by A. Marie
Coty makes a sound in his throat like a cough that has Beckett’s eyes widening a fraction.
“If you come back tomorrow, I’ll let you help me with it,” he wiggles his eyebrows, “then we can ride together to Coty and Angie’s afterward.”
Coty nods like he’s pleased with himself. Did I miss something?
I consider my options which honestly are slim. That bike was beyond gorgeous and I’d love to get my hands on it in any capacity possible. This might be my only chance at getting near a Triumph.
“Fine, but I’m taking my own ride so I don’t end up being your third wheel when you try running game at the party.”
Angela’s words fill my head at full blast. He never lets his dates sleep over. While it’s true I’ve never seen a girl sleep over—for either roommate—I was just in Beckett’s bed last night and he didn’t seem to mind the company this morning.
Maybe he’s ready to try again but with someone else this time.
The plastic bottle in my hand makes a loud crack in the nearly empty garage and I look down to see my fingers wrapped around it in a death grip.
“No can-do, girl. You’re mine.” My eyes jump to Beckett’s as he rushes to clarify, “I just mean you’re not ready for a helmet yet. I’ll drive us.”
I’m still not convinced, considering he avoided the topic of picking up another date altogether.
“I can have a friend bring me,” I try.
“No.” His blue eyes turn arctic before he looks to his old roommate saying, “we’ll be there,” effectively ending the conversation.
Coty bids us goodbye just as Angela pulls up in a vintage Jeep to pick him up. She throws a wave over the top of the roll bar which I return before facing Beckett again.
“Hungry?” he asks, cleaning up the last bit of tools.
I meant what I said. His work station is by far the cleanest even though I know he works on more vehicles than the other mechanics.
I study him as he tidies up. How he puts everything just so. Most people would probably discount him as clumsy and careless. I did at first. His uncaring façade has been nearly perfected, throwing everyone off.
Everyone but me.
I see how meticulous he really is. The care he uses when applying my ointment. He notices more than he lets on, too. It’s in the way his tools are clean and organized. The way he refuses to let anyone else help me whether it be for a ride or treating my injury. He likes his things being right where he wants them, accessible at all times. I thought it was because he was an only child but now I’m starting to think there’s another reason. Something that has to do with his nighttime issues.
My eyes slide along his tall frame, devouring every inch with my gluttonous gaze. He shakes out his sweaty blond hair, loosening several drops that fall to his Pop The Hood logo shirt. The material is then lifted to wipe his face, revealing his tight abs, and I follow the path between the muscles down to the well-defined V snaking below his pants. A fire ignites in my core as I imagine what that trail leads to.
Covering my view when he drops his shirt again, I meet Beckett’s questioning eyes before answering honestly, saying, “Starving.”
With shaky legs, I slip past him before I do something stupid. Like kiss the guy. I already made that mistake once. It was hard enough pumping the brakes on going any further with Beckett and that was when he was being an asshole. I don’t want to test my strength when he’s being sweet and attentive.
Before I’m out of ear shot, I hear him mumble something that sounds like “me, too” proving I made the right decision—today.
Tomorrow I’ll have to exercise my restraint all over again.
So much for taking a break.
CHAPTER 17
Paige
We’re just finishing some takeout on our balcony that overlooks the pool and some high school when Beckett eyes me suspiciously, asking, “So, you do eat meat?”
Marc watches through thick lashes as he pulls out a cigarette.
I take one final bite of my egg roll, my pork egg roll, and say, “Occasionally.” Mainly when it’s on sale.
I swear they both release a shared breath.
Okay…
Standing from the patio table, I stretch while also trying to ignore the way Beckett’s gaze caresses my legs at the same time. It’s difficult, to say the least.
I busy myself stacking the empty containers into a pile before grabbing the entire heap and turning for the sliding glass door. As Beckett rushes to open the door, our shoulders brush on my way inside, sending a thrill down my arm like I’m still in middle school and my crush just bumped into me in the hallway.
“You got it?”
I nod, grimacing.
We interacted with such ease this morning and all day at the shop when he’d find excuses to touch me and tease me but now it’s awkward. Or maybe I’m the one that’s awkward, I don’t know. It just feels…different between us.
Roommates. We’re roommates and that’s how roommates are. They’re comfortable around each other. They talk openly, laugh freely, and fantasize about ripping the other’s clothes off with their teeth. Or…no? I don’t think that’s how these things work. I definitely don’t feel that way about Marc. Don’t get me wrong, I would not kick that man out of bed—like ever—but I’m not actively picturing him there either. Not like Beckett.
No, nothing like Beckett. And I wouldn’t exactly say I feel comfortable right now. More like I’m uncomfortable not having his strong, skilled hands on me constantly.
Shit.
Marc stays behind to smoke outside while Beckett follows me into the kitchen, helping with the mess. Things only get worse from there. So much worse.
The sudden lack of conversation is louder than if we were screaming at one another. Instead of respectful and calm, the silence filling the kitchen is aggressive and charged. Charged with budding flowers of longing, desperately seeking nutrients to sustain them. Every grazed body part, every sharp inhale, they’re all feeding the Franken-plant of need blooming between us.
Am I the only one feeling this?
After putting the last utensil in the dishwasher, I straighten to find myself caught between two rock hard biceps as Beckett cages me in against the counter, my back to him. Our spacious kitchen instantly feels microscopic and I step to the side to escape but he follows, keeping our bodies practically sealed together. I spin, my hands lifting to his chest and feeling his heartbeats pounding wildly beneath my fingertips. I freeze for a moment, enjoying the unsteady rhythm. My own heart performs a similar tune when he’s pressed this close and I wonder if it’s as noticeable.
I hope not.
Raising an eyebrow, I drag my eyes up to his. With the goo on my forehead now dry and making the skin around the area stiff, I probably look more like a pirate gazing into the horizon. So not sexy.
“What’s going on?” And why are you pressed against me like a magnet to a fridge? Although, obviously he’s the fridge in this scenario.
Beckett shrugs casually even as his heart continues its rowdy melody, saying, “Just wondering what you’re up to tonight.”
He’s crowding me but in a good way—in the best way—and the longer we stand like this, like it’s natural for us to touch and gaze and want, the harder it is to deny how much I like it. How much I like him.
“If you’re worried about finding me in your room again, don’t. Whatever I do from now on, it won’t lead me there.” At least that much is true. I cannot do that again.
Instead of pumping his fist in victory, an expression deceptively similar to disappointment crosses his face.
Hmm. I don’t believe that. My private nurse is more the naughty variety than anything and he’s probably just wanting to skip to the sponge bath portion of his self-imposed role already.
Needing some of that personal space I sacrificed by falling asleep in Beckett’s bed, I slip under his arm, skirting around him as he follows my body stiffly.
I shouldn’t even spen
d time alone with him anymore. We’re like those religious nuts that require chaperones while they’re courting. Except we’re not courting. Or religious. We’re just horny and stupid and bound to make a mistake neither of us can come back from. And so, we need supervision. At all times preferably.
But with my face in the shape it is, that’s almost impossible. Usually on Fridays they have their old roommate over for family dinner along with a party to follow but tonight’s been quiet. Something tells me they called off the company knowing I wasn’t up for being on display. Or maybe they’re going out later and don’t want to tell me. Either way I appreciate not having an audience. Tickets to this downfall aren’t free.
Going out.
I’d rather floss each one of my molars with my own hair than be around any more strangers today but maybe I can still visit with a friend. One that’s already seen me in all my shredded face glory. One that’ll provide me and Beckett that nice, friendly little buffer.
“Thanks for today. I really appreciate you keeping me busy.”
Raising onto my tiptoes, I kiss his cheek gently and am treated to his labored exhale. Just as he begins pressing into my lips, I turn away and flee the kitchen while I still can.
His sigh barrels into my back just before I close my bedroom door and I lean against it once I’m on the other side.
I’m not the only one feeling it.
With that thought, I go in search of my phone. Last night was Cynthia’s last shift at Sunbrook and I missed it. I wanted to show up with a cake and balloons and a bucket of tears because I’m going to miss my friend but I couldn’t. Plans changed and now I’m forced to swallow my self-pity along with the rest of the shit life keeps shoveling down my throat. Yum.
Luckily, she answers on the first ring, immediately asking how I am.
“I’m fine. Trust me. My brothers left worse scratches than this.”
Nick for sure had the worst habit of digging his nails into me during fights. I still have five full crescent-shaped scars on the back of my shoulder from him. I think I pulled out a solid handful of his hair during that round though. That was before he started getting girlfriends in high school and realized his energy was best used elsewhere. Suddenly picking fights with his little sister wasn’t as appealing. Mocking me, cupping farts in my face, and generally being an ass, that was still in effect but not so much full-on wrestling matches. That’s also around the time I started getting boobs and I think he was freaked out by that. They all were.
For men allegedly being so brave, they sure get scared of something as prevalent as change a lot.
“Are you sure you don’t need anything? Gauze, rubbing alcohol, hard alcohol?”
We both laugh.
“Actually, yeah. I thought we could celebrate your last day together. Or at least the fact that you got a new job.” Finally, something worth celebrating for a change. I’d almost forgotten what that was like.
“What do you have in mind?”
The floor outside my door creaks as I hear footsteps but I can’t tell if they veer toward Beckett’s side of the hall or not.
“Would you want to come over here? You can even stay the night.”
She’ll be my first official house guest and Beckett can’t even object since neither of us has a cock to block.
“Ooh, yes. I want to meet those roommates of yours. You can’t keep them all to yourself.”
“Uh.” I hesitate, not sure where to take this. I don’t want to keep them to myself. “Marc’s crazy hot.”
There. My supportive, wing-womanly endorsement and it didn’t even hurt. Not one tiny bit.
Maturity never felt so good.
“But he’s definitely not mine to keep.”
“And the other one?”
“Beckett?”
What do I say here? And how do I say it without giving her the wrong…impression. While Beckett isn’t mine either that doesn’t mean I want Cynthia trying to shoot her shot with him. Cynthia’s gorgeous and smart and caring but she also measures in at a whopping five foot two and setting her up with someone Beckett’s size would just be cruel. To her, of course. I’m only looking out for her here.
“He’s okay, I guess,” I mumble in a rush of words even I can barely make out.
Another creak from the hallway like someone’s passing through from the bathroom maybe.
“Alright, I see how it is.” She laughs like she doesn’t quite believe that.
She will when she sees him though. He is so much more than okay. Beckett’s like a hot air balloon festival—hypnotically beautiful, downright electrifying, and completely baffling. How does anyone control those things?
“But only if you put out some snacks,” she says, knowing full well I’m stocked with plenty of small bites. All nurses are. I think it’s a requirement.
“Hey, I always put out,” I joke then frown, realizing it’s been a while since I actually have. A long while.
As soon as my face heals, I swear I’m back out there on the hunt. This dry spell is ridiculous and being cooped up with my off-limits roommate is making it worse. His huge presence is both a blessing and a curse. He makes everything else seem to fade into sheer insignificance…except my sex drive. That he brings to the forefront like one of those telecommunication towers flashing its warning to airplanes in the dead of night—a steady pulse with no chance of blinking out anytime soon. Ugh.
We chat for a few more minutes before hanging up with a plan in place. She’s going to bring all the ingredients to make peach margaritas while I provide the blender, chips, and homemade salsa Esme dropped off recently, and a movie. I even decide to include Marc and Beckett but when I go out to set everything up, I’m greeted by an empty apartment and a twinge in my chest. Where did they go? Where did he go?
I check both bedrooms and balconies before looking out at the parking lot only to find both bikes missing. He went out after all. No text, no medicine left out with overly detailed instructions—he swears I don’t apply it correctly, as if my job doesn’t consist of doing that very thing for others—nothing.
Beckett’s disappearing act shouldn’t surprise me. He’s different from any other guy I’ve ever been around which, admittedly, is a lot. Some men bury their issues with a fucking excavator while others wear their problems like this season’s newest trend. Beckett is a tricky combination of the two, where he does a damn good job distracting people from the shit haunting him from just over his shoulder, if you bother looking to see it—which I do. I know what skeletons look like no matter what state they’re in and I bet Beckett’s closet is full of them. His boys and everyone around him may accept him for who he is and maybe even know his story, but they don’t share his pain. He works his fine ass off making sure they don’t, that nobody does.
And it’s not like I don’t understand either. I’ve almost perfected giving the stiff arm to emotional connections with anyone other than my family and I fully expect that Heisman Trophy to show up at my front door any day now. Looks like Beckett’s giving me some competition for it though.
I should be happy. He beat me to that five finger emotional punch, saving me the energy of having to do it first.
Why doesn’t it feel better then?
* * *
Oh, great.
He’s in his bed thrashing again.
Cynthia and I collapsed in my bed after laughing our asses off watching an old comedy and filling ourselves to the brim. It felt good to just be. To be with somebody. Somebody who actually wanted to be around me, too.
When we left the living room, the guys still weren’t back from wherever they fled to and after about an hour of tossing and turning, I finally heard them return but have been treated to complete silence ever since while I impatiently wait for sleep to descend.
I drank just enough margaritas to loosen my grip on reality but not enough to let go entirely, and now Beckett’s furious tossing is blaring through the calm apartment, echoing all around me.
At least he’s
alone.
Right?
If the noises coming from his room are from him and someone else…
Nope, not going there.
I don’t want to even think about Beckett entertaining for the night, much less hear it.
Hopefully it’s just another nightmare. But that possibility doesn’t sit well with me either.
With four siblings, I should be able to sleep through anything, but no. Not when someone I care about might be suffering.
Do I care about Beckett now?
I roll over to face Cynthia, wondering how she can sleep through all of this. He’s hurting, literally, and nobody else even notices.
Beckett’s mumbled voice increases with both volume and urgency before I hear a distinct smack of skin against skin. I’m out of bed the next instant and trudging across the hall.
A light knock to announce my presence goes unanswered and after a long breath, I push the broken door open to find Beckett—alone thankfully—in bed, having another night terror or whatever.
I catch his hand midair before he can make contact with his nose again and tuck it beneath my body as I climb onto the mattress next to his restless form. As I settle in though, his other arm swings over my body and relaxes across my middle, essentially trapping me. My tight white tank is on the short side and his warm arm sears my bare skin, almost like a branding, above my loose sleep shorts.
Last night I was able to blame the alcohol for my meddling, tonight he’ll figure it out. I did drink but not that much. He’ll know I saw a side of him not many people are privy to. And going off every other encounter I’ve had with Beckett…it’s a complete mystery how he’ll react. My money’s on a blow-up. An epic blow-up followed by a substantial amount of pouting. Maybe a hate-filled make-out session in there somewhere.
I swallow a laugh. This isn’t a romance novel.
Beckett groans and shifts to his side, pulling me closer in the process until we’re spooning. I never thought of myself as a little spoon but it looks like I don’t have a choice tonight. The big guy loves to act like he’s in charge. Mostly in control of his emotions and how they’re perceived. He’s not afraid to throw his weight around to get his way either.
