15. CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THEO
Connor disappears into the crowd before I’ve fully worked out what the fuck just happened.
“Shit,” I hiss, my head snapping around, searching for Marcus through the bodies packed around me. Flashing lights catch faces for barely a second before losing them again, and I scan the bar, the tables beyond it, anywhere he might be standing.
Nothing.
Fuck. Did he see that?
The thought comes with a flash of Connor pressed against me, my hand spread across his back and his lips parting.
I drag my eyes back towards the crowd he disappeared into.
Marcus can kill me later.
I peel off after Connor, shoving through the crowd. I keep catching glimpses of Connor ahead of me, blond hair disappearing between bodies, and every time I lose sight of him my pulse kicks a little harder.
I burst out of the bar a few seconds after him, the door slamming shut behind me, and the sudden drop in noise is disorienting. The music becomes a dull thud through the walls, my ears ringing in the space it leaves behind.
Metal bangs ahead of me, and I crane my head towards the sound, squinting through the dark until another crack sounds.
“Fuck.”
Connor is backed against one of the metal staff doors, his head tipped against it, and I barely have time to register what I’m looking at before he slams his skull backwards, making the whole fucking thing rattle.
Once.
Again.
My feet are already moving when he draws his head forward for a third.
“Connor.”
He either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t fucking care, because his head goes back again.
No.
Fuck that.
I close the distance between us at a run.
I shove my hand behind his head just as he throws himself backwards again, his skull cracking straight into my palm, pain shooting through my wrist and up my arm. A grunt tears out of me, my fingers curling around the back of his head as the ache settles viciously through my right hand.
Fucking perfect.
I barely get a second to register it before Connor looks at me, and the pain becomes the least important thing happening.
His eyes are wide and glassy, jumping over my face without ever seeming to actually find me, his chest rising and falling so quickly beneath his shirt that I can barely separate one breath from the next.
“Connor.”
There’s nothing. No irritated snap at hearing his name, no scowl, not even the slightest sign he’s registered I’m standing in front of him.
He throws his head backwards again, another bolt of pain driving through my hand when I stop him from reaching the door. A broken, frustrated sound catches in his throat as he shoves at my chest instead, trying to force me away.
“Enough,” I grit out, planting my feet when he pushes harder.
He shoves at me again, frantic and uncoordinated while every breath gets shorter, catching against the next before he’s managed to finish the last one.
I keep my hand cupped firmly behind his head, taking the impact every time he tries to pull away and slam it back again, because I have no fucking clue what’s happening to him, but I know I’m not letting him crack his skull against that door.
“Connor, fucking look at me.”
His eyes jerk towards mine, slipping away once before coming back and finally sticking.
His hands are still fisted against my chest, but he stops shoving long enough for me to bring my free hand up and cup his cheek, keeping the other firmly behind his head.
“Enough,” I repeat.
Connor stares back at me, chest still heaving, but at least he’s seeing me now.
“Get-get off me,” Connor stutters, clawing at my hand.
His nails rake down my skin before his fingers lock around my wrist, squeezing, grinding the bones, but I don’t let go.
“Come on, Reid. Snap out of it,” I grit out against the pain.
Connor surges forward, nearly taking me with him. A curse tears out of me as I catch my footing and use the momentum to press him back against the door, getting my body between him and everything else before he can start throwing his head around again.
I crowd in close, and Connor’s forehead drops against my shoulder, his body giving way. His breath punches against my chest in short, broken bursts, and I move my hands down to his hips, holding him there.
He’s fucking shaking.
“Breathe for me, princess,” I murmur close to his ear.
Connor sucks in a breath, gets halfway through it and loses it before trying again. Every broken inhale catches between us, his chest moving too quickly against mine until I find myself slowing my own breathing, making each breath deeper, steadier, hoping he’ll follow.
His palm flattens against the centre of my chest, his fingers trembling.
“I’m fine,” he croaks.
The reassurance is barely recognisable through the strain in his voice, and when he pushes at me there’s nothing behind it. Just his trembling palm against my chest and a pathetic amount of pressure that wouldn’t move me if I weighed half as much.
I look down at his hand, then back at him. His face has lost its colour, and I can feel the tremor running through him where I’m holding him.
Fine, my fucking ass.
Everything in me wants to tell him exactly that. Worse, I want to ignore the hand on my chest and keep him right fucking here until he can breathe properly again.
I bite down on the end of my tongue.
“Alright,” I say instead, strained.
It takes more effort than it should, but I loosen my hands and step back.
Connor’s eyes lift to mine, his lips parting before he looks away again, grabbing the bottom of his t-shirt, and yanking it back into place where it’s ridden up.
He smooths both hands down the front, flattening over the same creases that aren’t there anymore, and I watch his fingers keep going anyway.
I run my teeth over my lower lip, fighting the urge to reach for him again because I don’t know what else to do with my hands.
Connor pissed off, I know. I can deal with the insults, the shoving, the looks that suggest breathing in his general direction is enough to ruin his entire fucking day. I know how to push back against that version of him. Usually enjoy it.
But he isn’t giving me any of that now.
He won’t even fucking look at me.
And I’ve got absolutely no idea what to do with him.
“Can you stand?” I ask, eyeing the amount of weight he’s still putting against the door.
“Obviously.”
There’s enough bite in it that I almost believe him.
Then he pushes himself upright and sways.
I catch his elbow the second he sways, gripping firmly enough to steady him, but Connor rips his arm free and shoves me back.
“Don’t.”
The word is low and fucking vicious, my hand dropping away.
I shove both of them into my pockets before instinct can win again and force myself to stay exactly where I am. Every part of me is still waiting for him to tip sideways, ready to catch him if he does, but he told me not to touch him.
So I don’t.
The silence that follows is fucking unbearable. Bass thuds dully through the wall behind us while Connor stares past my shoulder, tugging his clothes straight and pretending he wasn’t just shaking hard enough for me to feel it through my hands.
I last maybe five seconds.
“You wanna tell me what that was?”
“No.”
I nod and glance towards the mouth of the alley, mostly because staring at him clearly isn’t helping, but my eyes find their way back anyway. His face gives me nothing. No clue whether I should leave, stay, find Marcus, drag him home, keep my mouth shut. All options I’m spectacularly bad at.
Connor shifts against the door, hands curling into fists at his sides, the familiar irritation settling back over everything else. By the time his eyes finally cut back to mine, he looks pissed off enough to start an argument.
Thank fuck.
“Just forget it happened, Knox,” he bites out.
My brows pull together as I look at him.
Forget it happened.
Right.
“Bit difficult,” I huff, shaking my head.
“Yeah, well, try.”
His arms wrap around his middle, pulling tight.
I stop.
There’s something about the movement that shuts down whatever smart-ass comment was about to come out of my mouth.
He folds in on himself without seeming to realise he’s doing it, shoulders curling forward, gaze dropping away from mine. Like if he can make himself small enough, close himself off enough, I’ll stop looking.
I press my lips together.
I don’t fucking like it.
But I nod.
“Fine,” I grit out. “If that’s what you want.”
“Just-”
Connor stops.
I wait, watching him struggle with whatever he’s trying to get out until his eyes finally lift to mine.
The sight of them pulls something tight in my chest.
He looks exhausted.
Not pissed off. Not embarrassed.
Just fucking tired.
“Don’t tell Marcus,” he sighs.
My jaw locks so hard my teeth ache.
That’s asking a hell of a lot more than forgetting it happened.
Marcus is my best friend, and Connor is his little brother. I’ve just followed him into an alley and found him smashing the back of his skull against a metal fucking door.
Every instinct I have says Marcus should know.
But Connor keeps looking at me, all that rawness still sitting there despite how hard he’s trying to hide it.
Fuck.
I dig my nails into my palms inside my pockets, letting the sting bite deep enough to keep every argument sitting behind my teeth exactly where it is.
Then I nod.
Once.
Because apparently, when it comes to Connor Reid, I’m already making fucking terrible decisions.
“Just forget it happened, Knox,” he bites out.
My brows pull together as I look at him. Forget it happened. Right.
“Bit fucking difficult.”
“Yeah, well, try.”
I open my mouth, but Connor wraps both arms around his middle, and it dies behind my teeth. His shoulders curl inward, eyes falling to the ground, looking far too vulnerable for my liking.
I run my tongue over the edge of my teeth, giving him whatever space I can without actually leaving him alone out here.
“Fine,” I grit out. “If that’s what you want.”
“Just-”
Connor stops, his arms wrapping around himself. I press my lips together, keeping my mouth shut, watching his jaw work until his eyes finally lift to mine.
He looks exhausted. His face is slack with it, eyes heavy while he looks at me with an expression that makes me wish he’d go back to telling me to fuck off.
“Don’t tell Marcus,” he sighs.
My jaw clenches. Asking me to forget what happened in the club is one thing. I’m more than happy to pretend I didn’t almost kiss my best friend’s little brother in the middle of a fucking dance floor.
But this isn’t that.
I found Connor slamming his head against a metal door, my hand still throbbing from stopping him. Marcus is my best friend. Connor is his brother. There shouldn’t even be a decision to make here.
Except Connor is still looking at me.
Standing there, hugging himself, waiting, and I dig my nails into my palms inside my pockets while every sensible thought in my head tells me not to agree.
“Fine,” I say eventually, the word scraping reluctantly out of my throat.
Connor’s shoulders loosen slightly.
I should probably be more concerned by how quickly that makes the decision feel worth it.
Instead, I just shake my head.
Apparently, when it comes to Connor Reid, knowing something is a fucking terrible idea has very little bearing on whether I’m going to do it.