so far no luck. So I just glared at him. “Nothing,” I snapped. Then, because that was obviously not true: “You could have told me. You
should
have told me.”

“Told you what?”

“That Eric isn’t just your best friend.” The last two words came out a little hard, like they tasted bad. Which I guess they did.

“He
is
my best friend. My brother, sort of.”

I shot him a look that was probably deadly enough to be illegal in at least eleven states. “I’m not fucking stupid, Chris.”

He was silent for several seconds, shifting on his feet, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of saving him from the awkward pause. Finally, he just sighed. “It’s not like that.”

“Well, what the hell
is
it like?” I asked, then felt my throat closing up again, so I waved my hand in the air and continued, “You know what? I don’t want to have this discussion. Fuck you, okay? Fuck you.”

“This isn’t what it looks like,” he said in a quiet, low voice.

“Oh, I’m pretty sure it’s exactly what it looks like,” I snapped. “But whatever. You just go in there and finish talking to him and then I’ll take you to see your sister and then we can be
done
with this whole fucked-up mess and I can go home and try to go back to a normal life.”

Chris stared at me for a second, still frowning. “I can’t talk to him.”

“I’m pretty sure you can figure something out. Try writing letters on his stomach with your dick. I bet
that
would work.” I gazed determinedly away from him and scowled at nothing in particular.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Yeah, well, fuck you.” It wasn’t my finest comeback moment, but it was the best I could do under the circumstances.

“Tyler,” he started, then reached out.

I flinched away from him before his hand made contact, then I took a step backward. “Don’t fucking touch me. Don’t even
try
. Keep your hands to yourself.”

“I don’t know why you’re so angry,” he said, but he sounded defeated now instead of defensive.

“Because . . .”
Because it’s not
fair
that you can touch him and you can touch your guitar and you can’t touch me. Because if you try to touch me now and you can’t, that’s even worse. Because I really should have fucked Brandon last night so I wouldn’t be standing here feeling like such a loser today.
Ugh. “It doesn’t matter. It’s just I thought that, you know, you and me . . .” I waved between us but I couldn’t quite dredge up the courage to finish that sentence the way it should be finished. So I just cleared my throat and said, “I thought that we were close enough that you could have told me.” Which was true. Just not the whole truth so-help-me-God. But it wasn’t like Chris was giving
me
the whole truth, so fuck him.

“We should probably talk about this,” Chris said after a moment. “But not . . . right now.”

“Yeah,” I said with a scoff. “Yeah, now’s not the time.”

“Will you help me finish saying good-bye?”

I ground my teeth for a second and then nodded. “I’ll help you say good-bye.” I mean, that
was
the point of this.

“And I’ll try to . . .” He shrugged. “I’ll try to tone down the poetics.”

“
Thank
you,” I said. “Because, Jesus, with the Shakespearian sonnets, man.” I gave him a half smile as a peace offering, even though I didn’t feel like smiling
at all
. The things we do for the people we care about.

I saw his return smile happening a second before it broke across his face like heat lightning on a summer night and my brain sent off an “Incoming Dimples” warning just in time for me to look away so I wouldn’t forget how pissed I was at him. “Okay,” I said quickly to head off something
really
dangerous from him like a joke or worse, the low chuckle that had made me feel off-center late at night when we’d talked over
Star Trek
reruns until it had been time for me to sleep. “Let’s go back in. And I’ll be nice.”

“Thanks,” he said. His hand twitched like he was going to try to touch me again, and I flinched like before. He frowned and then walked through the wall.

I sighed and went back in the room.

Chris did manage to keep things relatively platonic after that, although there were still some glances that lasted just a little too long for my stomach to support. The jam session didn’t start up again, but the conversation flowed as easily as it could given that I was having to parrot everything Chris said to Eric.

“So . . .” Eric said eventually. “Are you staying in LA for long? Or are you going to just, you know, go?”

“My flight back’s in two days,” I said.

“Cool,” he said. “Where are you staying?”

I wrinkled my nose. “Just some hotel. Nowhere special.”

Eric raised an eyebrow at me. “Does that mean it’s a shithole in a bad neighborhood?”

I hesitated. Chris was nodding his head so hard I was worried it might fall off.

Eric crossed his arms loosely across his chest. His toned chest. Bastard. “That sounds like a yes.”

“It’s not a
bad
neighborhood,” I insisted. “I walked home from a bar last night and it was fine.”

“But not a great place, either,” Eric finished for me. “Let me get you a better hotel.”

I flicked my eyes at Chris. “No, that’s okay. I’m fine where I am.”

“It’s the least I can do,” Eric said. “Let me help you out. And you should take his car too. That stupid fucking Mas. I mean, as long as you bring it back.”

“Told you he’d have my car.” Chris folded his arms over his chest and smirked at me. “Let’s go down to the garage. I’ll show you.”

I huffed out a breath and eyed Eric. “He wants to see his car.”

“I’m sure he does,” Eric said, rolling his eyes. “Fine, let’s go let him see it.”

Eric led the way—or technically,
Chris
led the way, although I let Eric walk in front of me too—and when we got to the garage, Eric walked over to the far corner of the huge room and pulled the heavy white cover off of a sleek, beautiful silver car.

Chris made a beeline for it and barely even hesitated before throwing himself over the hood, arms spread like he was giving the car a hug. He didn’t even blink in surprise at being able to touch the damn thing, and his nonreaction to it like there was never a question that he’d be able to touch it made me grind my teeth again.

Eric grinned at me. “So what do you say? Want to give her a spin?”

I let out a sarcastic half chuckle. “No way in hell am I driving a Maserati through LA.”

Chris slapped his hand down on the hood of the car, then stood up. “I’ll drive,” he practically chirped.

“No,” I said. “Don’t be stupid.”

Eric looked in Chris’s general direction. Chris took a large step to the side to place himself in line with Eric’s eyes.

Eric’s eyes were pointed at exactly the right height this time too, which made it a little easier to remember that this was all bullshit and I didn’t want to be here any longer than I had to. Fuck them for being so goddamn perfect for each other, Eric’s straightness aside.

“Did you just offer to drive, Chris?” Eric asked.

“He did.” My voice was flat again, and I didn’t give a rat’s ass about it.

“Do you think he can?” Eric raised an eyebrow at me.

“Yes,” I answered, because of course he could drive it. The way he’d leaned over the hood of the car like he wanted to fuck it . . . yeah. He totally could. Then, just in case anyone had any doubts, I continued: “But this is bullshit. For the record.”

“What’s bullshit?” Chris said, tearing his gaze away from Eric.

“All of this.” I crossed my arms again. Then to Eric, “But yeah, he probably can drive. As long as I go with him, because he can’t get more than twenty feet from me.” I glared at Chris. “Or can you suddenly do
that
too? I don’t fucking know anymore.”

“You’re being bitchy,” Chris said, crossing his arms as well and frowning at me.

I let my arms drop so that we wouldn’t be mirroring each other. “Sorry. Whatever. Do you want to drive? Let’s just go.”

“Now?” Eric asked.

“Yes, now,” I said at exactly the same time that Chris did. Ugh.

I refused to touch the steering wheel of the car on principle, and we decided that it wasn’t the greatest idea to have the cops see a driverless car speeding down the road, so Eric drove us back to the shitty hotel and let me run up to get my stuff while he sat in the car and made some calls to find us—me—a better place to stay.

Chris stood in the doorway of the bathroom and watched me shoving my toiletries and underwear into my bag. “Are you going to explain what’s with all the attitude?”

“I always have attitude,” I grumbled, shaking my toothbrush viciously to get the moisture off of it. “It’s just part of my charm.”

“Yeah, well, this is different,” Chris said. “Is it because I can touch him?”

I slammed my toiletry case down on the fake marble counter with far more force than necessary and glared at him. “Do you really not fucking
get
it?”

“No,” he said, wrinkling his brow. “I mean, it’s not like I
knew
I’d be able to touch him. So I couldn’t have warned you beforehand.”

“You knew you were in love with him, you son of a bitch.”

Chris blinked and drew his head back a bit, and it was just too fucking much, so I grabbed the complimentary conditioner and hurled it at his face. It sailed right through, but he flinched anyway, which gave me a little satisfaction. After it hit the wall and bounced off, I continued staring at him until it became clear that he wasn’t going to say anything.

So I decided to expand on what I’d said. “You knew. And that’s why you wanted to come say good-bye to him this much, and that’s why you’ve had your G-string in a twist this whole time about seeing him. And that’s why you get that faraway look in your eyes when you talk about him and that’s why Jerri told you not to go see him and you should have
told
me. I mean, I’m a fucking idiot myself because I should have known. I should have seen right through all your
bullshit
and known what it all meant.” I glared even harder. “And stop looking so damn shocked, because we just had this same conversation in the hall outside his stupid Christopher Raiden shrine and so you knew I knew.”

“I didn’t know you knew . . . the extent of it.”

“Yeah, well, like I said, I’m not fucking stupid.” I picked my bag back up and stalked out of the bathroom to finish shoving my clothes into the backpack. “And it’s not just him, Chris. It’s not. I mean, you’re a human being and you had a life before I met you and so of course you have people who you care about more than you care about me. That’s fine. I don’t care. That’s just part of life. But, Jesus, you can touch your
car
.”

He stared at me blankly, and I hated him for how dense he was being.

“You can touch your car,” I repeated. “And you can touch that beat-up old guitar. And you can touch Eric. And those things . . .” I decided to man up a little. “I don’t really know that much about the laws of physics and how they relate to ghosts, but the thing that those three have in common is that you care about them. So I’m guessing that’s it. You can touch the things you care about.” I took a deep breath and looked him in the eyes. “And you can’t touch me.”

He just stood there staring at me, but he did drop his arms to his sides, so at least that was some kind of reaction. I’d take it.

“So yeah,” I said after a second of hella awkward silence. “That’s why I’m pissed. I thought that you gave a shit about me and this has all proved that you don’t.”

“I want to touch you,” he said, his voice low in both volume and pitch. “I do.”

I held out my hand, extending my fingers toward him, and raised a challenging eyebrow.

He lifted his own hand and reached for mine, but stopped before our fingers touched. “I don’t want to try it.”

“Why not?” I snapped and wiggled my fingers at him. “Prove you care. Do it.”