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  Deflated, I eased back. “Thanks for the haircut.”

  “Wait.” He caught my elbow, startling me so I pulled away. “I’m not criticizing. You … have the advantage here. I don’t understand how the whole open thing works.”

  “Different ways for different people.” I shook my head, twisting flashlight and brush in my hands. “Polyamory is often three or four people who are together just like a couple would be, closed, but plural. Sometimes inclusive of others—really open. There’s a lot of stigma about it either way. To me, it’s something to work out as you go. Hard to discuss upfront, like talking about your crazy families and what Thanksgiving will be like when you’re on a first date. So when you say ‘why’ multiple boyfriends, all I can say is, ‘Why not?’ If you care about someone and you’re all clicking…? And as to how open works, that’s different for different people.” I looked up. “It’s certainly not for every—”

  He stepped on the glass as I spoke, naked abs hitting my hands with brush and light, lips finding mine.

  Chapter 14

  I was the one who’d warmed up, running around like I knew no trail fatigue, so how was his mouth sweltering?

  I took an involuntary step back, both not expecting him and having thought we were done. In more ways than one. Rather than reluctance, Ramak saw this as invitation, pushing until my back hit the wall, shoes slipping on glass. He grabbed my arms, keeping me from falling, while I dropped brush and light with a crash on shards and linoleum, catching him in return, gripping his biceps while he held mine.

  Heat surged from our contact through my bloodstream, opening my mouth for him, tasting his tongue—chocolate, swimming pool, citrus soap on his skin. He turned his head, shifted pressure, nuanced motions sending out sparks, hard then soft, then hard again. His hands went to my face, feeling and tasting with the urgency I’d shown my bath, as if running out of time, as if this could be our last act on Earth.

  At last, I could feel freely across his chest, up his shoulders, pushing the towel to the floor, lacing my fingers at the back of his neck while he reached to my throat with lips and teeth. I inhaled through his very thick, rather wavy black hair, also all pool smell, and nibbled his ear, pulling him against me while Ramak kissed down my throat, collarbone, along the top of the towel.

  I leaned my head sideways and arched my back into him, knowing he would rip away the towel, pulling open the fold to expose my breasts, find my nipples with his mouth. I’d never had such an intense first kiss—even from Jackson a few nights ago.

  Then what? The towel was down to my thighs. I’d been trying to dry off, didn’t have on underwear. What would he do next? What would I let him do? Shouldn’t I have boundaries? Why? STDs and babies? Smart. But that ship had sailed just like virus exposure. Judgement of society, then? What society?

  I couldn’t sleep with him, feeling obligated to Trent and Jackson, yet this wasn’t a bedroom.

  Ramak stroked down my body, white cotton still between us, then up again as he moved up my throat and returned his lips to mine. Long kisses, his tongue caressing my lips, slipping between and back out.

  “Brook?” Slow kiss. “Stay with me.” Turning his head the other way, lean in, body hot on mine. “Come to bed with me. They said the whole back of the building looks stable and doors are open.”

  Like he’d read my mind. That one hang-up.

  “I … ah…” I returned a kiss, twisted my fingers into his hair. “Ramak…” Trying to catch my breath. “I can’t. You could come with me. I think the guys would be cool with that. But … tomorrow night? I can’t just dump them without letting them know.”

  “We could be sleeping in a car or a ditch tomorrow night.”

  “Shit… I know. I just…”

  “No.” He pulled away, panting, seeming to pry himself off. Another kiss, then tipped his head back, breathing deeply through his mouth. “That’s not fair. You’re right—”

  “Hey, Brook!” Jackson laughed: pool party over. “Brook? How’s the marathon going?”

  Ramak stepped back to the counter, tripping on the dropped shoulder towel. “Sorry.”

  “What? No, don’t apologize—”

  “Brook?”

  “We’re right here.” I scrambled to grab brush and light, carefully shaking off glass fragments and keeping the towels on. “Jackson? Want to shave? There are working sinks and plenty of mirror bits.” I met them in the corridor as they came looking for us.

  Still a bit breathless, I shook my head to fan my hair, telling them Ramak had cut it for me.

  “Did he?” Jackson squinted in the gloom. “Oh, yeah, cute.”

  “You totally wouldn’t have noticed.”

  “I noticed,” Trent said. “When you twirled it. And said something.”

  “Men.” I threw up my hands and stormed past, pulse still pounding, to get my bag from the pool room. “Ramak’s got the soap.”

  Then I felt bad that I’d sent them at him. At what point does a general positive sense of honesty become a negative?

  Chapter 15

  Full, clean, happy, the three of us bundled into a bedroom with an armload of extra blankets. Trent’s questions led to rambling from Jackson about snowboarding. Lots of, “Cool,” from Trent and, “Uh-huh,” from me. Long sleeves, clean pair of underwear, Trent wrapping me in a blanket and sitting on the edge of the bed with me while our bags were piled on the other queen, all brought home how tired we were.

  We’d found thumbtacks in the kitchens and pinned thick curtains tight around the smashed window, stopping ash drift and allowing us to breathe, although everything still smelled of smoke.

  Jackson was talking about the best line of boards, how he’d make sure we had good stuff before our future snowboarding lessons, while Trent kissed my ear.

  “Cinnamon rolls,” he whispered.

  I jumped. “How did you know I’ve been wanting cinnamon rolls all day?”

  “Our powerful bond.” With a shrug. “What can I say?”

  Jackson was distracted from his anecdotes to scoff. “We’ve all been starving. You could’ve said mac and cheese or pizza or pecan pie and got the same reaction.”

  “Oh, my God, I would love a pecan pie!”

  Both men laughed. “See?”

  “And we even ate tonight.”

  “Sure.” Jackson arched an eyebrow. “But was it cinnamon rolls and mac and cheese?”

  “Lobster mac and cheese,” Trent said.

  “No, Mom’s macaroni and cheese casserole,” I said.

  We were all laughing and talking about food for the next ten minutes as we clambered into bed, sitting up, bundled in blankets.

  Jackson kissed my lips.

  Trent reached to turn out the flashlight.

  “Wait…” I rested a hand on his.

  They looked at me.

  I dropped my gaze. “I’m sorry.” Very softly. “I love you guys. It’s just … I feel bad we’re… We’re so blessed being together…” I let out a breath.

  “If you’re wanting to feed the homeless, I think we already did that,” Jackson said.

  Trent encircled my hand with his. “We interrupted something, didn’t we?”

  “I don’t know… Not really.” I shook my head, chewed my lip, watching our hands.

  Jackson leaned over to kiss my shoulder, leaving his chin there, whispering, “We’ll see you in the morning.”

  I looked at him sharply, having to pull away.

  Jackson grinned. “It’s okay. We’ve got each other.” He punched Trent’s arm.

  Trent inched away. “Speak for yourself, dude.”

  I smiled at them, lump in my throat, kissed each. “I might be back. I don’t know. Try to get some sleep.”

  “Go on.” Jackson waved a hand.

  Trent squeezed mine again, but let go.

  I scrambled away, sliding my shoes back on, leaving them the blankets. At the door, I blew them a kiss.

  Chapter 16

  His room was a few down the
hall, king bed and large window also with curtains pinned against the wall.

  I tapped at the door, able to see a light since it didn’t rest flush against the frame. “Ramak?”

  A shift, steps on flat carpet. With some difficulty, Ramak dragged open the door. “Brook? What’s wrong?”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Of course.” He stepped back, pen and paper that he must have found in the lobby in his free hand. The flashlight stood on the bedside table that he had righted and returned to its place. He’d shaken out the bed covers and unrolled a sleeping bag for the chill.

  Seeing it gave me an extra pang. A jolt of … regret? Pity? Guilt? All of those, but none of them. Spring or no, it had been so cold these past few days, plus the snow-level situation in the Pass, sleeping alone with windows blown out and nothing but hotel covers to bundle in … kind of sucked.

  He wore coat and slacks from redressing after the pool and staking out our spaces, while I stood there in shirt, underwear, and trail shoes, teeth chattering. Understandable that he thought something was wrong.

  “What are you writing?”

  “What are you doing?” Frowning at me. “Besides freezing?”

  “It’s not that cold.” Breath of a laugh, then, “Well … it is a bit chilly. Can I have the sleeping bag?” I brushed past him.

  Ramak shoved the door and came over to help me unzip the bag for wrapping around my shoulders. He didn’t say anything until I was sitting on the turned-down edge of the bed, then, a bit sternly, “Argument?”

  “No, they’re fine.” I bit my cheek to keep my teeth still, trying not to look so pitiful. Somehow, this wasn’t the smoking hot nighttime visitation I’d vaguely seen in my mind. Smoking ice based on the aroma and temperature in here. “I wanted to see you.”

  “No need to feel sorry for me.”

  “I don’t feel sorry for you exactly. But I do feel like…” I let out a breath, never having tried to put these feelings into words.

  Watching, Ramak sank to sit beside me. I remembered him reprimanding himself for interrupting and smiled. It was like he’d been in his work, get things done mode for that first week or so. But a few days back, yes, when I’d called him on the bullshit, to use his word, something had snapped. I wouldn’t say softened so much as morphed. I’d thought he had let something go that evening, allowed himself to show another side, become a part of our silliness talking about food and cars. Now I changed my mind. He wasn’t allowing himself to be more vulnerable. He was deliberately pushing himself to be more vulnerable. Maybe even doing it particularly because of me. And maybe that was what he’d meant about honesty being intimidating. Not receiving honesty, which can be intimidating also, but giving it.

  I cleared my throat, wanting to take his hand, but holding my cocoon in place. “What I feel like is we are all we have right now. If any one of us is outside, odd-man-out, that’s a huge problem in a world of four. If we can’t weather this storm together … we die. I don’t feel like that because I feel sorry for you. I feel like it because I’ve moved, lost grandparents and pets, and my dad walked out on us when I was in middle school—seen some shit and tough times—but the past three months, after the serious lockdown orders came into play…” My voice broke.

  I sat up straighter, swallowed, took a breath of only slightly smoggy air. “These past months have been the worst of my life. It’s worth it and it’s saving people, but that doesn’t make it easier. Doesn’t make it pass more quickly. We have four people here. There is no reason any one of us should be alone. Unless you want to be alone. And that’s okay too. My sister’s super private and writes songs and stuff. Some people chill out and clean house and paint. If you want to be alone and chill and write something…” Nodding to the paper still in his hand with the motel pen. “That’s cool. If you don’t … none of us has to be alone.”

  Ramak looked into my eyes from close range, lifting his hand to push back my hair, now dry, straight and light in dry air, it feathered through his fingers as he pushed it behind my ear. Just long enough to be off my shoulders, still enough to protect this neck from sunburn—if our sun would ever break through this storm cloud again.

  I met his eyes for a long time, searching, watching, never breaking, no matter how fierce that gaze, the intensity of him still intimidating, still making me shiver a little as he leaned close.

  He didn’t kiss me. And still didn’t. Looking and looking… I’d never sat and stared into anyone’s eyes for that long. Even by flashlight, the experience was powerful, deep and tingling, sending tears to my eyes and tugging at my breath, leaving me thinking of his life, who this man was, how much I wanted to know every detail. At the same time, how much I already knew. Not how many cousins he had or why he’d gone to law school, nothing so banal, no; I knew what really mattered.

  “Ramak…” I didn’t mean to break the silence, didn’t mean anything. It was like his gaze pulled the word from me, like that was his soul brushing mine and it must be named.

  At last he turned his head, kissed my lips, a gentle relief after minutes of gazing. Soft and slow, lips only. He pulled back, meeting my eyes again, but I wasn’t starting that game over, still shivering and breathless from the first round.

  “Will you show me what you were writing?” I asked, smiling to soften the question so he didn’t feel he had to, glancing to the page.

  Ramak handed it to me.

  For a split second I thought I was going blind in the poor light, then I laughed. “Whoa. That’s not even… Is that Arabic?”

  Ramak also smiled as he took back the sheet. “It’s Farsi, or what you might call Persian. The languages are not closely related but the written form does resemble Arabic.”

  “You write your shopping lists in that script?”

  “No.” Still smiling, amused by me, not irritated as he’d seemed several days ago when Jackson brought up his Iranian heritage. “I write in English for day-to-day. This is a … well, it’s a sort of meditation. Call it a prayer if you like. Calming the mind. I have to concentrate on the characters, like drawing a picture. It helps me focus when there’s too much to process. I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep tonight.”

  “My grandmother used to get us to write down something good that had happened that day, or that we were thankful for, anything like that, before bed. Maybe that was a sort of meditation.”

  “My grandmother taught me this as well.”

  I grinned at him. “Isn’t it funny how people are a lot more similar than different so much of the time? No matter where their families are from or what languages they speak.”

  “We all get the same virus.”

  That made me crack up. I don’t know why—totally not funny. Really sad, actually, with the millions and millions sick, and so many dead from one virus. But I’d thought he was going to say the old standby about we all bleed red, or whatever. I guess that’s why it tickled me. Or I just needed to be tickled.

  I laughed so much, I made Ramak laugh, setting pen and paper aside. “Crazy.” Shaking his head at me. “That wasn’t funny.”

  “I know it wasn’t.” Ducking my head into his shoulder and sputtering. “I’m sorry. Insensitive. Sorry…”

  He turned my face up, kissed me, both hands on my jaw now.

  “Warm me up,” I whispered into his lips, and Ramak pulled off his coat.

  Chapter 17

  Ramak never stopped being so intense, only built as he pulled me into the bed, covering me, yet stripping us both.

  That bit seemed a blink, like he beamed his own clothes off and inhaled mine. One moment dressed, the next feeling his legs along mine, his bare arms at my back. He only kissed my lips and face at first, shoving his clothes and my few bits up against the headboard that was a board screwed into the wall so they weren’t among the ashy, glassy floor.

  He wrapped around me with covers and silky, fluffy sleeping bag, while I twined legs with his, tucked arms into his chest, and felt him warming my blood faster than a
ny running or huddling around a fire.

  “Better?” He took my hands in his after several minutes of bundling together and kissing.

  “Wonderful.” I turned my face again for his kiss.

  The room seemed to have risen ten degrees, then twenty, as Ramak let me go, only easing back when I was toasty against him. Then his fingers and lips were everywhere. He pulled my hands over my head, tasting my palms, skimming fingertips down my skin and making me shudder and catch my breath, kissing my elbows and sensitive underarms. I sat up with him, arms about his neck while he bit my throat, then twisted around me, bodies circled like flames, able to sit up without a trace of a shiver while Ramak moved in a swirl. His tongue down my spine, hands cupping my breasts, then my nipple in his mouth, his hands stroking down my back, sliding under my butt. How had he even switched? Like the clothes, all so fast and fluid, he took my breath in so many ways.

  I lay back for him to taste between my legs, but couldn’t stay still anymore than he seemed able to. After a mere moment’s stretch, I was on my knees with him, kissing his chest, his arms, inhaling him, sucking at his fingers. He licked the soles of my aching feet, making me giggle and pant even more. I cupped his balls and returned the finger-skimming touch up the length of his erection, making him gasp and push for extra contact.

  So intense and shifting, fluid and unpredictable, I couldn’t foresee what would happen next—no matter that I’d thought I knew basically how this game was played. Like watching a fire dance, no two moves exactly the same.

  I lifted up on my knees, facing him while he sank back, legs folded, mouth all over my breasts, hands stroked my thighs, inside and out, up across my butt, tickling my spine, all the way back down. I curved around him to his back, nipples tingling stiffly as his saliva cooled in the cold air. Still, I didn’t feel cold. I kissed his back, felt down his chest, arms around him, held his dick and stroked the underside.