Chapter 9
NINE
LEO
I shouldn’t be here. I should not be here. It’s a quiet mantra I keep repeating as I make my way up the drive, past the empty truck, and into the lobby of the station. There’s no one behind the desk, but that’s not really a surprise.
We live in such a small town, and Easton’s always complaining about how the city doesn’t want to spend money where it doesn’t need to. Sometimes he gets put at the reception desk, and I know that pisses him off more than anything.
He’s always been awkward on the phone. He lost several dates in high school because he couldn’t hold a conversation that way, but it also worked out for him because the people who did give him a chance were wildly charmed when they met him in person.
He never struggled to connect to people the way I did.
Taking a breath, I push my way through the door into the main room and hear voices up above me.
My arms are full of empty takeout containers, which was my flimsy excuse for showing up, but now it feels even weaker.
How am I going to look anyone in the face and admit that my life is so small, I had nothing better to do than this?
Because really, it is. Even if the excuse is pathetic and half a lie. The containers do belong to the station, but Easton’s usually the one who picks them up. Fuck, I should have stayed away, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him since he stormed out of my house.
I spent the night lying on my bed, hand on my half-hard dick, staring at the ceiling and replaying all the ways he kissed me and touched me. All the ways he was shy about it, and uncertain, which didn’t seem like him at all.
So now here I am, hoping he’s here and hoping he’s gone in equal measure.
Really, I just want to look him in the face. I’m not going to ask him why he left the way he did. It’s not like we’re friends. It’s not like he was really attracted to me. I’m pretty sure it was a pity fuck, and in all honesty, I want to look into his eyes and confirm that it didn’t mean anything.
That it was a fluke—a temporary lapse in sanity—and it won’t ever happen again. It’s not like I don’t get it.
If the situation were reversed, I might pity him enough to give him a quick hand job, then run away filled to the brim with regret.
And I’m self-aware enough to know that I’m not a catch.
I’m scarred on the outside and on the inside with a brain that never quite fires right, even on the best day.
I’m lonely and kind of pathetic about it, and I’m nearly thirty with an older brother who is still taking care of me.
Who the fuck would want that?
But I think I need to know. I need to see it on his face that that’s all it was.
I freeze when I hear voices in the distance, and suddenly, regret comes crashing through me.
This is the worst idea. What was I thinking when I left the house?
I don’t want to know that he fucking pities me!
I don’t want to look into his face and see that I was just a notch on his belt so he can pat himself on the back for doing a good deed.
God, I need to get the fuck out of here.
My face burns with a flush as I hurry through the main sitting room and head toward the kitchen.
Maybe if I just throw them into the sink and run, no one will ever know I was here.
I nearly trip over my feet to get to the sink, let them all clatter into the stainless steel bins, and then I rush out.
Except my brain immediately betrays me, and I turn to the right instead of the left, pushing through the wrong set of doors. It takes me a moment to realize I went the wrong way, and I don’t notice I’m not out front until I’m tumbling into the courtyard. And then I freeze because I’m not alone.
North is there with his back to me, and I can hear a faint murmur as he’s talking to…himself? I can’t make out what he’s saying, but it sounds like he’s scolding himself, and before I can stop myself, words tumble past my lips.
“Are you talking to yourself because no one wants to talk to you?”
Oh my god, what is wrong with me? My TBI makes me blurt out the most unhinged stuff every now and again. It’s better than it was when I was first recovering, but oh my god.
Why?
His head whips toward me, eyes wide with shock, and then there’s a flurry of black feathers as a bird takes off and flies up over the roof.
Silence falls, and then he clears his throat. “What are you doing here?”
Anything I might have wanted to say fizzles out midway across my tongue, and all I can manage is a garbled noise of acknowledgment.
He blinks at me, frowning, and I realize he’s looking for signs that I’m going into a seizure, which is probably fair, as annoying as it is. “Are you feeling okay? Do you need me to call your brother?”
My brother? Like I need a fucking babysitter. It stings, and I swallow past the hurt as I take a breath. My tongue starts to unstick itself from the roof of my mouth, and sentences begin to form.
Hopefully in proper order.
“No, I’m fine. I, uh…I had…” I thumb over my shoulder toward the door as I grasp for the right words. “I returned some of the takeout containers Easton left at my place.”
North’s cheeks go faintly pink. “Ah.”
Ah? That’s it? Not that I’ve been a better conversationalist, but goddamn it. I don’t know why that makes me so suddenly and irrationally angry, but it does. This man had his hand on my dick not that long ago, and all he can manage is ah?
He clears his throat. “Well, if that’s all…”
“It is. I’m going to go.” My tone is icy, but I can’t help it. I feel weirdly dismissed. He’s talking to me like everything is fine. Like he didn’t pin me to the bed and rip an orgasm from my body. Like he wasn’t the first person I’ve touched since Liam.
Like that one fucking kiss we shared didn’t turn my entire world upside down.
Like my presence to him is just…ah.
I turn on my heel, marching away as quickly as I’m able to move, which isn’t very fast at all right now, especially since I couldn’t carry my cane and all those containers.
But I make it inside and halfway down the hall before I realize his footsteps are echoing after mine.
I try to pick up the pace, but my hip is aching, and I don’t get past the end of the hallway before his warm, strong, annoying-as-fuck hands are on me.
“Wait!” He’s breathless as he grabs me around the waist, and he puts his lips right next to my ear. My back slams against his chest, and his next word comes out a ragged whisper. “Wait.”
I try and elbow him off, but instead of letting me go, he opens the nearest door and shoves me inside. I tumble forward and crash against a tall shelf full of what looks like cleaning supplies, and then he’s inside and slams the door behind him.
And now we’re standing in the dark with cleaner fluid fumes burning the inside of my nostrils.
“What the fuh—!” I start to shout.
Somehow, in the pitch-black, his hand slaps over my mouth, and he presses me back against the shelf. “Shut. Up.”
“Mmfpfha!”
“Leo,” he growls.
All the rest of the sounds I’m trying to make die in the back of my throat, and I go limp against him. I can’t help it. The smell of him, the feeling of his warm body, the way his lips are so fucking close to mine that all I’d have to do is turn my head for a kiss?
It’s too much.
He sighs and shifts closer to me, and suddenly, I feel like he’s everywhere.
Like he’s the entire universe, and the only thing that matters is us.
It’s a ridiculous thing to think, and I do my best to shove the thought away as my eyes start to adjust to the dim light.
I can’t see much of him, but I can make out his faint outline as his chest touches mine.
His fingers loosen on my face, then he carefully drags his touch away, and I lick my lips, which are now salty with the sweat of his palm.
“Leo,” he whispers.
This time, his tone sounds different. He’s exasperated but also needy. His voice is thick in his throat, and I feel the brush of his hair on my forehead as he tips his head down.
“Leo,” he says again.
“Stop,” I beg. I can’t take much more of this before I lose control entirely. I can’t fucking stand him, but I also want to collapse in his arms and let the weight of him comfort me in ways nothing has since Liam died. But I can’t let this happen. I don’t want the fucking pity. “Please let go.”
He doesn’t. “Why are you so angry at me?”
I swallow heavily, and in spite of myself—in spite of my resolve, which apparently is as weak as floss thread—I put my hands on his hips. He groans and rocks forward, and I can feel the outline of his hard dick touch my thigh.
Everything in my body goes white-hot.
“What did I do for you to hate me so fucking much?” Now he’s begging, and I’m torn between anger and disbelief because what does he mean? How can he not know?
“I can’t believe you’re asking me that,” I hiss through clenched teeth.
He shakes his head. “Please. I don’t understand. Did you come here looking for me?”
I attempt to say no, but I choke on the lie, and all I manage is a strangled sound. After a long beat, I stare up into his eyes. I can’t see them well, but it doesn’t matter. I can picture them perfectly.
I take a deep, cleansing breath, then ask him the question I’ve been trying to avoid since I got here. A question I don’t think I actually want the answer to. “What am I to you?”
He’s still and absolutely silent for so long, I think he might not say anything at all. Then he lets out the smallest sigh, and I brace myself.
“You’re my best friend’s brother.”
“Is that all?” I ask before I can stop myself.
His grip on me tightens. “Do you want to be something else?”
Terror rips through me because I don’t want to answer that. It’s not fucking fair. I don’t want to be vulnerable in front of him. Not after everything we did. I stiffen, and he groans quietly like he knew the question was fucked-up.
But he doesn’t change the words.