Chapter 25 Neve
TWENTY-FIVE
NEVE
When I wake, blinking my eyes open in the dim tendril of light spearing through a window, I’m confused. I frown in the dark, my fingers gripping the covers over my body tight as I take a deep breath and otherwise, lay perfectly still.
Where am I?
This has happened to me far too often in life. Shame—regret and disgust both—roll through me, my chest caving and heat rising up along my throat.
Who did I sleep with this time?
But when I inhale through my nose and push my tongue along the back of my teeth, I realize the inside of my mouth doesn’t taste like liquor and come to think of it, I don’t feel hungover.
I squeeze my thighs together and hope I made good decisions.
The movement must have disturbed the person beside me because in my next heartbeat, a massive, warm hand clamps down around my thigh from under the smooth sheets.
I suck in a breath and slowly turn my head at the same time it all comes flooding back to me.
I’m sleeping in Faust Darling’s bed.
He lives in a fucking castle.
His head is turned away from me as he lies on his stomach, his dark hair curling at the back of his head.
I can see the chains around his neck, the muscles of his shoulders and back bunched up.
Smooth and hard both, light olive and gorgeous.
He has a freckle on one shoulder and with his hand on my bare thigh—I remember I’m wearing some of his basketball shorts that will absolutely slip down to my ankles if I don’t hold them up when I get to my feet—I have the wild urge to kiss his skin.
I lightly bite down on my back teeth to keep that urge in check, but I can’t stop from flexing my toes and my calves, tightening the muscles as giddiness washes over me.
Last night I fell asleep with my head against his shoulder watching NHL highlights. Well, he did. My mind was heavy with everything we discussed and…
At that thought, bottomless horror floods through my mind all over again.
Faust said that allegedly, Will’s phone was stolen prior to Jackson’s death.
Who the fuck texted me before Will showed up at my door? The thought I fell asleep to. Dreamed about.
The only person aside from Will who makes sense is his best friend, Jackson.
But Jackson was a corpse by then.
And I know, deep down, it’s not just Jackson who could have sent them.
I meant what I told Faust. Somehow, I thought those texts might implicate Sylvan, and I protected him by keeping silent and deleting them.
Why?
The small, contented, sleeping sigh from Faust pushes it all away. Just for now. Just in the moment. Besides, despite the fact Faust said the investigators don’t believe Will didn’t get a new phone doesn’t mean he didn’t. They just haven’t found it yet.
I squeeze my eyes shut a second, inhale deep, then slowly exhale as I open my eyes again and stare at Faust.
We didn’t kiss.
We didn’t fuck.
In fact, I jokingly put a pillow barrier between us last night but clearly, that was removed. Probably by me if I’m being honest. I like to cuddle.
A low, even breath from Faust tells me he’s still sleeping.
I wonder what time it is but when I turn my head to find my phone on his black Rattan nightstand, I see it’s too far for me to stretch my fingers and grab it without shifting on the bed.
It’s Thursday, and I’ve figured out enough to know that means tomorrow is game day, as well as the day after that, and for some reason, I feel strongly about Faust getting his sleep.
I may as well get mine, too.
If I miss my poetry workshop, it won’t be the end of the world.
I do need to text Cyn soon though, or she’ll be contacting the police when she wakes up and starts getting ready for pottery, and I’m not there.
I allow my eyes to fall closed.
Only for a high-pitched, shrill ringing sound to go off somewhere next to Faust’s head.
I sit straight up immediately, turning to his nightstand and noting the black Himalayan salt lamp a beat before I see his phone, face up, on the charger.
Coach is sprawled across the screen.
It’s a phone call.
Shit, is he late for something?
I can’t read the time from here, and I find it amusing that this hideous noise only inspires the slowest, most disoriented movements in a man of all-time from an elite hockey player.
He turns onto his side after glancing at me with a bleary-eyed, sleepy smile, not moving his hand from my thigh. He reaches out his other arm, swipes up the phone, exhales loudly, then answers the call with his thumb.
He holds the phone to his ear, facing away from me.
“Hello?” His voice is throaty. Groggy with sleep. Sexy.
I can’t hear his coach on the other line, but I feel the tension in Faust’s body when his fingers dig deeper against my thigh.
Turning away from him, I lean over and grab my own phone, thankful it was fully charged last night in Faust’s “entertainment room.”
It’s only 5:30 am which is a relief to me—Cyn won’t be up yet, and she hasn’t texted or called in the night. But that means Faust couldn’t have missed practice or anything, right? They don’t have it this early, do they?
“Yes, Coach.” Faust clears his throat, erasing some of the sleep from his voice.
He still hasn’t let go of me, and he doesn’t turn to look at me.
Nolan has sent me a few texts, and with dread, I open up our thread. Mostly him screaming at me in all caps.
The most recent text he sent was in the middle of the night. Around two in the morning. Working late on a case. No wonder he’s edgy; he needs to sleep too.
Brotherrr
I know I’m being overbearing. But I’m worried about you. Please call soon, Sis.
“I’ll be there.” Faust’s voice pulls me from the guilt of ignoring Nolan. Then he ends the call and sets his cell down on his nightstand.
Turning to me, his lips pouty and big brown eyes sleepy, he just says, “They want to talk to us again.”
And I know exactly who he means.