Other Colors - Ch. 17 - Sex Stories

Other Colors - Ch. 17

... sank, “I…didn’t mean it like that.” I hissed at him, “No? How did you mean it, Peter?” “I don’t know,” he sighed, and sat down on the bottom rung of the ladder, cradling his forehead. “I’m not thinking clearly. When Marie told me about you this morning… It just really of caught me off guard is all.” He looked legitimately miserable. I felt sort of sorry for him, but I wasn’t quite ready to let him off the hook yet either. What he’d said was still out there, and it was gnawing away inside of me. “Yeah, well,” just a little, I let my jaw relax, “it caught me off guard too. So I could do without the diatribe today. I’m still sure what any of it means. Or even if it means anything at all.” He nodded, his eyes still locked on his shoes, “I get it. I do. And I promise I won’t try to talk you out of it. You’re too smart for me, Pens. You’ve already thought of everything I might say.” He paused, and raised his head, “But I’ll still worry about you. I can’t help it. I care what happens to you,” a deep wrinkle cut across his glistening brow, “So. You know, if you ever need something from me—a friend, a shoulder, a place to crash. Whatever,” he stood up slowly, “you’ve got my number, right? I’ll be there.” I suppressed a smirk. Peter’s track record for ‘being there’ was really nothing to write home about. But he was sweet, and I appreciated the sentiment. I really did. “That’s nice to hear. But really, you don’t need to worry,” I crossed my arms. “I know you care about me, Peter. And ...

... I’m grateful. But believe me,” I made a slow, semicircular gaze about the stage, “he cares too… I know he does.” He groaned at me, and screwed up his face, “Christ. I had a feeling,” he rolled his eyes. “It was him, wasn’t it?” I squinted, though I knew what he meant. “All this,” he waved a sullen and slightly sarcastic finger, “Dmitri bought the theatre, didn’t he?” I nodded nervously. “Bully. Comrade Caine to the rescue again…” he picked up his torch. “Well, fuck. Don’t ever, ever tell him I said so,” he flashed the flame, “but I guess I’m impressed.” My eyes widened, “Really?” He shrugged, “Wickham and Lydia will have a lovely wedding,” he nodded near the curtain, where Renault and Marie were busy bickering over some musical scores. “You’re right though, Pens. The guy must be pretty obsessed with you. Comes off kind of creepy and desperate if you ask me. But hey,” he snatched a handful of steel leaves off the floor, “who am I to judge? I’m just the gardener.” I smirked at him, blushing a bit, “I think you mean ‘arborist’.” He shook his head, “No. I think you mean ‘arbiter’.” I covered my mouth, and giggled. He didn’t miss a beat. At least in his wit, I suppose Peter had impeccable timing. I lowered my hand, “You know, you might actually like him if you got to know him.” “I doubt that, Pens,” he dropped the leaves onto the ladder, “He and I—I think we've got a too much in common.” “Oh, yeah?” I giggled again. I thought he was kidding. To my mind, Peter and Dmitri could not ...