Utterly Forgettable | MM Romance | Complete

Fourteen: Like You're Forty-Two

"Miiiinion. Wakey, wakey."

The undignified high pitched scream that escaped him once he opened his eyes wasn't embarrassing at all under the circumstances, and Josh meant that without a hint of sarcasm.

Being dragged from the depths of sleep by his bed shaking, complete with an electrical buzzing sound, and then being greeted by the vision that was Emma looking down on him, grinning in the dark while pointing her phone's flashlight at her own face, was not an experience Josh would wish on his worst enemy. Add to that the shaky irises and he'd have been well within his rights to pee his pants at the sight.

Her wheelchair banged repeatedly against his bed — the source of the shaking and the electrical buzzing.

"What the— are you trying to kill me?" His hand reached blindly for the light switch.

"Haven't decided yet," she said with a shrug. "It's a possibility. Minions were buried with their masters in several cultures."

"How comforting." He turned on the small lamp at last, sitting on the bed and negating the eerie effect she'd achieved. She turned off her flashlight with a pout. "If this isn't a murder attempt what do you need at —" he checked his phone "— four in the morning?"

"You like Emery." Emma grinned like a cat hunting a mouse.

"I'm sorry?"

"You like Emery," she repeated, not bothering to clarify.

"Of course I like Emery," Josh replied, dumbfounded. "I'd like you too if you didn't try to make me wet the bed at four in the morning."

"You liiike Emery."

"And this is why you woke me up?" He rolled his eyes at her. She was twelve, and he'd never noticed. What an absurd notion. He opened his mouth to deny it. Moments from the past five months sprung to mind, several of them, with growing intensity. He was fond of the man, but he didn't... He didn't...

Oh.

Oh.

Oh, no.

"He's my boss." He wanted to add something else to that woefully inadequate description but, whatever else he said, he'd just be digging a deeper hole for himself.

"Sure," Emma said with a twitch of her head, "all you have for him are very professional feelings. Anyone can see that. Oh, well. Want to go out dancing tonight?"

Josh gave her The Look, which seemed to have no effect on her whatsoever. She shrugged again. "What? If you're living in la-la-land I want in too."

"Your brother's my boss," he repeated, as if it made an ounce of difference to her.

"So you keep saying. You going to sit there, look me in the eye, tell me that's all he is?"

Oh for the love of— She was like a dog with a bone, and a well-rested one at that, or her sentences wouldn't be this articulate. "No, I'd like to lay here and sleep instead." He felt his cheeks aflame.

"Call 'em as I see 'em, buddy," she needled on. "Go ahead. Tell me I'm wrong. If your conscience allows you to lie to a dying woman."

"You play that card far too often." And far too effectively, he left unsaid.

"Trumps whatever game you're playing. Every. Single. Time," she replied without missing a beat. "Come on. Look at me. Tell me he's nothing but the man who signs your paychecks."