Page 85 of Fifty First Times (Sharing You 0.40)
“I followed you to New Orleans a few months ago,” he said quietly.
An explosion went off in my head—loud and blasting and ferocious. I grabbed the dashboard, my sandwich dropping onto the greasy paper in my lap.
“Oh, shit,” Malcolm said, frantically trying to maintain his grip on the wheel.
Only then did I realize that the explosion hadn’t been in my head but in the truck. Dirt and gravel flew past the windshield as Malcolm jerked the truck onto the side of the road. My shoulder hit the door, and a loud rumbling noise filled the truck as we bounced and ground to a stop.
Malcolm cursed again.
“Did we hit something?” I asked, still reeling.
“I don’t think so,” he said, dragging a shaking hand through his hair. “I think it was a blowout. The wheel yanked left before I could stop it. You all right?”
Physically, yes. Mentally, hell no. “Yeah, you?”
He rolled his wrist and winced slightly. “I’m fine. Let’s get out just in case anything else is wrong.”
We both climbed out of the truck, and as soon as my feet hit the gravel I could see the shredded state of the right front tire. I shut the door. “You got a spare?”
Malcolm came around the front of the truck, scowling at the state of the tire and the bent rim. “Yeah, there’s one in the back. I’ll get it.”
“No, you screwed up your wrist. I got it.” Plus, I needed something to do besides think about what Malcolm had said in the car. He’d followed me to New Orleans. New Orleans. How far had he followed? What had he seen? My stomach lurched.
I got the tools I needed, hopped down from the tailgate, and went to work. While I set up the jack, Malcolm went to the back of the truck to watch for any cars coming. It was a narrow highway and anyone not paying attention could drift onto the shoulder easily. He leaned his forearms along the side of the truck bed, peering into the distance, looking as pensive as I’d ever seen him. “You’re not going to say anything about me following you?”
“Didn’t realize you’d taken up stalking as a hobby?” I offered, pumping the jack with more force than necessary.
He glanced over at me, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “Come on, Bates. Be straight with me.”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed. Be straight with him. If it were only so easy.
Malcolm cringed at the unintentional implication and I knew then that he knew. That he hadn’t just followed me to New Orleans, he’d followed me far enough to know what kind of club I’d gone into. I wanted to vomit right there on the side of the road. “Well, guess you know I’m not into drugs, then.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, something akin to hurt in his voice.
“Tell you what?” I said, trying to sound offhanded as I focused on pulling the old tire off. I needed him to say it. I needed to see how hard it was to even utter the words. Needed to see exactly what a lifelong friendship looked like when it disintegrated—probably not much different than the shredded rubber I was holding in my hands.
“That you’re bi?” he said—a question not a statement.
I smirked, bitterness welling in me, but didn’t look up. “Not bi.”
I could hear the rush of air—his breath leaving him. “You’ve dated girls. You slept with Colette.”
“And I kept my eyes closed the whole time,” I said, staring at the tools in my hands, forgetting what I was supposed to be doing with them. “It was the only way I could get into it.”
“Imagining you were with a guy?” Malcolm asked, his tone unreadable.
Imagining I was with you. “Something like that.”
I went back to work, throwing all my focus into the task in front of me. I couldn’t look at him. I thought I’d want to know, but seeing the judgment in his eyes, the disgust, would rip me open. I couldn’t handle that right now. Right now all I could handle was getting this tire on this truck and getting the hell out of here. Maybe I’d be visiting home after all because I sure as hell wasn’t staying with Malcolm anymore.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Malcolm asked.
I made a noise in the back of my throat. “Right. Because that’s what every guy wants to deal with. Sha
ring a room with a gay dude.”
“What the hell, Bates? I’m not sharing my room with a gay dude. I’m sharing it with my best friend,” Malcolm said, his voice edged with anger. “How long have you known?”
