Chapter 46
Emmett
We barely make it back into the house before Tristen crashes out.
He’s dead on his feet, the few hours we spent at the track looking more and more like a bad idea. I should have made him come home sooner given how slumped he is when he lets us in.
Not even his jacket and helmet make it anywhere special, just the corner of the couch. He’s slinks his way upstairs to the bathroom like he does every morning before he comes to Hatley’s bedroom.
At what point does it become the community bedroom?
Making sure the front door gets locked, I head to the kitchen and run a glass beneath the faucet. I drain a third then fill the rest of it back up and shuffle down the hall.
I managed a few anxiety-induced naps while at the firehouse but knowing that there’s a familiar bed nearby has me moving just a little faster, feeling the need to rest a little more prominently.
I freeze when I crest the threshold and am met with the sight of Tristen’s bare back. The tattoos are grayscale, but I can’t focus on what the designs on his skin are when he tips forward and shucks his pants down to his ankles.
Oh, my God.
The heat that races to my face leaves me burning. I should turn away, but I’m stuck. Staring. Holding my breath.
Does he know I’m here yet?
As if to answer me, he jabs a foot into his shorts, gets caught up and falls face first into the mattress.
The thud it makes has me wincing.
Tristen just groans and hikes a leg up higher.
His ass is just … there.
Spread out and showing off the tan line across his lower back accented by two little divots.
I swallow hard and force my gaze to the ceiling.
He’s naked. Tristen is naked.
Turning away with every intension of walking away, I spin right back.
Yep, he’s still naked.
My breath is shaky when I step inside the room. “Tristen.”
He snores.
Nodding, I set the glass on the crate next to his head and whisper, “here.”
I stare at the water for what feels like forever with no clue what to do.
Do I wake him or …
I’m just going to cover him.
Trying my best to resist the urge to look at him, I grab the blanket and drape it over his lower half.
His back rises and falls with his steady breath, and I nibble on the inside of my lip.
I should sleep on the couch.
Grabbing a pillow he’s not resting on, I head back down the hallway and sit in the corner opposite his helmet and jacket.
My fingers fiddle with the edges of the pillowcase so long that a thread actually pops free. Cursing beneath my breath, I smooth out the material then curl into a ball and shove it under my head.
No matter what I do … I can’t seem to get the image of Tristen out of my head.
Doesn’t he feel … exposed?
Swallowing hard, I wonder what it would feel like to be like Tristen. How he’s brave with his body and open with his words.
What would it be like to be shirtless in front of someone?
I pull the strings around my hood tight and shove my head into the pillow.
Even though I know it’s a never ever after kind of thing for me, I can’t help but dream.
What if one day, I could show someone my scars?
The thought alone makes my stomach roil in protest and I wrap my arms around my middle.
That would only make it spread.
Tears crest my lashes, and when I hear keys jingle in the lock, I jolt upright.
I shouldn’t be here. I should have—
“Aw, hey, Em.”
The smile on Hatley’s face makes my mouth go dry.
“I didn’t do anything. IswearIdidn’tdoanything.”
He blinks at me, his smile dropping.
“Okaaaaay,” he drags out. “Where’s Ten?”
My heart pounds in my chest.
“Your room,” I whisper and ball up tighter. “I just covered him up. That’s it, I swear.”
Hatley steps closer, his hands held up in surrender. “I believe you, Em. But … why are you crying?”
The inhale stutters in my chest as I suck back a breath.
I didn’t even realize it.
Swiping away the wetness from my face with my shoulder, I pull my legs up and hug them.
“H-he doesn’t know … that I saw him.”
“Was he jacking off again? Little fucking voyeur.”
“What?” My face heats though I don’t know what that second part means. “No!” Hatley snickers and drops his hands. “He was … trying to change, I think. A-and fell before he could get his shorts up.”
He bristles at that, his face slipping. “He’s not hurt, is he?”
My shoulders shake when I shrug. “I mean, yeah. The fight wi—“
Hatley takes off at a full sprint down the hallway and my heart pounds so hard in my chest, it feels like it’s going to stop.
“Jesus, fuck me,” Hatley mutters from the bedroom and it sounds an awful lot like … relief lacing his tone. “He’s just asleep.”
There’s some grunting and a few curses thrown around before Hatley comes back out into the living room and flops onto the couch beside me.
My head is already inside my hoodie.
Tristen’s hoodie.
The scent of dirt and sage thick around my face.
“Lemme guess.” He shifts next to me and pants like he ran all the way around the house before coming back.
“He looked like a zombie—” I nod. “—Threw his shit down and went straight back.” His words taper off for a moment like he’s looking away from me and then back.
Maybe to Tristen’s jacket on the couch. “Lost his shirt somewhere between here and there and dropped trou like he was the only one in the house?”
I nod again and wipe at the dampness still clinging to my face.
“He didn’t know I was behind him when he did.”
“Em, you sweet fool.”
My breath hitches and I swallow it back. “I didn’t mean to.”
“Look at me, please?” I shake my head. “Fine. You’re probably just going to hide when I say it anyway; you’ve held his balls and seen him come. Pretty sure he’s not going to give a fuck about you catching him mid-change, yeah?”
It feels suddenly hot, and I squeeze my arms tighter around myself. “I shouldn’t have followed him.”
Hatley snorts and it sounds so familiar to the noise that Tristen makes that my stomach rolls.
It’s quiet for a long moment before Hatley finally speaks again.
“Did you like it?” My whole body trembles. “Seeing him ass up?” Shakes. “Cheeks spread?”
I swallow hard, every muscle taut.
How did he know? How did he know? How?
My fingernails dig into my shins. My stomach claws up through my throat.
“He’s got a pretty ass, right, Em?”
“Yes!” I cry out on a sob and finally allow myself to register how tight my pants have gotten. How thick the shame feels in my throat.
How every time I close my eyes, all I see is him.
I shouldn’t want that. It’s not okay. It’s not.
“Hm,” is all Hatley says for a long time before he finally adds “it was the dimples, wasn’t it?”
A flash of the little divots, the two of them sitting just above the tan line across Tristen’s waist invades my mind and I shake them away. All it does is manage to dislodge the hoodie from covering my heated face.
“Yes,” I cry again and shove the material back over me. “I d-d-didn’t know guys could have those.”
My body is shaking, and my mind is racing but Hatley chuckles.
“The ass dimples got me, too.”
It feels so … ridiculous for him to say that and my stomach rolls over.
“Tristen’s?” I ask with a bit more edge to my voice.
“Nah. I mean, yeah. But not him specifically.” He snorts and something rustles like maybe he’s shaking his head. “Definitely gone for the ass dimples.”
“Stop saying that.”
“What? Ass dimples? No chance. They’re my kryptonite.”
A rough sound escapes my throat, and I clear it away.
“It’s wrong,” I mutter after a minute.
I no sooner get the regurgitated words out that Hatley is yanking my hoodie down and staring right at me.
His eyes flare with something that has me shrinking back.
“Explain.”
Shaking my head, I pull my arms up inside the body of the sweatshirt and grab at the neck, prepared to pull it back over my head.
“I shouldn’t,” I whisper and his head cocks.
“Shouldn’t what?”
I shrink back even more. Pull the material onto my nose.
I want to bury my face in it. Hide from this for the rest of my life.
But something in his eyes won’t let me.
“Say it out loud, Em.” His voice is softer this time, but no less intimidating. “Even if it shakes.”
A whimper works its way through my thick throat, and I open my mouth. At first, no sound comes. Just like always. The quiet little shit taking what I deserve.
That whimper becomes a sob.
“B-b-because! Boys should be with girls, and I shouldn’t like the dimples above Tristen’s ass, but I—" I choke on the words, the strength of them so heavy that I can’t stop them. “But I fucking do.”
The wails trapped inside me go as silent as Hatley and I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
“Am I wrong for liking them, too?” It’s barely above a whisper, the words off his tongue, but the sting is no less painful.
I wish he’d scream them.
“No,” I choke out. “You’re not wrong.”
“Em … neither are you.”
And for a moment, I wish I could tell Hatley how wrong I really am. How damaged. Broken.
But I don’t think he’d understand.
If my mother couldn’t, how could I expect anyone else to?