by Jo Raven
He says I saved him. I know better.
“Zane. Hey.” Ash is staring at me. “What happened back there? Man, I’ve seen you swim a thousand times. Why did you freak out like that?”
He has a darkening bruise on his jaw. I clocked him a good one, apparently, as I struggled with my flashback—memories that take over real time without warning. Guilt gnaws at my stomach lining. Which is why I stop and think about his question, instead of sending him to hell and climbing out of his car.
Because he’s right. He’s never seen me panic in the water before. Hasn’t happened in a while.
“I guess…I wasn’t expecting it.” My Mohawk is wet and dripping in my eyes. I wipe a hand over my face. “Caught me by surprise, is all.”
Ash is giving me the look, the one he reserves for me when he thinks I’m being a total idiot. “That’s bullshit, man. You don’t scare that easily.”
Or that bad. And that’s the problem. Ash knows me well—but he’s rarely seen me at my worst. Today qualifies as my worst.
“Not having a good day,” I mutter, being as honest as I can and prepare to exit the damn car and end this conversation. It’s dangerous. Leading way too deep.
“Zane…Who tried to drown you?”
The quiet question hits me like a punch to the stomach, knocking the wind out of my lungs. Memories crowd my head until I think my skull will explode.
“Hey.” This time Ash’s hand lands on my shoulder, and I jerk away.
“Don’t, goddammit.” I open the door and haul my sorry ass outside. “Just don’t.”
I pull the soggy blanket off as I stride to my building and unlock the door. Fuck, fuck. I run up the stairs, and when I try to open my apartment door, my hand shakes. I shove the key into the lock, and finally stumble inside.
What a fucked-up day. I grab the bottle of whiskey from the shelf and sink into the sofa, not ready to take off my wet clothes and shower just yet. I just sit there, the bottle in my lap.
What the hell happened? I normally stay on top of this shit, don’t let it dictate my life. I guess it’s the mess with my sister. It fucked me up more than I realized, and then came the shock of the cold water.
Fucking trigger. I got a few of those. Like touching my back. Holding me down. Plunging me into cold water.
‘Who tried to drown you?’
Shit. I scrub my hand over my face, trying to push away the memory. It’s not very clear. It must be quite old, and I don’t like poking at it in case it becomes clearer. I have a few like that, that mess with my head. I don’t have a therapist, but I know one thing about triggers: you should avoid them.
Hell, all of us in the Brotherhood have triggers. Show Tyler a knife, and he’ll break out in cold sweat. Touch Asher without warning, and you’ll find a fist in your face. Dylan has a thing about smells I never quite understood, and Rafe… Well, let’s just say he probably has more triggers than me. That guy is seriously screwed up.
Like I’m not. Heh. I uncap the bottle and take a swig. The whiskey burns as it goes down, warming me up. I lean back and look around my living room. My drawings on the walls, my beaten-up second-hand furniture. My apartment.
Too quiet. Too empty.
Christ, Zane. I take a long gulp of alcohol and close my eyes. What I should do is change and go out, hit the bars and find a willing chick to fuck and blank out my mind.
So that’s the plan, but I don’t wanna move just yet. My lids grow heavy, and I’m caught in a twilight zone between waking and sleeping. I think I see more people in the room. They’re watching me, waiting to catch me off-guard. Their eyes glitter like mirrors.
Water is splashing. A bathtub, full to the brim. They’ll catch me and throw me into the water. They’ve done it before, many times. They’ll crouch around the tub, keeping me under as I thrash and scream.
They laugh, and it’s a singsong sound that chills me. I need to get up and leave. Why can’t I get up? And why won’t they stop?
I blink, and the paralysis leaves me. I sit up on the couch and manage to catch the bottle right before it crashes to the floor.
Not laughter. It’s the doorbell. Just the fucking doorbell.
I’m on my feet, weaving slightly, already half-way to the door, before I remember I’m not expecting anyone. Maybe Ash decided I’m acting too weird and came back to check on me? That’s not like Ash. He lets me have my space.
Ignore. Don’t open.
I hesitate. Glance around the empty apartment again. The faces and voices from my dream haven’t completely faded yet. A shiver wracks me.
This ain’t good.
Reaching the door, I glance through the peephole and make out a slight figure, dark hair with pink streaks. Dakota?
I frown. What is she doing here?
The question is moot. She’s here. As I open the door, and the faces and voices from the dream finally fade, something inside me unclenches.
This girl is big trouble…
Dakota steps into my apartment, her black leather bag swinging from her shoulder. She’s dressed in a yellow summer dress—the girl likes yellow, and the information goes straight into my Dakota file—and her dark hair is caught at the back, shiny strands framing her face and making those blue eyes look huge.
“Hey,” she says, and her low, musical voice does strange things to me. I get this sudden urge to grab her and crush her to my chest.
I take a step back, my pulse pounding in my ears.
“You left suddenly from the park,” she says, and I wait for the usual blather—how are you, Zane? Are you all right? Have you gone completely round the bend yet, or are you still thinking about it?
But she doesn’t say any of those things. She just smiles, turns and closes the door.
Oh shit.
“Have you eaten?” She sidesteps me and glances into the dimness of the room. The light is fading. How long was I asleep?
I shake my head and suck on the barbell in my tongue. Why is she making me so nervous? It’s as if she can see inside my head, and I can’t have that. Not now.
“Well, I brought some sandwiches. You know, from the picnic you missed.” She winks, bites into her soft bottom lip, and my body starts to catch up, my dick stirring in my pants.
She is staring at me, probably expecting a reply of some sort, so I nod. Words have fled my head, which is still kinda foggy. I see her eyes go to the whiskey bottle on the table, and I brace for an outburst, or more questions, or even pity. Judgment.
But again she surprises me. “Kitchen that way?” She points and heads toward it without my input.
As if she’s at home.
I stand for a long moment like an idiot, watching her go, staring at her cute ass and pretty legs, until she disappears into the kitchen, and then I stand some more, listening to the clatter of dishes and silverware. It’s a soothing sound.
Then she’s back, carrying two plates with sandwiches. She places them on the coffee table and bends to switch on the lamp next to the sofa. The yellow light paints the curves of her body, makes the hollow between her breasts darker.
I lick my lips, caught in a fucking trance. Christ, I need a drink. Or a cigarette. Or both.
She walks to me and takes my hand, tugging me toward the sofa. “It’s chicken salad sandwiches. Erin said you like them.”
What’s happening? I let myself be pushed into the sofa and receive the plate. She’s gone for a minute, then returns with tall glasses of juice.
I feel as if I’ve stepped into an alternate universe. I can’t remember anyone ever taking care of me like that. Emma brought me to her home when I was practically an adult, and I took care of myself. Erin cooked for me sometimes, but this…
I put the plate back down. “What do you want?”
“A tattoo?” She smiles and shrugs.
“Fuck.” I press the heels of my hands into my eyes.
“Here.” She scoots closer to me, offering me something.
A pen.
“Are you serious?�
�� My head is pounding, my dick is hard, my thoughts are a mess—and she wants me to draw on her?
Her smile is fainter now. Red colors her cheeks, and her eyes glitter.
I reach for the pen without another thought. Why is it so important to her that I ink her? I don’t get her. She has no need of dragons on her pretty, smooth skin—no scars to hide, no bad memories to fight. What’s on her mind?
She turns, offering me the golden expanse of her slender back. Her tattoo is nestled between her shoulder blades. I don’t know the artist, but the design…
“A butterfly of death,” I whisper. It has a skull on its body, and the sight disturbs me more than it should. I mean, damn, I’ve inked my fair share of skulls and zombies on skin. Dark lines entwine around it, like a crown of thorns. And now I see it—a faint, long scar, thin like a surgical cut.
“Actually, it’s a Death’s Head Hawkmoth.” She glances at me over her shoulder, her blue eyes sparkling, her smile widening. “Acherontia lachesis.”
I frown as I put the pen against her skin and start drawing. I have no picture in my mind, so I just let my hand guide me. “Why?”
She doesn’t immediately answer. She hunches over a little, and I put my hand on her arm to straighten her. She’s warm and smells of sun and grass. I suck in a deep breath.
“Do you know they squeak when you pester them?” she says.
“What?” What is she talking about?
“Death’s Head Hawkmoths.”
Laughter rises in my throat. “And that’s why you got one tattooed on your back? Because it can squeak?”
“Well, it likes honey, too.”
I can’t help it. I laugh out loud. “So you like honey, too.” Another fact to file away.
My drawing is spreading over her ribs, curls and lines. I still don’t know what it is. As I draw, tension is leaving my body. How did she know this could help more than drinking myself stupid?
She shivers under my hands, and maybe it’s our discussion, but now I think I smell honey. My mouth waters. I bend closer and press my mouth to the top of her tattoo, on her spine.
The air leaves her lungs in a low moan, and the pen drops from my fingers. I wrap my arms around her, haul her back until she’s on my lap. She squirms, her sweet ass pressed against my hard-on, and I almost lose it. I reach up and place my hands over her breasts. Her nipples are tight, poking into my palms.
“Zane…” She whispers my name, and her hands cover mine. Together we cup her breasts and knead them. Her head rolls back, her eyes closing. Her body arches.
I hiss, my cock aching inside my still wet pants, and I bite lightly on her exposed neck. I need to mark her, leave hickeys all over her body.
Jesus.
She settles fully on me, and her hands fall away. I reach down, lifting her dress, and her legs part. I place my hand between them, over the fine lace of her panties. Swallowing hard, I slide a finger underneath.
Dammit. My whole body tightens. I feel as if I’ve never touched a woman before.
She’s smooth down there, and I wonder if she shaves. I part her folds, and she’s wet and hot. She makes a mewling noise when I rub my finger back and forth.
“Christ, Zane,” she whispers when I find her swollen clit and press down. Her hips lift, and she turns her face so that our lips almost touch.
I turn my face away and push my finger inside her. It’s so damn tight I can’t stand it. I fuck her like that slowly, and my dick throbs in time to my heartbeat. I push a second finger inside her.
She’s panting hard, making those sexy little noises that tell me she’s getting close, and I rub her clit with my thumb. I know how to make a chick feel good, how to get her off. Problem is, normally I’m not holding them close, feeling their every move, hearing their every breath. Normally I don’t feel like I’ll come just from touching them.
This time is different.
I close my eyes, count backward from ten, trying to come back from the brink. She pulses around my fingers, and I grit my teeth, feeling an answering pulse in my dick.
Her small hand rests over mine, between her legs, and her breath catches on a sob as she comes, writhing in my lap.
I bite into her shoulder to stifle a groan and keep stroking her, feeling the waves of pleasure rolling through her, making her shake. God, it’s never been so hot before, seeing a girl come. My cock weeps and twitches.
“Oh, God…” Her arms fall to her sides, limp, as she struggles to catch her breath.
I’m panting just as hard. As I pull my fingers out of her, she whimpers, and fuck, my cock doesn’t need any more encouragement. My balls draw tight, and I blow air through my nose, fighting for control.
Her head is resting on my shoulder. She turns to look at me, her eyes wide. It makes me want to smile as I pull back.
That’s when I finally see what I’ve drawn on her back. It’s a humming bird.
I drew a bird on her last time, too. Wings, I realize. That’s what I want to put on her. Wings, so she can fly. Not the scaled, dark wings of a dragon, but great, feathered wings, the kind that can take you high, close to the light.
Where I can’t follow.
Chapter Four
Dakota
I’m still leaning on Zane’s strong chest, struggling to breathe, reduced to a puddle of pleasure. Holy shit, this boy knows how to play music on my body. I’m still thrumming everywhere, still clenching inside.
When I stare into his hooded dark eyes, the pupils are blown to hell with need. His arousal is a rod of steel at my back. He’s so beautiful, so hot, I want to grab his face and kiss him senseless.
But he pulls back.
No kissing. This is so weird. He strokes my back, sending shivers through me, and stands up.
What…?
I lean back on the cushions, pulling my dress down, suddenly self-conscious. After all, he touched me but didn’t even see me. He touched my breasts—over the dress—and made me come without even seeing what he was touching… And oh God, the memory makes me clench again. And again.
He’s standing by the sofa, fumbling with a pack of cigarettes. I get he’s not the cuddly type, but it’s like he couldn’t wait to get away from me after he made me come.
I should be freaked out. I don’t know Zane so well, and although he’s super sexy and I want him, I didn’t expect anything like this to happen so soon. Not before talking and finding out more about him.
Heck, I only came over to check he was all right after what happened at the park. The way he’d struggled in the water, thrashing and hitting right and left… After he’d left with Asher, Erin told me Zane never liked water. Yeah, okay. But it wasn’t just that he didn’t like it. What happened looked like a flashback, and it was scary as hell.
I look at him as he stares at nothing, still toying with the packet. He hasn’t pulled out a cigarette yet. His wet T-shirt sticks to his chest and shoulders, outlining every taut muscle, every ridge and plane. I see the black of tattoos through the wet fabric, curling on his chest and upper arms. His dark brows are drawn together, his gaze distant. What’s on his mind?
Bad idea or not, everything about him draws me close, including his demons. Including his tattoos, his piercings and his Mohawk, his Inked Brotherhood and absent family. Including the bottle of whiskey sitting on the table, and the fact that he’s still dressed in his wet clothes.
What happened in the park is a crack in his armor, a widening fissure that lets me glimpse inside him. I’m sure what I’ll find won’t be pretty, but it’s what makes Zane who he is, and I want to know him.
He burns so brightly.
“So,” I say, sitting there, pretending nothing has happened—that he didn’t draw on me, give me a hickey and get me off with his hands a mere two minutes ago—and cross my legs. “I’m still looking for a roommate, and so are you. Won’t you at least interview me? I like your apartment.”
His gaze slides to me, blank. “Interview?”
“Yeah, you know, check if
we are compatible as roomies. If I’m quiet, and don’t stay out late and don’t smoke in my room and all that.”
“You don’t smoke, you don’t stay out late, and I don’t care if you’re quiet.”
I blink. Okay… “Then ask me if I have enough money for the rent, if I cook, if I commit to pay half the expenses—”
“No.” He rubs a hand over his chest. “You can’t stay here.”
“Why not?”
“Because…” He looks at me, his hot gaze gliding over my skin. “You just can’t.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Why am I pushing him? He’s right. It’s not a good idea. What I need is a nice roomie, a girl I can have pajama parties with and boy talk. Besides… after touching me, things have shifted between us, and I’m not sure it’s for the better. He seems more distant now than ever.
It makes my chest tight.
This was a mistake. I get up and smooth my dress over my legs. “Fine. I’ll be going, then.” I glance at the plates and glasses on the low table. “Enjoy your sandwich.”
His body vibrates with tension, and his jaw is clenched tight. “Not hungry.”
That stops me. A boy who isn’t hungry is a boy who isn’t well. I don’t have a brother, but I do have plenty of male cousins and friends, and I know this for a fact.
“Are you sick?” I regret the words as soon as I speak them. Prying again. “Forget it. I’ll just—”
“Stay.”
I gape at him. “What?”
“I mean... Fuck.” He runs a hand over one of the shaved sides of his head, his eyes locked on the far wall. He swallows. “You haven’t eaten, either. Stay a while longer.”
I realize my mouth is still open, and I snap it shut. I really should go.
But a shadow in his eyes holds me still.
Pain.
I can’t just leave when he’s in pain. He did ask me to stay. And as always when it comes to Zane Madden, I throw all caution to the wind, and do crazy stuff.
Like staying when I should run.
“Why are you looking for a roommate?” Zane swallows the last bite of his sandwich and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
