Chapter 31
Thirty-One
August makes a surprisingly good pizza from scratch, and we enjoy a few drinks around the table as we eat. It feels less serious, less heavy.
“Did my tits break the tension in here today?” I say around a bite that scalds my tongue.
“Broke some tension for me,” August says under his breath as he drops another pizza in the middle of the table, and I smirk.
“I just think . . . we understand each other better now,” Carter says before he chugs the last of his beer. “You’re an incredibly stressful person to share a room with, Tripoli.”
“I am?” I scrunch up my nose. “I’ve always thought I was . . . chill.”
“You have no fucking chill,” August pipes up.
“You tried to stab me.” I point at him. “He shot me.” I nod at William as I take a bite. “And you”—I gesture at Carter— “almost dropped a damn tree on my head.”
“And how many times have you pointed a loaded weapon at one of us?” Carter says, cracking another beer. “How long was that bear behind us before you reacted?”
“Longer than you think,” I mutter before taking a swig. “But I’m not psychotic, so I didn’t let it kill you. Hindsight, though? Probably should have.”
“And you’re not psychotic?” August retorts.
“No.” I exhale. “Vindictive as hell though.”
“Whatever,” William cuts in. “Let’s lay out the game plan for tomorrow.”
“No,” York says, not meeting my eyes. “Tomorrow is tomorrow. Tonight we’re getting properly drunk and sleeping adequately.”
“Cheers to that.” Carter raises his bottle. “I’ll get the cards.”
***
After dealing, Carter explains the game of Kings, which involves slowly filling up a communal glass in the center of the table round by round until the loser is declared and has to drink the mixed swill. August is the first loser, who ends up drinking a beer and whiskey concoction.
I lose the next round, which has tequila mixed in, and it takes everything I have not to lose my pizza on the table.
By eight o’clock, the game has gone off the rails, everyone is buzzed, and the stories of love start coming out.
I’ve had enough to drink and enough of the stories, so I fade into the background after excusing myself to the bathroom.
Upstairs, I get cleaned up, but the beer is sitting heavily, and things are swimming before my eyes, so I don’t risk trying to get back down the stairs and flop on York’s bed instead.
“Do you need help?” William’s voice sounds in the dark.
The intrusion makes me pause. “No.”
“You know this isn’t your room, right?”
“I need a minute before I attempt the stairs.” I sigh. “It’s fine.”
“Do you want me to carry you down the stairs?”
For the love of . . . I roll over and look toward him. In the dark, he’s just a tall silhouette with smoothed back hair leaning against the doorframe. It’s not like he’s weaving on his feet or anything, but he’s obviously had enough to drink that he thinks we’re friends now.
“Come on, Trip.” He comes into the room, and another silhouette appears outside the door behind him. “If you could stop hating me for just a second, I’d be happy to assist you.”
“With?” York’s voice cuts in.
William’s head turns toward York’s voice. “Nothing. Just thought she needed a hand to her own bed is all.”
York steps in and takes the door handle. “It wouldn’t be the first time she’s slept in my bed, Will. Let’s go.”
Rubbing his jaw, William turns and walks past York without a word, disappearing down the hall.
“Everything okay?”
I nod. “Just a bit drunk.”
Laughing quietly, York pulls the door closed and leaves me alone in the dark.
It’s unfortunate because the booze may have me swimming a bit, but it also has me horny.
York is very fly-by-night with his affection, though.
It’s hard to predict when he’ll pay me any attention, let alone want to jump my bones .
. . but maybe that’s an unfair assessment.
There is obviously something between us, but I only ever get to taste it when we’re alone.
I stuff my gun under the pillow and then tackle my pants.
There was that moment this morning where I felt that I could love him .
. . one day, but the hot-and-cold nature of our reality makes me think that I’m just suffering from lust. He deprives me of himself, just long enough for me to feel desperate.
Plus, the last week has been a lot to deal with, and I’m getting laid, all of which is messing with my head.
He likes to say intense things in the throes of it, but it’s not real. It can’t be. It’s all just part of the York experience. Even in moments where we’re alone, when I manage to keep my clothes on, the conversation and even the silence with him feels intense.
I don’t believe it’s possible to fall in love with someone after only a week. Well . . . possible, but imprudent. Telling me he wants to keep me is a mindfuck, although maybe not an intentional one. If I’m suffering from lust, then maybe he is too.
With my clothes in a pile beside the bed, I pull the blanket up and sink into the pillow.
I like his intensity though . . . I like the crazy shit he whispers to me in private, even if I can’t buy into it.
I like hearing it. I like the way he uses my body as if he has a right to it, some innate authority over it that lets him manipulate it into feeling things it isn’t used to.
Things it likes and now craves, things I don’t need to ask for and don’t even know how to.
Yes. It’s lust, and it can’t last much longer . . . None of this will. We’re going to do whatever we do tomorrow, and that might be the end of it.
August and York will probably disappear overseas, and William and Carter will seep back into the landscape of America like the little sleepers they are . . . or maybe they’ll get called home too.
And then it will just be me. No more career. A fugitive.
Unless I defect. What a shit show that would be. Technically, I’d just disappear, right? It’s not like there would be an announcement in Congress, that is, until the British make a case against the States, and then I’d have to pop back up into the line of fire.
The positives of defecting are short-term. I’ll be right back in this boat once Central Intelligence gets wind that I’m alive or the British are building a case against them. I’ll be ferreted out so fucking fast.
I press my fingers to my temples with a sigh and try to wind myself down. No good can come of overthinking any of it. All I can do is take it as it comes. So, tomorrow, we’ll see how it goes . . . and take it from there.
***
“You misbehaved exceptionally today.”
York’s voice startles me awake.
“The knickers display, letting Will bait you, drinking enough to be compromised . . .”
I blink up at the shadow of him in the dark as he looms over me. “Misbehaved?” I croak.
“And now I find you naked in my bed,” he continues, ignoring me like he so often does. “What if it wasn’t me who woke you up?”
“I’d kill them.”
“How?”
I reach under the pillow but don’t find my gun, and he pulls it out from behind his back, the telltale silhouette unmistakable even in the darkness. Pushing my hair back from my face, I sit up and pull my knees to my chest, adjusting the blanket over me.
“Little dove.” He tsks as he moves away from me.
The gun gets set down, and he lifts what looks like a case from the pile of gear in the corner and wedges it under the door handle.
What is he doing?
Turning toward the gear, he moves slowly, deliberately, as he picks through the shadowy mound in the corner until he pulls out a coiled rope, and my heart skips a beat.
“How are your wrists?” He throws the rope on the foot of the bed and pulls his shirt off.
“Fine,” I barely get out as my voice cracks.
The way he unties the coil and then pulls out several lengths in total silence is unnerving. “Give me your hands.”
They shake slightly as I hold them out, and he takes one, pausing and then kissing my knuckles as he puts the rope around one wrist and then the other. My heartrate kicks up a notch.
“I’ve been waiting hours to come back up here.” Another loop of rope goes around each wrist. “Hours pretending to listen because I was distracted by the thought of you in here, alone.”
He makes a knot between my wrists and reaches over my head. The smell of his skin as his chest brushes against my cheek and the slight musk from his underarms triggers a feeling of euphoria, and my eyes close.
Securing my wrists to the headboard, he leaves a few inches of play in the rope so my arms can move slightly to the sides. The blanket slips off, exposing me to the darkness as he peers down at my body like he can see it perfectly despite the shadows.
“They’re drunk enough that they won’t hear what you sound like when you come for me tonight.” He moves back to the pile, finding a knife that he flicks open. “No one gets the pleasure of that but me.”
He cuts the excess rope away from the headboard and slides the knife into his pocket. A warm, rough hand grazes my breast and runs down my stomach to my leg, gently pulling it away from the other. He’s laying it on too thick, and I squirm beneath his touch as he pulls my legs apart.
“York,” I say breathlessly, pulling on my bonds.
“Shh.”
The nylon rope slips over my foot and tightens on my ankle as he ties a knot and then ties the rope down around the leg of the bed. Using the same meandering pace, he crosses the foot of the bed and takes my other ankle.
When the last knot is tied, he unbuttons his pants and pushes them down over his hips. The silhouette of his hardened cock bobbing as he straightens out draws my eyes, and my mouth goes dry.
“No more than one drink in the presence of anyone that is a stranger to you.” He strokes himself slowly and tilts his head. “Never accept a drink you didn’t make yourself unless it’s from me.”
I nod absently as he climbs onto the bed and kneels between my legs.