12. Easton #2
I’m what? I don’t ask that. Of course I don’t. Because I can’t. She’s Wyatt’s daughter. Too young for me. Too sweet and innocent, even if that mouth of hers gets her in trouble and makes my palm twitch on occasion.
Full disclosure—my dick, too.
But tonight, she was almost . . .
Time to back away.
And yet, I don’t budge. Barely move a muscle, in fact.
Instead, I do something really stupid and volley back my own wrong-time question. “And Julian? Anything happen with him in the last month?”
When her eyes lock with mine, and she remains quiet, I take that as an answer in itself.
“You sure you don’t need Zoey up here to help you? I don’t want you falling or anything in the shower.”
As she approaches me, I realize I’ll never look at the color orange the same again. It sucks, given I have a fondness for sunrises and sunsets, which often have that shade in the mix.
“Jezebel shot me up with something in the hangar to counteract the cocktail of drugs they gave me on the plane. So, I think I’m okay now.”
I was so busy not showing my cards when Gwen walked into the hangar, I barely saw the syringe.
“I do seem to be mentally numb, though.” She begins to wring her fingers together again, and I do my best not to cover her hands to help ease her nerves.
Contrary to what she’s claiming to be, no way is she numb.
And with good reason, of course. “But no,” she whispers, lifting her eyes to mine, her hands unclenching, “I’m not with Julian. Nothing has ever happened between us.”
Before I can remember how to do that breathing thing I hear is good for people, she spins a finger between us. “Now, turn around and let me have a look at your back.”
I shake my head, blinking in confusion.
“Your back.” She lifts her chin as a command to move. “I was hugging you downstairs and forgot. I’m sorry.”
I curse under my breath. “No worrying about me.”
Too late. She doesn’t listen. She’s already circling me. Going for my shirt. Gasping.
Just great.
“My God, E.”
I love when she calls me by only my first initial. Of course, I love a lot of things she does. From the way she smiles, laughs, is sassy and sarcastic, and makes fun of me. You know, just to name a few of the hundred-plus.
“Who did this to you?” Her fingers move over my flesh, and my muscles jolt in response. Not because she’s hurting me, but because she’s touching me. I didn’t feel this way when Zoey was cleaning my wounds. I didn’t buck in response to her hand on my skin. “Are you okay?”
“Please don’t.”
“Who did this?” When she repeats her question, her voice is fire and ice all at once. An odd combination that somehow still makes sense to me.
“The same woman who took your laptop.”
Doubtful Jezebel is her real name. Definitely sounds made up. Or like someone I vaguely remember learning about during Sunday school back in the day.
I turn, forcing her to drop my shirt. I don’t need her to study the lash marks on my back like they’re a roadmap.
“I assumed she interrogated most of the guys who worked for her to ensure we remained loyal and afraid. A power-trip thing over us men. Looks like she was just screwing with me all along.”
“I’m so sorry,” she whisper-cries.
“You are not allowed to feel sorry for me.” I rest my hand on her waist and pull her close to me. Great idea, I know. I’m often full of spectacular ones when we’re alone together. I just usually don’t see any of them through.
Her hands land on my chest and slide up to the sides of my neck as she frees more tears, each one destroying me. “You can tell me what to do all you want, but since when do I ever listen to you?”
“So stubborn.” I squeeze her waist. “Now, please, get out of this damn thing before I snap.”
“Want me naked that bad, do you?” She arches her brow.
I can’t believe it, but here I am, doing something so outrageous as smiling.
“Such a smartass.” And if she hadn’t endured hell tonight, I might cross a line or two and swat her rear end to encourage her to hurry up and change.
“Now be a—” I stop short of yet another line I can’t vault across, swallowing back the tease and letting it die a fast death in my esophagus.
“We make a pair, don’t we?”
“Oh we do, do we?” I’m slightly disturbed by the rough edge of my voice. And part of me wants that mouth of hers to be mouthy again. It’ll feel like old times. When things were less complicated.
“We do.”
“And why are we a pair?” I ask, because stupid is as stupid does tonight.
She smiles. It’s small and quick, but still nice to witness.
“Because here we are talking and joking around after . . . well, everything. And it’s exactly what the doctor would order, I’m sure.
” She leans in closer, forcing my hands to slide around to the small of her back. “I do need a favor, though.”
I slant my gaze down to her mouth. “And that is?”
“New stickers.” She swallows. “I’ll, um, need some.”
Doubtfully what she really planned to say, but I’m grateful she went the safe route.
“Anything for you.” I force myself to let go of her. “Now, do something for me.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Her entire mood has shifted since we’ve been up here, and I’m confused by it, but grateful. Then she even goes as far as teasing, “I’ll go be good and get naked for you.”