Gabe
Istudy my reflection in the bathroom mirror, examining the scrapes on my face and arms, in nothing but my boxer briefs.
I don't know where Jason is, and I don't give a shit.
All I know is he'd better stay the fuck away from me.
This is my trailer.
Well, my mom's trailer.
Which makes it more mine than his!
I pour a little rubbing alcohol onto a cotton ball and dab the scrape on my face first. A hiss slips past my lips, and I'm grateful Jason isn't around to hear it.
But he will be soon.
God, just thinking about that makes my stomach clench.
I'm about to clean the scrape on my elbow when Jason lumbers into the trailer. The bathroom door is closed, but I hear him cursing under his breath.
Curiosity gets the better of me.
I crack the door open to see him hauling his things out of the bedroom and into the living room, and I step into the hallway just as he's about to head back into the bedroom for another load.
He stops dead and warns, "No. Stay away from me. Don't even look at me."
Then his eyes flick over my bare chest, and he grimaces.
"Put on some clothes," he barks before brushing past me to grab the last of his shit.
I follow him into the living room to see what he’s doing, and he hollers, "I'm not sleeping in that goddamn bedroom with you. You take the bedroom. I'll sleep out here."
He sweeps a hand around the couch.
"This is my space,” he says. Then he points toward the bedroom. "That's yours. Stay the fuck away from my space."
He drops onto the couch.
"AND PUT SOME FUCKING CLOTHES ON!"
My fists clench at my sides.
I storm into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water, giving each action way too much force.
This asshole. If he thinks he’s gonna boss me around in my own home like this, I swear to fucking god—
I catch Jason’s reflection in the kitchen window. It’s night, and the lighting in the trailer makes him almost crystal clear.
He’s staring at me with a pissed-off look on his face.
I have a mind to turn around and throw this glass of water on him—
But then something happens.
My eyes narrow, and I study him.
That pissed-off look on his face is starting to shift.
I can see the tug-of-war in his mind written all over his expression. He’s mad—furious, really—but he’s also—
What am I seeing?
I look at him over my shoulder, and he looks away quickly. He’s got this expression like he was just caught, so he folds his arms across his chest and huffs.
What the...?
I pretend I’m filling up my water some more, but really, I’m watching his reflection.
Waiting to see if I imagined this or not—
His eyes slowly creep to me.
And the look on his face?
I know that look.
Jason’s not mad—he’s hungry. His tongue slides through the seam of his lips, and his legs widen on the sofa.
He’s watching me. Jason's watching me.
And when I say watching, I don’t mean the back of my head or anything like that.
His eyes are focused somewhere lower.
I set the glass down and lean over the counter, popping my hip to stick my ass out.
And when I do—
Jason bites his lower lip.
Well, well, well.
He told me to put some clothes on.
Twice.
A bit preoccupied with my state of undress, are we?
I whip around, and Jason shudders, knowing I caught him looking again, and quickly dons a scowl.
“What? Stop looking at me,” he shouts.
I turn away from him again and smile to myself.
There’s something there.
He’s doing everything he can to fight it, but he can’t hide the look in his eyes.