Black Velvet (42) (Patreon)

Charlie-Anne doesn't respond, so I harass at least six party-goers to get Anna's, also known as Annalise Egbe's, number.  It sounds like Charlie-Anne has made it home safe, but if Anna's tone is anything to be wary of, I should give her plenty of time to clear her head before calling again.

—

Two hours later and I've managed to somehow shove Nic's half-limp form into my backseat a quarter till one, which, okay, is primarily due to Tobias.

He'd found him vomiting in the party houses upstairs bathroom thirty minutes prior, helped clean him up, and tossed him over his shoulder like some sort of a rag doll. The phone call that I received once they'd made their way down the stairs was not too surprising, but the sight of Nic dangling from Toby's shoulders was.

Long story short, my brother is drunk. He's past the point of babbling on about the broadness of Tobias' shoulders and how his general hunkiness deters all his to be one-night-stands and is now wandering into the territory of ineligible, nauseated grunts.

"You're going to have to keep an eye on him tonight,"  I sigh, rolling my eyes as Nic blubbers, "I don't want him to choke on his vomit or any other top ten mortifying ways to die."

"N' gonna die."  Nic grunts and then curls into himself,  "just feel like 'm gonna die. 'Mm a rockstar. Only rockstars die this way — ugh."

"You're not a rockstar."

"He's going to throw up,"  Tobias hisses,  "Nic, close your damned mouth."

The Greek man plops down in the front seat without warning, the second time he's ever riding shotgun next to me.  I can see him eying Nic's pallor, a look of irritation mixed with the mildest worry passing through his features,

"I should've kept a better eye on him; he probably hasn't partied since he's been gone."

I fluster as his hand brushes mine, the length of his fingers curling around his seat-belt strap as he navigates it into the clasp. It proves hard to focus on precisely what he's trying to convey because instead, my brain is still a flurry of what was said before.

At least drunk Nic proves to serve as a good icebreaker between inappropriate, sexually lit wall talks.

Tobias sends me a wry look as my brain fizzles, my cheeks heating with the memory.  He leans his head back against the seat when he's buckled,

"You tired?"  He asks, and I can't help but think of how talkative he is drunk or how chatty he has been, particularly these past few days.

His tone says that he's less intoxicated than Nic, but the influence is still there, and I can hear something else; a low undertone that suggests he's aware of where my thoughts are.

"I'm exhausted,"  I breathe, but I think he knows that;  knows that my cheeks have been spotted pink half of the night — that I'd abandoned my hoop in trade for fresh air for the last two hours. He barely moves his shoulders, doesn't bother to respond as I pull from the party house's large driveway.

I swallow, pulling up to the street's stop sign.

"Are you tired? We do have to work in like, five hours,"  I glance back at my brother, if only to make sure that he's adequately buckled in, "Which is later than usual, thank God — I guess."

"Honestly, I'm super bad at time management when I'm sleep-deprived, and —"  I snap my mouth shut, realizing I'm babbling through my anxiety.  "Well, you know.  Nothing relevant."

Tobias shrugs, wipes a gathering of fog that's settled on his window, "It's a short shift." The excess makes his fingers shine with the light outside, dewy and flexing as he stares at them.  "Don't worry."

"Probably won't feel like a short shift,"  I scratch my arm as I take the next turn, the quiet not feeling exceptionally comfortable, but probably because half of my brain is telling me that I don't want silence; I want to talk to Tobias.  I tap my fingers on the wheel, and Tobias stares straight ahead, eyes opening and closing slowly.  "Thanks for going with Nic to this thing. He really likes them and —"

Tobias' hand suddenly slams onto the steering wheel, giving it a sharp tug to the side,

"Holy fuck."  His voice is low and jagged — almost like he's panicked but more surprised than anything. "Oliver!"

Oh no.

We barely miss a row of mailboxes in front of Ellis Mae's conjoining gas station, and I push my back into my seat in horror, my heart jumping into my throat.

Oh my God, where did those come from?

"I'm sorry — ah, so sorry." I swallow, panicked eyes flickering from him and back to the road.  Both my hands come up to take the wheel from him, "I wasn't paying enough — my lights aren't on, I didn't even turn on my lights!"

I'm reach to switch on my headlights, embarrassed and mentally berating myself.

"It's fine," Tobias' palm splays on my knee for a brief moment as if to steady me. It does anything but.  The warmth of him spindles through the fabric of my corduroys.

"You're fine.  Stop worrying." he slinks back into his seat, more awake than he was moments before. His hand returns to my knee, again, for just a few moments more, and heat floods to the tips of my ears.

"I swear I'm not an awful driver," I twist my palms over the wheel, "I know tonight totally isn't proving my case but," I give a lost, aborted jerk of my shoulders.  "at least — probably not the worst driver you've met."

Tobias chuckles and removes his hand to readjust his seat.

"Not so bad," He mumbles, and I'm surprised that he hasn't taken the chance to deliver some sort of jab, but I wonder if that's due mainly to his exhaustion, "you drive better than my mom."

Tobias gives a wry smirk but relaxes after he says it and appears painfully at ease — even though I almost just slammed us through a row of metal, government-owned fixtures.

I feel my throat constrict, a weird sensation of happiness fluttering through me at the words.   I can't help but think that he never talks about his family, not like that, not with me, and not this casually.

He definitely hasn't compared me to his mom before.

"Is that why you're always the one running errands?" I ask, and it's meant as a joke, but it seems more thoughtful, like an observation. Tobias only nods, a smile spreading across his face. I nod too, attention shifting,

"... Does it get old?"

I can't believe that it doesn't, know that it does, with the way that he's always there, hand and foot, catering to his mother.

Tobias must love her, probably more than most.

"...My mom's a strange person," His thumb rolls across the inseam of his jeans, "... If she wants me too, I go with her," He sighs and closes his eyes,  "and I drive. Just because it's better that way."

I nod and know it's true. I've lived next to them for my entire life, and I've rarely seen his mother drive alone.

"How are you a good driver?" I turn down another street, the wrong street.

"Crap," I whisper, hoping it's subtle enough that the other man hasn't noticed. He smirks, hiding it by turning towards the window. I'm starting to become used to his smile, and it's strange. I feel my breathe stutter,  "If she taught you, I mean."

"She didn't."

"Oh." I frown. "Then... Um?" I laugh a little awkwardly at my own silence, and Tobias' eyes slide to me. "...What makes her so super awful at driving?"

"... Stupid things — somehow, doesn't ever expect the worst," He shrugs, handsome in the dark, passing lights cutting across his angles. I try to focus on the road — and avoid the distraction in my passenger seat,

"What do you mean?"

"She just trusts things to go well," Tobias' thumb has moved from his inseam and to the center console, close to where my forearm rests. I feel the rough edge of his index finger slide down my pulse.  "even if they never do."

"And you don't?" I ask him, arching my shoulder with the drag of his skin against mine.

He smirks,

"... I always expect the worst."  Tobias leans his head back, closes his eyes. His upper body is loose and tired, but his fingers are still a steady stroke over my skin, a rough pull on the soft part of my inner arm,

"That's the difference?"

"Yeah. That's the difference.  If you don't think of the worst thing, how do you prepare for it?" Tobias laughs softly,  "my mom trusts and trusts. She makes more of a mess of herself for it."

"So you just don't..." I don't know exactly what he means, and I want to, but my back is pressed so hard against the seat with the thought of his less than subtle touches that I might meld into the upholstery,  "Do you... Do you think if you don't trust, you can keep from getting hurt?"

I circle around another wrong turn, trying to prolong the conversation. Tobias notices — lips tugging further upwards.

"I'm cautious," He points to the road in front of us with his free hand, his blunt nails barely there against my wrist,   "I don't trust another driver to worry about my safety. I don't trust that everything is going to go right.  It makes me feel safe.  I probably am."

"... But then — you never actually feel safe."  I whisper,  "because you're always thinking about how you can't be. Is it even worth it?"

Tobias hums softly and closes his eyes.

"Well, if you think of it that way..." his voice darkens with thoughts that aren't his own,  "It's bitter."

As Tobias falls asleep, I watch the hardness of his expression relax into someone young. His arms slacks against mine, the other where it's crossed over his stomach, eyelashes shadowing his cheekbones.

I wonder if he was even talking about driving — or everything in between.

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