Tampa, Florida
Day One: Tuesday
The streets of Tampa are hot and crowded as I navigate through them. The air conditioning in the piece-of-crap rental car struggles to keep up, but ultimately fails, blowing out air that's warm at best into a hot, muggy interior.
"I fucking hate this place," Punk says venomously from the passenger seat at my side, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere beyond the windshield. It's the first thing he's said in over an hour. He's become progressively quieter, yet surlier at the same time, on the drive down from Jacksonville.
It's doesn't get much better when we get to my house. The disdain never leaves his eyes as we pull into the driveway, probably too long by his standards, make our way through the garage which houses part of my car collection, and into the house itself, which is really more of a mansion.
The day continues that way, from the den – you have shitty taste in music, you know – to the kitchen – don't you keep anything edible in here? – to the fenced in back yard – is this your home, or a prison? I do the only thing I know how to do. I ignore him and wait for the mood to pass. If there's one constant in my world right now, it's my inability to understand him. I invited him and he accepted, but now that he's here, he's acting like he'd rather be anywhere else.
After long hours of pretending he's being nothing but polite, of letting him verbally tear my home and my life to shreds, it's finally night. I excuse myself to carry our bags upstairs, but he follows me anyway, into my room. I expect him to say something – about the king sized bed, which is just a bit on the ostentatious side, or the color of the sheets, the paint on the walls, anything – but he says nothing. He just leans against the door jamb and stares, his hands stuffed into his pockets, jaw clenched.
He looks so miserable, I sigh and drop the pretense. "Listen, if you really hate it that much, you don't have to stay."
For a second, he looks even more upset, almost angry. Then shakes his head, slowly. "That's okay. You're here."
He attempt a smile. It misses the mark, but it reassures me enough that I move into his personal space and go for a kiss. He stops me with a hand placed in the center of my chest. "Come on, let's go for a drive," he says with a jerk of his head in the general direction of the garage which brooks no disagreement.
It's dark, but the air is still warm and thick with humidity. The night smells like flowers and citrus as we cruise down the street in an orange muscle car with the top down, hip hop playing over the speaker system. With my car and his tattoos, we look like nothing so much as gang bangers on the prowl, but he doesn't seem to mind it, any of it, as he leans back in the leather seat, eyes half closed.
I drive around for a while, through residential neighborhoods, night life hot spots, bursting with music and voices even on a weekday night, and eventually out of the city. We lose the radio, and I turn it off to quiet the hissing static.
I pull off onto a dirt road and park, and we sit in silence, alone in the dark. It's wild out here, alive with the sounds of bugs and animals. It seems almost impossible that we could be in a city of hundreds of thousands within minutes.
He exhales into the quiet and I turn my head to look at him. "Sorry about…" he says with a grimace and a tilt of his head, indicating where we'd come from, the past.
"It's fine," I tell him. I feel incapable of saying anything else, and I'm sure that's something about me that he knows, that he counts on.
"I've never done this before," he says after we've sat in silence for a while longer.
"Which part?" I have to ask, despite having a clear suspicion. I think of the distance he tends to keep between us, even as we drift closer. The earnestness with which he flirts and the reluctance with which he kisses.
"I'm not talking about riding in this death trap you call a car," he starts, half turning in his seat. Then he stops, and with visible effort, reigns his temper in. He doesn't manage to reach the level of calm he'd had before we started talking, but it's passable. "Any of it," he says. "With a man, anyway." He shrugs, a gesture that looks oddly helpless.
I nod. No use in pretending surprise or offering sympathy that I know he isn't looking for. Instead, I offer him a way out for the second time that night. "If you don't want to do this, we can keep things friendly. Just hang out."
He takes a while to answer, like he's thinking it over. "No," he says finally. "I do want to. I just… I just thought it would be easier, you know?"
He looks at me self-consciously, and it seems to me that he doesn't just mean the sex. As long as I've known him, he's been closed off, private. The relationships I've seen him have haven't worked out, no hard feelings, or so I'm told, and it's so hard to get a bead on whether it phases him or not.
"All I'm asking for is a chance to spend time with you," I say.
He shakes his head. "You'll want more." He pauses, steels himself for what he's about to say next. "And so will I. But that's okay, I knew that going in."
He's turned back forward in his seat and he's talking to the night air as much as me. I look out the windshield along with him and watch the headlights of a car pass in the distance, too far away to hear. I like to tell myself I'm not looking for a lot these days, but maybe it's just that I don't expect it, so I'm trying convince myself I don't want it, that I'd prefer something uncomplicated, uninvolved.
Ten minutes, twenty, pass, as we sit in silence. I turn to him. "You wanna go get ice cream?" I ask.
I'm not sure where it comes from, and Punk gives me the most incredulous look. For a second, I'm worried he's about to hit me, but then he laughs.
"Sure, why not," he says with a shake of his head.
Finding a place to buy vegan ice cream on a summer night in Tampa is harder than I thought it would be, but I manage it eventually. Things are a lot less tense between us as we lean against the hood of the car eating our cones.
"You know, I actually never have ridden in one of these before," he says in a bemused tone, tapping his fingers against the car for emphasis.
"And what do you think?" I ask, angling my body towards his.
"Not half bad." He trails his hand across the hood, and I watch its progress, fascinated. "Of course, I haven't really seen what it can do yet."
His tone is so deadpan, so matter-of-fact, that I have to look up to check his expression. He's looking away in a manner that almost manages not to seem deliberate, so I know we're on the same page. My pulse quickens just a bit.
We're parked on a deserted side street, and I'm confident there are no prying eyes watching us as I sidle closer to him. "Want me to take you drag racing?" I ask, in what I hope is an equally casual tone.
He gives me an appraising look, and just when I'm sure he's going to start laughing, he reaches for me. His mouth tastes cold and sweet and not a whole hell of a lot like ice cream otherwise, but I can't help wanting more.
"Mmm… definitely not vegan," he murmurs against my lips with almost orgasmic pleasure. He leans in and licks the now dripping cone in my hand and I get a good view of his tongue doing sinful things. I groan and try to stop my mind from going places I know it shouldn't. He kisses me again, and this time it's most definitely not vegan.
We separate, and for a moment just breathe in the same air. I move to pull him back in, but he backs away, reinstates the couple of inches distance between us. "What were you saying?" he asks as if we were still flirting, his attention focused on his dessert. His overly innocent tone is strained.
"Drag racing," I repeat, a little dumbly, trying to figure out exactly what just happened.
He nods, but instead of responding, looks like he's at a loss. He's quiet for a while as he finishes his cone. I do the same, even though I'm no longer really interested in it.
"I think…" he starts. I turn to pay attention and he pauses for a second. "I think we're probably better off with slow and steady. For now."
There is a part of me that's disappointed, but it's a small part. I'm ashamed that it's there at all, but it does tell me how much I want from him. The ease with which I push it away tells me even more.
"Okay," I agree.
"Okay?" he asks. He sounds both surprised and doubtful, and it kills me to think that someone made him this way, made him think that it's better to be a jackass than to tease, convinced him that I'd put up with one, but not the other.
"Yeah. I don't mind taking the time to enjoy the ride." I smile and bump his shoulder with mine, trying for a little levity.
If it comes off corny, he lets it pass. "Sometimes I wish you would argue with me," he says with a sigh.
"Sometimes, I do," I remind him.
And I do sometimes, but other times I just can't. Maybe it's just what he calls my pathological need to be nice, or maybe it's because I can see that he needs someone he can't alienate. He needs someone who will stick, and more and more, I want that someone to be me.
"I'm glad, though," he continues as if I haven't said anything. "I'm glad that you don't."
I breathe out slowly. This is the endless complexity I'm stepping into, in a nutshell. He wants to be with me, or he wants to push me away. He won't ask for more, but he won't settle for less, either. He's bold and provocative, and he's insecure and afraid. And I love it, I love the maddening uncertainty of being with him, and I hate it.
It would be easier if it was just about sex, or if I just wanted to be his friend. I wasn't looking for a relationship, I was content to let my failure stand and move on, alone. But he's in my heart now, and he was right, I want more. I want more… but I can wait, because I want more with him.
I push off the car and turn to face him. "Let me take you home," I say, taking his hand in mine and squeezing it. He nods and lets me lead him to the passenger side door and help him in.
The night has cooled down, and the streets are mostly empty as we ride home. As I drive, he watches me through half closed eyes, and occasionally, I reach out and take his hand. To reassure him that I'm here, myself that he's here, to reassure both of us that we're still together.
I offer him the guest room, but invite him to sleep with me, and he stays. The bed is big enough that it's not as awkward as it could be, and, exhausted from weeks of travel, I fall asleep with him beside me.
Note: So, I'm trying out some John POV, it seems. This is meant to be at least three parts, which would cover the Tampa section. I probably shouldn't say it, but I'm not completely sold on this story. We'll see, I guess.
Also, I'm about a month behind on wrestling, so I need to spend some quality time with my DVR. I hear there's something worth catching up for.
