Seth (Damage Control #3)

by Jo Raven

  And when I turn back around, Seth is gone, too.

  Chapter Nine

  Seth

  Goddammit. I had a buzz going on, but it’s fading fast.

  Can’t take this any longer. Scraps, okay. I said I’ll take them. Fucking said so. Take whatever I’m allowed to take, but this… Watching her with her boyfriend, watch as they hold each other and banter and make plans… No fucking way.

  That’s pure masochism and dammit, I’ve got enough aches to go around without hurting myself on purpose, too.

  Hurting inside my chest. Feels like there’s a band of steel tightening around my heart, pressing deep. Which is stupid. Makes no sense. I just want her, her tits, her ass, her long legs, her tight pussy. Her mouth wrapped around my dick. That’s all there is to my desire for her.

  Okay, Seffers? We good? All clear?

  Fuck, yeah. Just waiting for the ache in my chest to ease, for my lungs to expand and let in some air. For the urge to bash her boyfriend’s face in to pass.

  Shit. I’ve left my walking stick somewhere in my rush to put distance between them and myself and now I’m staggering like a drunkard, my knee shooting warning twinges up my leg as I head toward the exit.

  Too many people. As I push between them, a guy shoves back. I stumble, almost lose my footing and faceplant, catching myself in the last second. Pain shoots up my legs, both of them, and my head throbs just as badly as my chest.

  It infuriates me even more. It’s the last straw to this evening from hell. I’m drowning, can’t take any more. I need a goddamn break.

  Fuck it.

  I barrel into the guy, grab him as much for balance as for anything else, and he crashes into the couple behind him. We both crash, ’cuz he takes me down with him, flailing, and I land on top of him.

  More pain. More fucking pain, and I can’t take it any longer. I draw my fist back to punch his face, and I’m vaguely aware I’ve totally lost it. Given in to the craziness holding my whole existence in its grip, as it all comes crashing down on top of me—my mother returning from the dead, my injuries old and new, and Manon… Manon.

  My moment of hesitation proves a mistake. The guy ain’t amused. He throws me off him and I land awkwardly, rolling on my side. He’s instantly on top of me, but I manage to catch his fist before it rearranges my face. He leans in, panting and glaring, and chaos erupts around us as the guests finally realize there’s a fist fight happening.

  Right in the middle of the Damage Control Expansion party. Rafe and Zane will have my balls on a fucking plate for this.

  The guy manages to land in a weak punch with his other hand, and I twist my hips, throwing him off me. Guess Rafe’s self-defense lessons are paying off, I think, and swing my fist into his face, landing a good one.

  “Stop! Seth, stop.” A hand on my shoulder, tugging me backward, a voice that hooks right into my brain and eases the strange ache in my chest. “What are you doing?”

  I let her pull me back, still hooked on the sound of her voice, unable to answer, ’cuz there is no real answer. I’m not sure what I’m doing—haven’t been sure since ever. Just coasting along, trying to keep afloat. To keep from sinking.

  Nobody is keeping the other guy from coming after me, though, and he scrambles up and after me.

  Someone stops him, inserting himself between us, a solid wall of a man, and I stare at Asher’s back in shock. He’s been working out all right. He barely flexes a muscle as he keeps the enraged guy in check and calmly turns toward me.

  “You okay, buddy?” He gives me a quick once-over, pale wolf-eyes dark with anger. “What the hell was this about?”

  Fucking embarrassing, it’s what this is, so distracted that I need rescuing.

  “Nothing,” I mutter, the warmth of Manon’s small hand searing through the thin cotton of my T-shirt, branding my shoulder. Why is she still here? I thought her long gone by now, with her boyfriend.

  The word is like a splinter in my mind.

  Ash nods, turns back to the guy who’s being dragged back by his own friends and stares until they back away.

  Need to practice a glare like Ash’s.

  Also need to fix my knee, manage to walk without a limp and regain some of my strength, because frankly this is ridiculous. Need to turn things about, find a job, finish my training, get well… get over her.

  Get a goddamn life.

  Ash reaches for me. “Let’s get you up.”

  I jerk away, knocking back into Manon who’s knelt down behind me. “I’m okay.”

  He’s not fooled. His eyes darken and nostrils flare, and he sucks in a sharp breath, but he lets it go, thank God. “Fine.”

  I’m held back by a thread—by a small hand on my shoulder, a touch that shouldn’t fucking happen, that means nothing to her and everything to me.

  “The guys will be going on to Halo for drinks,” Ash is saying. “You two,” his gaze flicks over me to Manon, “should come along.”

  “Oh, I can’t—” she begins.

  “Not tonight,” I say with finality. My muscles are twitching, my hands are shaking, my head hurts and I can’t think straight with her so close. “I’m gonna hit the sack, I think.”

  “Need help—?”

  “No.” A pang of remorse hits me at cutting him off like this, ’cuz Ash and the brotherhood has always looked out for me, like he just did, and he doesn’t deserve my rudeness—but hell, I hope he can cut me some slack tonight before I fall apart completely. “Thanks. I’ll take it from here.”

  “Sure, man.” He shrugs, cuts another look at Manon and backs away. “Call me if you need anything. Take care.”

  “I’ll make sure he gets home safe,” Manon says, and I’m too tired to argue with her.

  Too exhausted to fight fate, even if tonight for the first time in years I would.

  ***

  Finding my walking stick in the chaos that is the party is an impossible mission, so I end up with my arm around Manon’s slender shoulders as I hobble out of the shop. She insists she can take it, and it really seems she can. I keep forgetting how much strength is hidden in that slender frame.

  The fresh evening air slaps my face, takes off the edge. Lets me breathe more freely and let go of my helpless anger—for now. Hard to be angry when I’m pressed to her, her sweet curves melting into my harsh angles. Easier to forget myself for a while, imagine I deserve this, deserve her, and that she wants me back.

  Easier not to think at all, to let her guide me to her car, help me inside and drive me home. I stare blindly out the window as we enter Saturday night traffic, thinking how perspective is everything. A year ago, recently released from prison, living on the street, I’d have given everything for what I have now. I’ve have given anything for Shane to be spared the pain, to find a home. Even if it meant I had to stay behind.

  Now here I am, with an apartment to return to at night, with a dream of becoming a tattoo artist—if I ever manage to stay long enough out of the hospital to fucking finish my training—and friends. Brothers. Shane is fine, or seems fine on the outside at least, we are both healthy—mostly—and here’s a pretty girl driving me home.

  I should be grateful. Optimistic. Full of hope. Fucking happy.

  Instead I find myself drowning in the dark. Reliving my past every night in nightmares. And wishing for what I can’t have.

  “Will you tell me what happened at the party?” she asks.

  We stall at a traffic light, and I glance her way, catching her gaze on me. Her eyes look black in the dimness, the greens and golds lost in the night.

  I turn back to the uninteresting view outside. “He shoved me. I lost it.”

  I feel her gaze linger on me, a warm touch. “This isn’t like you.”

  “What isn’t?” Losing it? Because yeah, it’s been a while since I lost control like that.

  The traffic light changes, and she puts the car into gear. “It isn’t like you to look so sad.”

  I start, shocked. Try to hide it. Try not to t
urn to look at her, read her face. “I’m not sad.”

  “You’re not smiling, either.”

  “I can’t.” I’m not even sure what I’m telling her. I can’t smile? Can’t talk about it? Can’t be here with her?

  “I hate seeing you sad,” she says, and fuck, this is too much for me tonight.

  Why is she pretending to care? She didn’t call since the morning she left my apartment, didn’t visit. I need… something. My eyes ache, blurring my vision, and I can’t breathe. I lift my hand, rub my chest. What the hell’s happening to me?

  Thank God we’ve arrived. I throw the car door open before the car even comes to a halt and lever myself up and out. Out of there, far from her where I feel things I don’t understand, where I want her in every possible way and can’t have her at all.

  “Seth!” I hear her climbing out of the car and coming after me as I make my way to the building, but damn, I need five seconds to pull myself together before I thank her for the ride.

  Just five seconds. Just a moment to catch my breath.

  But before I can, her hand is on my arm and my lungs lock up again. My breath hitches. I turn, slip my hand around her waist, pull her to me. I feel like I’ll fucking die if I don’t get to kiss her, to hold her.

  If she turns around now and leaves.

  She doesn’t. Instead she leans into me, sighing softly, and time stops. Her soft breasts press into my chest, her head rests on my shoulder, and the night fades around us—the buildings, the street, the cars, the stars. I inhale the scent of her hair and my chest loosens, my heart calms.

  But it’s over too soon.

  “Let’s get you upstairs.” She pulls away, avoiding my gaze, breaking the fragile illusion.

  ***

  Anger helps me climb the stairs with less trouble than usual. Of course my knee is better now, too. Less swollen and painful.

  If she’d had to help me, I’d be fucking mortified. She’s helped me enough. I can do this on my own.

  Can you, now? Goddamn liar.

  I grind my teeth and fish in the pocket of my jeans for the door keys. The brief moment I held her against me only serves to haunt me. To mock me with all the possibilities even if I know they aren’t fucking real.

  Focus on what’s real, Seffers.

  Monday I got an interview for a job at a fast food joint. The odds are good. Plus, now my leg’s better, I should go back to training at Damage. Maybe take Rafe up on his offer to help me exercise, strengthen the muscles above my bad knee.

  This is good. This is what I need.

  I push the door open and hobble into the dimness of my apartment. It’s cold. Empty. I stop by the worn couch and turn toward her. She’s standing right inside the door, her expression unreadable. She glances back at the stairwell.

  She’s leaving. I know it. I see it. Of course she is.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I say, and I don’t think I can even walk to the bed, the last of my energy zapped. I walk around the sofa and sink in it, plonk my keys and wallet on the scratched coffee table. Maybe I’ll sleep here tonight. Or try to, at least. “You should go back to your friends. Your boyfriend must be looking for you.”

  “Nah, I doubt that.”

  I look up, narrow my eyes. “Didn’t you leave him at the party?”

  “No, he went off to meet his friends.”

  “And he didn’t invite you along?”

  “He did. I didn’t want to join him.”

  She’s still standing at the open door, as if undecided what to do.

  “Is everything okay between you two?”

  Yeah, I can’t stop myself from asking. It’s like scratching at scabs, opening the wound. Letting the blood flow.

  Strangely, my question seems to make up her mind, and she steps all the way inside. Closing the door with a soft click, she approaches me, her steps small, her hips swaying lightly. I watch her, hypnotized, breath caught, as she makes her way to me and sits down beside me.

  “Mind if I ask you something?” she whispers.

  I lick my dry lips. “Anything.”

  Jesus, Seffers.

  “It’s only a question.” Her small hands twist in her lap and she bites her lip. “I just don’t know who else to ask.”

  I swallow, my throat closing up. “Shoot. Aim for the heart. It’s quicker that way.”

  She sends me a quick smile and relaxes against the cushions, her hands smoothing out on her legs. She’s wearing a dress again, old-fashioned and classy like last time. I don’t think many chicks could pull this look off and not look ridiculous.

  In her black heels and that flared skirt framing her long legs, the cleavage dipping just enough to show me the pale swell of her tits, she looks hot. Sexy as all hell.

  Fuck. Curling my hands into fists, I rest them casually on top of my crotch and hope she won’t notice how hard I am for her.

  She hasn’t asked anything yet. Her gaze flicks to the door and back.

  I reach over, take her hand. “You can ask me whatever you want. I won’t laugh. I promise.”

  She nods jerkily and squeezes my fingers. “Thank you. Do you…” She struggles with it. “If things were different,” she starts again, “between us, if we weren’t just friends… would you have kissed me if I asked you to?”

  My mind blanks out at the thought of kissing her, running my tongue over those soft lips, thrusting my tongue into that hot mouth as I touch her all over, as I make her moan in pleasure.

  Then I realize what she’s really saying, why she’s here and not with her boyfriend. Why she looks sad.

  “Oh God, I’m sorry,” she blurts before I fully connect the dots, pulls her hand free and gets up. “This is so stupid. I should never have asked you that. I should be going.”

  “Whoa, wait!” I stand up so fast my knee buckles before I straighten, but I manage to grab her wrist and pull her back down with me. She cries out but I cushion her fall, and we’re back where we were two seconds ago.

  Only not quite.

  “Bastard hasn’t kissed you? Why the fuck not?”

  “He’s not…” She scrambles off me, curls up at the other end of the sofa. She looks tiny like that—a porcelain doll, fragile and beautiful. “Fred is a good guy. He’s trying to protect me.”

  “From what?”

  “My own inexperience. Wants to take it slow.”

  “I’d have kissed you,” I say. “Fuck slow. I’d have kissed you fast and hard.”

  Her eyes are fixed on me, wide. I love it when she blushes, and the color rising to her cheeks right now is deep. “You would?”

  “Fuck yeah.”

  I’m so hard it hurts, and she’s asking me if I’d kiss her? I’d eat up her mouth, then move down to her tits, her belly, her pussy. I’d kiss her everywhere, and then I’d fuck her—slow and then hard. So hard she forgot about the asshole who’s dating her.

  “I’m a terrible kisser,” she whispers.

  The hell? “Says who?”

  She shakes her head and a dark curl escapes the hair-tie, stark and shiny like bronze against the white of her cheek. “I just never dated much, you know? Dance took up all of my time. I only went out with a guy in France, but we rarely kissed.”

  Hot jealousy flares inside my head at the thought of anyone but me kissing her—the mysterious guy in France who convinced her she doesn’t know how to kiss, the asshole boyfriend here who won’t kiss her.

  “Fuck them,” I mutter. “I bet you’re an amazing kisser. Don’t let any guy make you feel you’re not worth it, or too fragile to handle.”

  She’s still looking at me all wide-eyed and shit, and I scrub a hand over my face.

  Fuck this. What am I doing—keeping her from going, talking about her kissing other guys? Next I’ll offer a shoulder to cry on and watch chick movies with her. Help her fix her relationship with another man, when I want her for myself.

  “Listen, I’m gonna hit the shower and then the sack. I’m beat.” And pissed at myself, and hanging o
nto my sanity by a thread, but who the fuck cares about that, right? Hanging onto self-control with all I have.

  “Okay.” Her voice is small. She doesn’t move, though. I expected her to grab the chance to go. “Do you need help with anything?”

  “Nah, I’m good. Thanks.” God, she’s sweet. She shouldn’t. Can’t take her kindness. It reminds me of all I’ve ever wished for and never had. “Unless you wanna stay and watch crappy TV with me, maybe you should go and…” I wave a hand as I push myself upright, this time slow and careful, making sure my knee holds. “Do something more fun.”

  “Okay,” she says again, turning her face away, and Christ, is she about to cry? Did I upset her again? I seem to be doing this a lot lately.

  “Manon…” Dammit. I look around for my walking stick, then remember I left it at Damage, lost somewhere. Like my brain. “What did I say?”

  “Nothing.” She doesn’t look at me. “I’ll show myself out.”

  What the fuck. I honestly don’t get chicks sometimes. Not that I’ve had much experience with them anyway—except for fucking quick and dirty, but that hardly counts as interaction. The girls of the Brotherhood are nice, but I don’t see them all so often.

  And even if I did, this… thing between me and Manon beats me. Are we buddies now? Should we shoot pool together and have beers? What is it about her that draws my gaze and tangles up my fucking thoughts? And let’s not talk about my constant hard-on when she’s near.

  Man, trying to convince myself I can do this, stop wanting her, stop needing her, is an uphill battle, and I’m not sure I can win.

  So I nod, turn around and leave the room.

  Chapter Ten

  Manon

  The moment he’s out of the room, I bury my face in my hands. Stupid to feel so down because Fred wouldn’t kiss me, but it has been a sucky week. I’ve a right to feel low, right? I feel… confused. Sad.

  Torn.

  I don’t want to leave. Hard to deny my heart beats faster every time I’m near Seth.

  Why do I like how strong he is, so much stronger than Fred? I shouldn’t be comparing them. Shouldn’t be thinking that Fred’s shoulders suddenly seem too narrow, his jaw too slender, that he seems too soft compared to the toughness radiating off Seth.