Chapter 7
Zayne
What happened yesterday didn't work.
I have no clue how long it'll take my hopeful ass to learn that 'getting something out of my system' never works.
Despite showering and brushing my teeth twice, I swear I can still taste him on my lips. Part of me hates myself for doing it, and another part of me keeps licking my lips to seek out that part of him.
This man is like a toxin that lurks in my blood.
The time between us doesn't matter at all.
The ache for him has always been right under the surface, and being near him drains me in a way that makes me wish I could just walk away and retire to some place where I would never see another human face again.
I've always found him in everything. The way the wind blows a stranger's hair makes me do a double take, hope filling my lungs on the off chance that it could be him.
Cologne on another man's skin will stop me in my tracks, hopefulness building inside of me that he's the one I'm passing on the street, only to be disappointed over and over again when an unfamiliar face glances my way.
The way he's staring straight ahead, hands in a death grip on the steering wheel of this shitty moving truck as if he's wishing he were anywhere else in the world but stuck in this box with me, makes my skin crawl.
Hatred from the one man with whom I've allowed myself to fantasize about building a future with is the worst kind of torture.
I can't let myself get lost in the idea that there may be something between us. Franklin Jenkins is and always will be a man who likes my mouth on his cock, but will never be the man who sees me as anything more than a way to get off.
I was always his dirty little secret, the thing he reached for in the dark but would never give a second glance once his balls were empty. He's consistent. I'll give him that.
I was a fool to think that things would be different from any other time I got on my knees for him.
The problem with secrets is that they never stay veiled in the shadows, especially when witnessed by others.
I knew there were other people in the house yesterday, and maybe that's why I did what I did. Maybe, subconsciously, I wanted a witness to what we shared so that just once I could know he wasn’t just a figment of my imagination, something I drummed up in a fantasy that would never see the light of day.
A stronger man would just let it go. They would move on and accept that an orgasm is all that someone is looking for, and there's no deeper need or desire for anything more.
I don't know why I expect anything different from him. I've done it to others myself, and the two times I've been on the receiving end of a man obsessed with me when the feelings weren't returned, I couldn't wait to put more than a little distance between us.
Being on this side of things sucks.
Wanting more from a man I'll never have leaves me feeling unsettled.
It's creepy, my thoughts making me feel predatory and disgusting.
No matter how many times I remind myself of the things we've experienced together, it doesn't negate the fact that wanting something from someone unwilling to give it makes me no different from the sex traffickers we're trying to stop.
Acting on it, trying to manipulate him into wanting me the way I want him, is disgusting and exploitative.
My stomach rolls, sickness building in my gut as I turn to look at him, eyes locked on his strong jaw and familiar scowl.
"Frankie," I say, needing to get this shit off my chest.
I have a million things to say, and maybe getting it all off my chest will be the transition I need to move past his broody ass and get over this hope that has been built up in me at such a young age.
"Don't fucking call me that," he says, with more exhaustion than heat in his tone.
"We need to talk about what happened yesterday."
"That's the last fucking thing we need," he snaps, his eyes still locked on the road in front of us.
I could press the issue. I could start a huge fucking fight, but I know where that will lead.
Getting into it with this man on the second day of my new job won't end well for me, and there's still a little hesitation in that decision because maybe finding something else would be best for me in the long run.
The reasoning side of my brain, the one a little clouded by my past with him, knows better.
Cerberus is elite. They are the best at what they do, and despite my issues with Franklin Jenkins, I know I can help this cause the most with this team. There isn't another organization in existence that can do what they do and get the same results.
I take my eyes off the side of his face, and the fact that he seems to relax with a sigh of relief makes me want to continue to poke the bear, but instead, I sigh in frustration and vow to get this job over and done with as quickly as possible so I can be put on something else.
Surely, they won't force us to work every job together.
These team-up jobs are fewer and farther between than the ones where we would work alone.
Pulling up to the house brings a level of familiarity that I hate.
I've never set foot on this property before, but the rundown look of it is common for this type of cover.
The jobs I've done in the past had members who would sell all their worldly belongings for an extra hit of meth or on a good sale at the ammo shop.
They don't tend to have nice things, aside from their stash of rations for survival if the shit hits the fan.
We have to look the part, and that means living with little to nothing until this job is done.
"Home sweet home," Frankie mutters as he shifts his face closer to the windshield to take in the house. "Looks like this place should've already been condemned."
"Which makes it perfect," I say and open my door.
The sooner I can get away from the scent of him, the sooner I can clear my head. "Let's get this thing unpacked."
I pull the truck keys from my pocket and walk toward the old beater already in the driveway.
It was dropped off by one of the other guys at some point last night, and we'll need it once this moving van is returned, but it's in the damn way right now.
Crappy houses like the one we're going to call home for however long don't exactly have much room for multiple vehicles.
By the time I get the truck parked on the street, Frankie is already backing the moving van into the driveway.
I meet him at the back of the van, and barely keep from scrunching my nose when he rolls up the door to access the belongings inside. The stench coming off all the used furniture is strong enough to knock a grown man over.
"Frank—"
I cut the name short when he growls in warning.
"Zeus," I correct, but then fall silent again.
"What?" he asks, a level of exhaustion in his voice that I feel on a molecular level.
I shake my head. "I don't even remember what I was going to say."
"Probably for the best," he mutters. "Can we get this shit unloaded so maybe it'll air out some?"
Instead of answering him verbally, I step into the moving van and grab a couple of boxes, noticing how he waits to the side for me to walk past, as if he doesn't want to take a chance of me touching him in any way.
As immature as that is, it's also immature the way my eyes roll as I step out of the moving van and make my way toward the front steps. This house doesn't even have a porch. Access to the inside is a mere set of concrete steps, and of course, they're cracked and are on their last leg.
I lean the boxes against the wall beside the door and fish the keys back out of my pocket to unlock the door. I realize everything I'll do around Zeus is going to annoy him because he's simmering behind me with his own set of boxes.
"I'm going," I snap.
"I didn't say a fucking thing," he says in a flat tone.
I nearly drop the fucking boxes when the door swings open and slams against the inside wall of the tiny living room.
"Great," Zeus says as he steps inside and looks at the doorknob planted in the drywall.
"That was already there," I say. "There's no dust on the floor below it. Not that it matters. The worse the place is, the better."
I carry my boxes labeled "kitchen" across the room, not having to go very far. I know from the dossier given to me that this house is only about eight hundred square feet. It has three tiny bedrooms and a shared bathroom.
I glance up at the bowed ceiling as I walk into the kitchen, guessing someone took out a wall to make the house feel bigger. It would be my luck that this place isn't structurally sound and the entire thing caves in on me at some point.
I drop the boxes on the counter and walk back through to grab more.
We work in silence for the next hour, unloading the truck and unpacking everything, and it's honestly sad that it doesn't take longer.
"I can unload supplies in the spare bedroom if you want to tackle the dishes in the kitchen," I offer, knowing there's more work on my end than what I'm offering him.
He gives me a simple nod of agreement before walking toward the living room windows.
I don't offer a hand when he struggles to open the paint-sealed windows.
I grin as I walk down the narrow hallway, as he starts cussing and grumbling. I know he wants the house to air out, but it's going to take a little more than chilly mountain air to get the stench out of the furniture.
I pause just outside the door of the spare bedroom, but there's no point in telling him that by tomorrow he won't even notice the stench. He'll figure it out himself.
I do my best to get lost in my task, but there's no way to ignore the sounds coming from the kitchen.
I don't know if the man is getting into character as "Lyle" or if he's honestly just this angry all the time.
He wasn't a very happy young man when I knew him before. He struggled under the weight of impossible expectations set by his adoptive parents, standards no one ever could've met. That didn't stop him from trying, thinking that his success would finally make them love him.
I don't know if that ever happened, but with all the cussing coming from the other room, it sounds like the man hasn't changed much, other than now he seems more vocal about his distaste rather than just being a broody bastard.