And those lips. Fuck me. I’ve never seen lips so naturally dark before. Full and the color of a cherry. And that smile. The few times her mouth ticked up from something I said I felt it in my gut. The slight lift of her bow-shaped mouth and her arched eyebrows over those big eyes were sexy and daring like nothing I’ve ever seen. My chest gets tight and I blow out a long breath. And just like seeing it, thinking about it now stirs an energy that makes me feel equal parts curious and disgusted.
Fuck. I scrub my face. My body reacts to a beautiful woman, and I’m disgusted? This shit cannot be normal. My therapist has a hundred different theories, none of which I can stomach. I don’t remember much from my past, so I choose not to spend the time and energy figuring it out. Forward is the only direction I’m headed. And for whatever the fuck reason, getting turned-on also makes me sick. I’m a twenty-five-year-old man. Sex should be on the top of my priority list, right under air and above food.
But no. I squash my needs for as long as I possibly can, throwing all the excess energy into my fighting and my music until I can’t take another second. When I finally succumb to my sick-fuck urges, I get it over with fast with a stranger, usually paid for to avoid the personal connection. Once I’m relieved, I walk away quickly to avoid embarrassing myself, because shortly after I come, I always puke. Every. Single. Time.
God, I’m a mess.
With a sudden urge for a shot of tequila, I get up to ransack Emma’s kitchen, as quietly as I can, in search of anything that comes close. No beer in the fridge. No vodka in the freezer. No bourbon in the cupboard. Nothing.
I brace my weight against the counter. My skin is clammy with sweat. Sleep deprivation and being stuck in this apartment are making me antsy. I catch sight of the knife block that’s not far from my right hand. The knives call to me, beg to mark my flesh. I imagine the feeling of dragging the sharp blades against my skin and watching the blood seep. I groan, and my head drops heavy between my shoulders. The scars on my forearms and inner thighs flare their request. I hook the rubber band around my wrist and snap it a few times. It takes off the edge, but isn’t close to enough.
“This is bullshit.” I push back from the counter and cross the small apartment to Emma’s room. Peeking inside, I see Mac asleep on her side, her hands folded and wedged beneath the tiny throw pillow that cradles her head. She’s on top of the comforter and fully clothed. She looks so peaceful. I’ll wait until I get back before I wake her up for her anti-coma quiz.
I back out of the doorway and close it softly behind me. A quick break in my place should help me get my head back online and where it needs to be. And I have tequila.
I make the short trip from Emma’s apartment door to my own. I push inside, slip off my shoes on the mat, and go straight to my liquor cabinet. Pulling out the Patrón, I pop the cork and down a throat-scorching gulp. I breathe through the burn before taking one more hit and then another.
I’ve never been this close to a beautiful sleeping woman before, and it’s doing fucked-up things to my body. Things I’m not comfortable dealing with. Things that most guys would welcome. But not me.
Snapping the rubber band in a rhythmic beat, the liquor radiates heat through my body. I suck back another shot until it eventually numbs my head. Perfect. I brush my teeth and grab a clean shirt before heading back to Emma’s. After checking on Mac, I should be able to catch a few hours’ sleep with the help of Señor Patrón’s Sleep Aid.
Feeling much more like myself, I lock up and settle back into Emma’s couch. I flip through channels, not paying attention to what’s on, and my eyes droop with sleep. I wedge a frilly pillow behind my neck and—what the hell was that?
I turn and look over the back of the couch toward Emma’s bedroom. Is Mac talking to someone? Probably her roommate called to ask about the bloody biker curled up on her driveway. Her voice filters from the room again, this time laced with pain. Not crying, but a pleading desperation that sounds like audible agony.
“What the fuck?” I hop off the couch and cross the apartment in a few long strides.
My hand grips the doorknob just as her scream spears my ears.
I fling the door open and find her in a similar position to the one I left her in earlier, but now she’s balled up tight. With a knee on the bed, I lean over. She’s not on the phone.
“Mac, wake up.”
Nothing. Her body heaves. She whimpers, but doesn’t respond.
I reach out and grab her shoulder, probably a little tighter than I should, and she jerks from my grip but stays in a tight ball. She’s mumbling in that same voice I heard earlier. Nightmare.
“Mac, it’s okay. Wake up. You’re okay.” I risk another touch, and she flinches, but doesn’t pull away completely. “It’s me, Rex. You’re safe. Wake up; it’s okay.”
She mumbles something again, the last word sounding like my name. Her body rocks back and forth. Still asleep. Her chin’s tucked in tight to her knees so I can’t see her face. She groans.
“What? I . . . I can’t hear you.”
A sob rips from her chest. “I thought I lost you.”
Huh? Okay, so definitely dreaming. I rub her back, coaxing her to wake up. Even through her shirt, the heat of her skin on my palm makes my gut twist. “Wake up, Mac. You’re dreaming.”
Her breathing slows and the muscles in her back relax a little. “I couldn’t help you. I’m so sorry.”
“Shhh, it’s okay.” This entire situation feels so fucking familiar, and yet, all wrong. It’s like déjà vu, but . . . not. I might have had one too many shots on an empty stomach.
She rolls to her back and I find her eyes in the dark. They’re wide and searching.
“Mac, you—ooh!”
“You’re here.” Her arms wrap tight around my waist, and she buries her face in my chest. “This is real.”
I hold my hands up and away, making sure not to touch her even though she clearly doesn’t have the same issues with personal space. “Yeah, um . . . you were dreaming and—”
She releases me in an instant and crab walks backwards until she hits the headboard. “Oh, Rex, I’m so sorry. I . . .” Trembling fingers press against her lips and she shakes her head.
“Nah . . . it’s cool. You were having a nightmare. I tried to wake you up in the thick of it.” Yeah, she probably thought I was whomever she was dreaming about. It’s my own selfish fucked-up ego that made whatever she said sound like Rex in my ears. There are a lot of names that sound like Rex. Such as, Tex . . . and uh . . . huh. Did she say my name?
~*~
Mac
“How’d you know I was having a nightmare?”
He rakes one hand through his messy black hair and shrugs. “I, ah . . . heard you.”
Heard me? Panic floods my chest. I’m thankful that we’re mostly in the dark so he can’t see the blush from the heat rising in my cheeks. “What did I say?”
His eyes fix on mine for a second before he looks at his boots. “Not sure. A lot of mumbling. Something about being sorry.”
He heard me dreaming about him.
Oh no, oh no, oh no!
“That it?” I try to clear the panic from my voice. “I mean, was I yelling?” I’ve shot out of bed before at the sound of my own screams. Something must’ve brought him in here. I pray it wasn’t that.
He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, you were.”
I drop my chin and groan. “How embarrassing.”
“Don’t be embarrassed.” His voice is soft, but I can’t bring myself to look up at him. “The brain-shake you got from taking that hit tonight is enough to fuck with your dreams. Probably having nightmares ’bout being chased by a chubby pink bear with a goatee.”