Chapter 21: Rory - Entities to Lovers

Nobody is more thrilled to compete in bar trivia on a first date than Ezra.

The Galley sits right on the water, with a large dining area outside on the docks. The sun’s gone down and thankfully the rain’s stopped. The patio is sequestered by tarp, windowed sidewalls to keep the warmth in, heaters lining the entire dining area. The lights from nearby boats, a tiny drawbridge, and even an operating lighthouse flicker against the night sky. Everything smells like crisp, hoppy beer and fried food that made my stomach rumble the second we walked in. The nautical decor is slightly modified for Halloween, with fake spiderwebs draping over anchors and ship wheels, a clown mask on top of a pirate statue, and a motion-activated witch lady at the door that made both of us jump.

“We,” Ezra asserts, brandishing a French fry at me, “are going to absolutely wreck everyone in this bar.”

I laugh and finish off the last bites of my lobster roll. In a town that worships an anthropomorphic lobster named Harvey, it felt simultaneously obvious and cruel to eat lobster. But damn if it’s not one of the best lobster rolls I’ve ever had…

“None of the elderly men in this bar have any idea who they are dealing with,” I goad him.

Most of the clientele at the Galley is above retirement age. There are tons of older men drinking their beers and demolishing fish and chips, and if I know anything about that demographic, they know a strange amount of completely useless facts. Ezra, however, is not going to let them win.

“You know, it’s a life goal of mine to go on Jeopardy!” he tells me, eagerly watching the waitress coming around with pencils and scorecards, like he’ll miss her if he isn’t on top of his shit.

“You could pay off your student loans with those winnings,” I tell him.

“I’d really need a multi-win streak to even get close, but hey…every penny. Besides, I doubt I’d win.”

Granted, winning on Jeopardy! is not an easy feat, but I sincerely don’t think he’d be as bad as he thinks. Remembering what he told me earlier about how he views himself, I think he could use the vote of confidence.

“You totally could. I bet you could even make it to the Tournament of Champions. Unless you got paired up against one of those whiz kids from MIT and you just got all biochemistry categories.”

“That’s fair. And a recurring nightmare I have.”

I laugh as he finishes off his beer, crunching the plastic cup like this is a frat party. Oh, he is ready.

“Imagine if your students could see you right now.”

He huffs. “I don’t think they’d care at all. They’d say, ‘Wow, Professor B is a huge nerd.’ ”

Ezra doesn’t look much like a professor tonight. His hair’s messy and curly from the weather, a layer of scruff coats his cheeks and jaw, and he’s wearing a hoodie with a waving lobster on it. It’s hardly studious whatsoever, especially with the empty beer cups in front of us. I’m not used to seeing him so casual and uninhibited. At work, he’s in costume, taking on a role, presenting himself as the kind of guy who knows it all. This is completely different, but I like this real Ezra, who isn’t trying to be impressive—who just is.

“I mean, are they wrong?” I ask.

“No, but…they’re kids. They don’t think I’m cool.”

“Maybe I don’t either,” I joke.

“Eh, didn’t stop you from making out with me in the laundry room,” he says with a devilish grin.

The waitress comes around and sets a scorecard, a tiny pencil, and a little airhorn in front of us, and Ezra orders us another round of drinks. We’re right below a heater, but every now and then, a cold wind will sweep through and make my bones shiver. However, the beer and thinking about our little laundry room tryst has me feeling unreasonably warm. He brings something out in me—something fierce and unafraid—like I can be whoever I want to be with him. When he pulled his shirt off—exposing all those tattoos, finally showing me the thin muscles hidden under his vests and ties, and letting me gape at him and touch whatever parts of him I wanted, all I could do was try to best him.

And fuck, the way he looked at me like he’d been punched when I took my clothes off—no one’s ever looked at me like that before. Like I could set them on fire.

Our waitress brings us our next round of beers as the emcee taps on the microphone and stands at the center of the dining area.

“Hello, hello!” she shouts into the mic. She’s a muscled, middle-aged woman with a booming voice that tells me she, too, takes trivia night extremely seriously. “Welcome to our Saturday night Galley Trivia Gauntlet! My name is Anne, and I’ll be your host this evening. For those of you who are signed up to play, here’s the rules. I’ll read the question and the first group to blow the airhorn gets to answer. If you get it wrong, we go to the next. Got it? Good. Winner gets a free dinner, a cash prize of one hundred bucks, and a limited-edition Harvey Lobstah T-shirt.”

“Ooh, limited edition,” Ezra says, sipping the fresh beer. “We better add it to the collection.”

“Can I hold the airhorn?” I ask.

“Sure, but what if I don’t know the answer?”

“Then don’t disappoint me, Professor.”

Ezra purses his lips and raises his eyebrows. “All right, deal.”

“I’ll buzz you in. You just gotta deliver. Don’t have any performance issues.”

“Me? Never.”

“Everyone ready?” Anne asks. “Let’s start out with an easy one. Easy questions score ten points, medium are twenty, and hard questions are worth fifty. I am good at math, so if you cheat on your cards, I will know. What is the largest ocean on planet Earth?”

Ezra signals for me to put the airhorn down. “Let’s let some people start off ahead.”

“No way!” I scoff, and blow the airhorn. I am, however, not the first. Ezra laughs and shakes his head. We might be competing against the others in this bar, but I am also competing against him. I want to prove my intelligence to him as well—not just because I like besting him, but because I really do believe he likes being challenged. Particularly by me.

Some old guy guesses the Pacific Ocean and nabs ten points.

“Okay, let’s kick it up a notch. Twenty points,” Anne says. “How many of King Henry the Eighth’s wives were named Anne? See why I like this one?”

I slam the airhorn down and we’re first.

“Two!” I announce proudly.

“And what happened to both of them?” Anne asks.

“Uh…beheaded, and then…” Dammit, I don’t remember what happened to the other Anne. Surely he couldn’t have two Annes beheaded, right?

“Annulled!” Ezra shouts. “Do we get points for that?”

Anne shakes her head. “Nope.”

“I think we should!” he argues.

“Fine. Ten extra points for being extra smart.”

“Thank you,” Ezra says, gleefully adding thirty points to our scorecard.

“How about a hard one?” Anne asks the crowd. Ezra claps his hands and rubs them together. It makes me think of when he’s playing Royce, full of confidence, swagger, and spice. It’s more evident now than ever that so much comes from Ezra himself. I bet he thinks it’s all performance, like he could never be as extraordinary and engaging as Royce, but he’s wrong.

So wrong.

“What was the first message ever sent by Morse code?” Anne asks. “I bet nobody will get this.”

I blow the airhorn, so loud and furiously that Ezra jumps off the bench and beer dribbles down his chin. Judging by the panicked look in his eyes, I’m not sure if he knows this. Great, now we’ll both look dumb.

“Yes, table four?”

“Shit,” Ezra mutters. He motions tapping his fingers like he’s sending a telegram before smacking the table. “Uh…Morse code. Morse code. Got it! It was ‘What hath God wrought!’ ”

I genuinely do not know how he’d know something like that, but Anne stares at him in shock and announces he’s right. I proudly write down another fifty points. We are crushing it so far.

“Do you think maybe we should go easy on the rest of the people here, Einstein?” I ask Ezra. He shakes his head and tosses one of our final French fries into his mouth.

“No way.”

Anne hits us with questions about ancient Egypt, South American geography, and a science fact about armadillos. For each one, I blow the airhorn and test Ezra’s skills…and without fail, he has an answer for it all, even when he thinks he doesn’t.

“Another one for y’all,” Anne says later on. “What is the worst card in a tarot deck?”

Ezra snatches the airhorn and blows it hard, and then again, and again. He waves Anne over to me, as if to tell every person in the bar I am the most qualified to answer this question.

“Yes?”

Ezra is still pointing at me furiously. I clear my throat. “Uh, actually there are no bad cards in tarot. I read them for a living.”

“There is one card you don’t want to get,” Anne insists.

“Sure,” I explain. “But it’s all about perspective. If I had to guess, the card you’re thinking of is Death, but it’s not a bad card at all. It means an end of a cycle, rebirth, and radical transformation. Even Death reversed tells you something positive. Like you’re relying on behaviors and attitudes that don’t suit you or resisting change. It’s a call to action.”

Anne blinks at me. On the other side of the table, Ezra finishes off his beer and shrugs.

“I think you should trust her. And give us extra points for being extra correct.”

Anne lets out a frustrated grunt. “Fine. Another thirty to the lovebirds.”

Ezra laughs and reaches a hand across the table, holding mine. My own words ring in my head. Relying on behaviors that don’t suit you, resisting change. I felt like I was doing that for so long I’m terrified to break those patterns and crash and burn. But when I look at the proud smile on Ezra’s face, him rubbing the back of my hand and beaming at me like I’m wanted exactly as I am? It feels safe. I’m still so terrified to fully jump. Day by day, I might get braver.

He gives my hand a squeeze. “That’s my girl.”

—

* * *

“Sixty, eighty, one hundred,” Ezra counts, smacking the wad of cash in his hand. “Would you look at that?”

I rub the back of my neck and scrunch up my face. “I hate to say it, but maybe…thanks, Temperance?”

After securing our loot—the cash, free dinner, and limited-edition Harvey T-shirt—we decide to take the long way back and walk along the waterfront. I don’t really want this night to end.

“No, no, no,” he argues. “We won this money and our souvenir T-shirt with our own intelligence. Temperance had nothing to do with that.”

“But I think she may have gotten us here,” I tell him, pointing to the ground. “So…”

“Partial credit,” he concedes, offering me his arm as we stroll around the docks by the restaurant. I loop my arm with his and lean into his shoulder. “So, I do okay?”

I nod. “A great first date.”

“Good.”

“It was very us.”

He smiles. “A lot of arguing—”

“Not with each other for once,” I tell him.

“Arguing could be our love language,” he says, shrugging. “I like it. I don’t really want someone who is going to just agree with me on everything. I like that you fight for what you believe in, even if it’s at odds with me. You’re indomitable.”

I huff. “I’m not. I’m more scared than anything, always consulting the cards and the stars, asking the spirits to help me through because I can’t trust myself. With, like…anything. I’m always hearing the doubts in my head.”

Now that Ezra knows the truth about Mara and the impression she left on me, so many things might fall into place in his head. As I spent the night holding his hand across the table, gleefully being myself, and laughing so hard my sides still hurt, I expected Mara to come find me. But ever since that damn kiss, I haven’t heard her voice once.

Ezra stops and leans against the wooden railings on the waterfront. I take a spot next to him.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit, Rory,” he says. “You’re smart, and funny, and brave. Everyone makes mistakes. Remember? Earlier this week I sent my class an entire email with the word ‘wank’ in it.”

I collapse into a laugh against his shoulder. “That was Temperance’s fault.”

“Eh, I don’t think my class really cared if a Victorian ghost made me do a typo. They’ll roast me just the same.” He laughs with me, then scrubs a hand over his face and shakes his head. “God, that was humiliating.”

“I’m just…scared,” I admit. “Scared I won’t measure up for anyone. My mom. My customers. Someone I’m falling for.”

“You’re fearless with me,” he says. His arm rests beside mine as we look onto the water. His nose and cheeks are bright pink, and the moonlight bounces off his soulful dark eyes.

“There’s so much I’m afraid of with you.”

Ezra reaches over and loops his pinky with mine. His nail polish is mostly chipped off by now, and so is mine, but I like the essence of imperfection it gives. Ezra’s seen my worst sides, and here we are—despite all of that.

“Me too,” he confesses. “I’m afraid I’m going to fuck this up. That you’ll realize I’m not worth the effort.”

“It sounds like we may both need to remind each other that we’re enough,” I vow, but I feel so unsteady, too. The prospect of how great everything could be for us—if we’re brave—is the scariest part of it all.

“Yeah…Maybe there’s a world where we try our best to fight those fears and instead fight for what makes us happy.”

“I like that idea.”

“Me too. Being around you…” Ezra gazes onto the water. “I like the person it makes me.”

I scoot closer and tilt him toward me. I’m imagining us going back to our hotel room, me shoving him onto the bed, learning the stories behind all of his tattoos, and finding out what makes him come undone. That urge has never been this strong before. Never in my life.

Ezra leans in, wetting his bottom lip. His mouth drops open as he closes the gap between us, bringing his chilly hands to the sides of my face. His rings send a shock across my body, and so does his next kiss. It’s a play-bite, nipping my lip between his teeth. When I pull away to catch my breath, Ezra’s groan rumbles in his chest and he grips my jacket tighter.

He tastes me on his lips. “I think I’d like to get you alone, little witch.”

Little witch…

God, that nickname is growing on me.

It’s growing on me so much that I take his hand and haul him back toward the hotel. It feels significantly warmer with Ezra occasionally pressing kisses to my hand as we walk, looping his arm around my back.

The Swell & Shell hotel is surprisingly well taken care of, and I do respect their commitment to a theme. Everything from the hallways looking like ship cabins to the seagull calls playing in the elevators and the egregious sunscreen-scented air fresheners in the halls. Our room is on the top floor, painted a light sandy brown, decorated with oars and artistic photography of lobster traps. It seems a little strange to advertise a means for Harvey’s confinement, but perhaps it’s meant to be indoctrination.

But I’m not looking at the decor—I’m looking at Ezra and the devilish smile on his face and wondering how the hell we got here.

We reach the door, and Ezra’s shaking hands fumble the lobster tap key to let us in. He makes a second attempt and doesn’t let us down this time.

The second the door shuts behind us, it’s like a switch flips. He’s on me in an instant, pressing me hard against the wall, dragging his hands down my sides and curving them around my ass.

The oar on the wall beside us rattles upon impact. Ezra shoves my jacket off my shoulders while I work on unzipping his. Every snag, every second I have to stop kissing him to undress him is agonizing. Too many damn layers of clothing. However, thankfully we’re not in our tour costumes. I’d be too impatient to even want him to undo my corset. I need his hands on me now. He pushes a hand beneath my turtleneck, chilly fingers on bare skin.

The next kiss is slow and steady—a taste of tongue, rolling hips, a tug at Ezra’s hair.

He moans, leaning his head back and offering me more skin to kiss. I think of other things he’s hinted to me. Hair pulling, biting, being challenged, specifically by me.

I have no idea where we plan on going with this. I don’t have a condom, but I can do so many other things to him that I think he’d like just as much. My skin is hot and there’s a furious, bubbling need in the pit of my stomach. It’s a cocktail of attraction, excitement, and hunger I’ve never had in intimate moments like this. Sometimes there’s one or two of those ingredients present, but with Ezra? Every single part of me agrees that I want him.

It honestly makes the nerves abate so much. I’m safe.

But I have stopped kissing him back and he notices. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I tell him. Ezra sweeps a curl behind my ear.

“Are you sure?”

I nod. “Yes, I really am. I’m…not used to things feeling like this. I’m not used to it feeling right.”

“But it does with me?”

“It does.”

“It feels right,” he agrees, “and so much more.”

Ezra’s voice is thick with want, and as his hips press to mine and he kisses me again, it’s clearly not the only part that’s desperate for me. He whispers please against my hairline with another aimless kiss. He wants me to take the reins on this. Figures a man who wants to be good at everything would want some kind of gratification.

I toy with the hoop at the top of his ear, and his moan reverberates across my skin.

“Get me on the bed,” I order.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Ezra hoists me into his arms and we stumble to the mattress. It’s a mess of trying to get shoes and socks off, but he rests me down carefully before standing at the foot of the bed. Ezra tugs his hoodie over his head, taking the T-shirt underneath with it. I stared at every naked inch of him in the laundry room, touched his tattoos and the thin muscles on his chest and stomach, but I think I was still in some kind of shock. I’m going to ink this moment into my memory, so I’ll never forget it.

“Muscular” is the wrong word for Ezra. He’s lithe and lean everywhere, but everything about him is striking and quietly sexy. There’s an edge to his pale skin and copious tattoos, all plain black ink and deeply intricate. I track up his body from the trail of hair leading into his jeans, to the Vitruvian Man tattoo on his rib cage, the stained-glass window on his heart, the ship beside his hip, and lock on to the coin necklace dangling from his neck. I sit up, grip it carefully, and use it to pull him toward me.

“Fuck, Rory,” he hisses.

“I know. I’m mad about this, too.”

He laughs, one of his real, uninhibited laughs, which I’m hearing more these days. “I’m furious. I don’t even like you.”

I bump his shoulder. He pins me to the bed, enveloping me in his arms. “I seriously do not like you.”

But we’re bold-faced liars. I do like him.

I’ll show you.

Temperance made those words sound like a threat, and in a way, they were. But all this curse has shown me is that maybe what I wanted most was right in front of me—someone who has seen the ugly parts of my personality and still looks at me like I’m something magical.

I find the button of his pants. Ezra shudders as I toy with the waistband and start to work his jeans down his legs, and he helps me pull my turtleneck off. When Ezra sees me strip down, he looks like he’s been punched in the stomach. His expression is breathless and ravenous, and I’ve never felt so sexy as I do when his eyes are on me.

I want to take my time learning him and letting him learn me. He understands this completely, exploring my body with precision like I’m an ancient text full of secrets and mysteries for him. He kisses between my breasts. He murmurs “god damn” as he unhooks my bra and tosses it to the side.

“Tell me what’s next,” he orders. He traces a trail of heat and tongue along my jaw. His stubble rakes into my skin and I know it’ll leave a mark. It might be grounds to wear a scarf on our next tour.

“Pants,” I plead, but he’s one step ahead of me. He eases my pants off, leaving me in nothing but my underwear. “I don’t have a condom.”

“Me either,” he says, “but that’s okay. I don’t need one to make you come for me.”

His words burn between my legs. “Please.”

I swear by habits, stars, and tarot cards. I listen to spirits with complete ease. I trust my intuition so rarely, I never even know when it’s kicking in. But it is now. I’m safe with Ezra, and he wants to make this matter to me. He wants me feeling good and panting in his arms. It’s what my body needs, and I know he needs it, too.

Ezra slides his hand between my legs, pushing down my underwear, and melts at the wetness he finds there. He slides one finger in slowly, pinching my clit between that and his thumb. A shudder runs through my body, making him pause.

“Good?” he asks.

I nod. “Please keep going.”

He delves deeper, slowly easing in and out of me, learning the caresses and patterns that make my body react. His fingertips stroke and press inside of me, sending new shudders of pleasure all over me. I let out a sharp cry that makes him tilt his head and smirk.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he drawls into my ear, nipping the shell of it. “No fucking idea how many times I’ve imagined touching you like this.”

“Tell me,” I command. “Tell me all about it, Professor.”

“Everything I imagined?” he pants. “How incredible you look naked? The curves of your body—fuck, your fucking thighs. I’d spend all night buried between them, but I’m worried I might die before I get to do everything else to you. The real thing blows it out of the water. You are a test I could never be ready for.”

Ezra talks dirty like he talks about everything else—like he wants it to be remembered. I’m going to remember those words every time I’m in the shower, whenever I have to sleep alone.

Ezra slides a second finger into me. It’s an unexpected stretch and deadly pressure when I’m already so close. I reach for his hair as he moves faster, teasing this orgasm out of me. Pressure builds in the pit of my stomach, my toes curl, then there’s a flood of cold—his ring—against my clit that has me reaching for the headboard. Stars prick the corners of my vision and I let out a shocked, sharp cry.

“Fuck,” I moan. My body contracts around his fingers. I’m cresting so close to the edge here. Sweat rises to my skin, my cheeks flush. “Your ring.”

“Did it hurt you?”

“No,” I reassure him. “It felt so fucking good. Do that again.”

He eases back into me, slowly, slowly, slowly, letting the cold pressure drive me to a breaking point. I want this so badly for both of us, so I reach into his boxer briefs and take him in my hand. I need him out of control and coming for me, too.

“Jesus Christ,” he gasps, pausing on the first few pumps. “Rory, I’m…”

“It’s not like you to back down from a challenge. Race me to the finish line?”

I’m teetering on the edge of this orgasm, but so is he, even without my touch. His cock is so hard and the look of desperate restraint on his face tells me he’s not going to last long at all.

The cool swipe of his ring hits my clit again, and he presses harder, deeper, and slower as I buck my hips against his hand. I hook my leg around his waist, breathing in choppy staccatos, and I guide him toward a finish. It’s equal parts determination to best him and the desperate, desperate need for release. Colors burst behind my eyes as I come undone. I’m clenching around his fingers, shaking under him, and simply not caring who hears how fucking good this feels.

It’s only made better when he finishes mere seconds later, spilling into my hands with a shocked whimper and desperate grip on my hair. By the time I come back down to earth, he’s still recovering, eyes closed, heart racing. I toy with the hoop at the top of his ear and lean in close to whisper.

“I win.”