Chapter 11
Emmett
After fifteen minutes of grumbling about the shit choices, Tristen finally chose what appears to be a show he claims to have already seen but does not have any sudden loud action sequences.
I just nodded along and nibbled on the warm toast he brought back with him. It’s settling light inside my stomach, warm and welcome.
Like the tea.
But as the seats in the stadium on the TV start spelling out Ted in red and some guy with a mustache looks around, Tristen settles his back against the couch and sighs.
And then his head dips, only to jerk back up.
I try to watch the show, but Tristen keeps nodding off. Lowering his head slowly, then jumping back upright.
“You can sit on the couch.”
He throws a look over his shoulder, a soft smile playing on his plump lips, and it’s then that I realize there’s a silver ring through his nostril. It’s thin, catching the light just right, and winking at me.
How did I not notice that?
“I’m good,” he mutters on a rasp. “Don’t let me fall asleep. I’ve got my contacts in.”
I have no idea what that means, and he doesn’t clarify before turning back to the TV, only to start nodding off all over again.
“It’s daylight,” I murmur and point a toe, extending my leg to touch his arm with it. “Why are you sleepy?”
He stifles a yawn and recrosses his legs. “Night shift.”
I have no clue what that means, either.
A few minutes later, he’s leaning with his head down, sliding my direction like he’s in slow motion.
He jumps awake once, only to continue his trajectory my way when his head tips back down again.
I go to pull my leg back, clearing his path, only to realize it’ll lead him straight to the floor if I don’t do something.
“Tristen.” He doesn’t stop slipping sideways. “Don’t sleep.”
His upper body is two seconds away from crashing to the floor, so I do the only thing I can think of.
I stick my foot out and his temple collides with the side of my calf.
Instead of jolting awake like I expect, he nuzzles the fabric of the sweats I’m wearing and follows my leg when I fold it back onto the couch.
I try not to think about why I keep my foot close to the edge, making it easier for him to lean on me.
The stubble on his cheek scrapes along the material like Velcro and my face heats.
“Tristen,” I whisper but it does nothing.
Resigned to being used as what has to be the most uncomfortable pillow ever, I sink back and let him sleep under the pretext that maybe he’ll come to in a few minutes.
It’s long enough that one episode has flipped into another and the blue chairs are flipping to red all over again.
The theme song plays, but there’s something in the background of this one that sounds a little …
vulgar. There’s a tiny warning at the top of the screen when the episode starts, cautioning of language—which makes all the sense considering f-bombs are thrown around like confetti—but this is different.
This is faint that’s it, right there’s and don’t stop’s.
My brow furrows at the TV when nothing of the sort shows on screen. In fact, the audio is playing on as if nothing is amiss. No one’s even making out on the show.
Tristen said we were the only ones here …
Leaning to reach the remote, I press mute, but the deep groans don’t stop.
There’s even a second one that chimes in, just as low toned, and I freeze.
But when a long-drawn rumbling sounds, my breath catches.
“Tristen,” I choke out and poke him with the remote. “You said we were alone.” I gulp when the sounds get louder, and he does nothing but puff his cheeks out on a breath. “Tristen.”
There’s a bang that makes me jump, jostling my leg in the process and he jerks upright.
“Where’s the blood?” he half-shouts on groggy vocals.
“What?” I pant out and tug my legs back up to my too-hot chest when he jumps to his feet and wheels around. “I just heard a thud, and you said we were alone.”
His brows dip over his blown pupils and I pull my legs even tighter to my center as he finally looks at me.
He looks … dangerous.
Like he’s on the verge of tearing apart the room to find whatever the hell he was dreaming about.
A second thud, followed by an even deeper groan, pulls his attention from darting all over me to the short hall that leads somewhere else into the house, and he snorts.
“It’s just Hat.”
My nose meets my knees. “What’s that?”
He cocks a brow at me.
“Hatley. My brother from another mother.”
Oh, right.
The roommate that might have a guy with him.
“But you said it was just you and me.”
Tristen snags the remote and turns the volume up enough to drown out most of the noise.
“It is.”
That’s it. That’s all he says before dropping next to me on the couch, then sliding over and laying down.
With his feet hanging off the arm on the far side and the top of his head right next to my hip.
I can feel it, the strand of his hair brushing over the sweats and I force a swallow as my skin prickles.
It’s not the first time I’ve been in an uncomfortable position, but this is agonizing.
He’s so close, not touching but near enough that a hyperawareness of his position has my adrenaline flowing.
I’m boiling beneath the hoodie, the heat of another person searing into my leg, and a stirring below the waist that’s got my face burning. My fingers tingle. My toes clench.
Though none of that has anything on the rush of dread rolling over me when a door down the hall slams open and heavy footsteps echo in our direction.
Oh, my God.
“Teeeeeen.”
I shove my whole head into the neck of the hoodie before I can be seen.
It envelopes me in darkness and that same rich scent I can’t avoid with the material this close to my nose. Being on the verge of hyperventilating doesn’t help either. I’m drawing the scent in, bathing in the way it smells like leather and something herbal. A hint of oil. Musk.
“Dude, wash your hands,” Tristen grinds out, his familiar voice strained.
Something jabs into my hip, and I yelp, my protective barrier falling away to see Tristen with his fingers wrapped around the wrists of a man wearing nothing but his briefs. Grey ones.
That make it looks like he’s still … turned on.
Vaulting over the arm of the couch, I land on carpet with a gasp at the impact and scramble to my feet.
“Smell ’em, bro.” The man in his underwear pushes harder against Tristen’s hold, a grin splitting his face. “Promise there’s no lube left.”
He responds by yanking the guy closer and hooking a leg that knocks him off balance. The two crash to the floor with Tristen on top and his grip twisting until the other’s hand is forcibly inching towards his own mouth.
“Eat your words, Hatley.”
He grunts—a sound I’m too familiar with—and opens his mouth.
Yanking my gaze away, I land right on a new set of chocolate eyes beneath a crooked brow.
“Pretty sure they’re always like this,” the second intruder mutters and I swallow hard.
Because not only is it in fact a second guy, he’s small. His hairline is shining with a layer of sweat and his dark hair is going in every direction. Wearing nothing but a tee that’s two sizes too big.
And socks.
I just heard these two fucking. Oh. My. God.
A whole new wave of embarrassment has my face on fire.
“I-I’m sorry.”
He snorts. “Pretty sure I’m the one that should be sorry.”
“Hatley, Emmett—” My gaze flips to the floor in time to catch Tristen’s furrowing at my empty spot on the couch, only to smooth over when he finds me. “Emmett, Hatley.” He nods to the person still trapped beneath him, and I offer a tight nod.
“And I’m Lemon.”
The final unnamed intruder offers a hand that I shake my head at.
“That’s a weird name.”
He snickers and drops his offered shake. “I’m a weird guy.”
“Yeah, you are, babs!” Hatley is a blur of motion as he snags Lemon around the waist and lifts, pulling a squeal from the smaller man as he marches them into the kitchen. “Hydrate. I’m not done with you.”
My cheeks blaze.
“You better fucking be!” Tristen calls from the couch, his ass planted right back where it was before his friend barged in. “I don’t wanna hear another peep, or you’re on dish duty for two weeks.”
Hatley laughs a loud and boisterous sound that makes me jump only a moment before Lemon joins in with another squealing that pierces my ears.
It’s enough to push me away from the kitchen entrance towards my former seat where I curl tight enough to hug my knees and bury my head inside the hoodie.
Covered in darkness, where no one can see me, I breathe deep.
This is what I want my funeral to smell like.