Now you have a chance to do them, Mathias offered.
“It just seems like an odd time,” I said lamely. I couldn’t bring myself to look at Mathias so instead I glanced at Bishop. I’d noted earlier that he was tall, blond and lanky, but now I noticed that his features were sharp and aquiline. There was no denying he was handsome but there was an edge to him, one that was slightly more sinister than mere bad boy.
His eyes were a deep blue, ringed with black. And, like Mathias, he was quiet, but more so, even though he could speak. I felt like, even if he wanted to make noise, he wouldn’t. Every movement was deliberately measured and he was careful around me. He was almost as protective as Mathias.
He was protective of Mathias too, but in an entirely different way. Watching them together, they were, at times, two opposite sides of the coin and entirely the same person all at once. They could finish each other’s sentences, but they didn’t have to talk—or sign—to communicate.
Mathias did talk a lot with him, though. And most of the time, Bishop wasn’t looking at him but he knew what Mathias was saying anyway.
“How long have you been friends?” I asked both of them.
Mathias signed as Bishop said, We were eight when we met.
No wonder there was such a bond between them. “I, ah...”
“She wants to talk about you,” Bishop told Mathias, who signed and Bishop translated. “You can ask about me. He knows what I wouldn’t say.”
The level of trust between these two guys was incredible. I felt as though I’d become as close to Bishop as I was to Mathias. It was imperative. It was exactly what I’d wanted, too.
Put your hurt on me, if you dare
Mathias
Jessa didn’t understand what made me tick. Or maybe she didn’t really want to know as much as she wanted me not to tick that way, and that was frustrating enough. Understandable, but frustrating.
Because everyone always thinks they know better. People are all about twenty-twenty hindsight and second-guessing everyone else’s shit instead of worrying about their own shit. That’s what makes them so easy to sneak up on.
Me, I worried about my own shit. And Bish’s, of course, because he was like the other half of me, my brother from another mother, like our neighbors from the bayou used to say, back when Bish and I lived in the bayou parish and life was normal.
Or something like it. But that was way before the Chaos.
As I rolled through all that in my mind, my frustration no doubt obvious, Jessa was watching me intently.
You okay? I signed and Bish asked her.
“I want to be able to talk to you.”
Sweetheart, last night you definitely talked.
She kept a steady gaze on me and when Bish didn’t interpret that she said, “You just said something sarcastic about last night.”
I cocked a brow, wondered how the hell she’d read me when I’d spent a lifetime perfecting the poker face.
“Does it bother you that you can’t speak?”
Not as much as it bothers everyone else. I shrugged. Always been this way. Always gonna be this way. My cross to bear.
“Do you ever not just accept things?”
All the time, honey. I’m no saint. Quicker you learn that, the better.
“I knew that the second I met you.” She paused. “I thought this would be weird for me—this translating thing, but it’s not. Is it weird for you?”
She motioned between me and Bish who answered, “No,” at the same time as I signed it.
It wasn’t, not even with Bish revealing my deepest feelings to Jessa through him. He’d know them anyway. My words have always come out of Bish’s mouth. It’s natural for me.
“I think you like it like that. You can keep people at arm’s length.”
I think you don’t know shit about me.
“I think you’re wrong,” Bish told me and I ignored him.
Jessa continued, “At least I know you’re capable of getting close to someone.”
“She’s talking about me,” Bish said.
I know that.
“He says he knew that,” Bish told her.
“I knew that,” she told me, and I realized how much she did know. And that suddenly scared me more than anything had since the goddamned Chaos.
Carry on
Jessa
Mathias got up then, pointing that he was going to shower.
“Oh no, you don’t get to just walk away from me,” I told him.
He signed and Bishop translated. Yeah, I can. And I am.
I followed Mathias into the bathroom, vaguely aware that Bishop was following along, and found Mathias already stripped down. I paused to stare at him and he smirked and stepped into the shower. “You can’t expect me to make decisions about what I want to do when you’re insinuating you’ll always keep me at arm’s length.”
You’re moving fast.
“Just like you did the other night, right? You told me that when things were right, you just knew. Why the change now? Or was that all bullshit?”
If it was, I wouldn’t be here, he pointed out. Thing is, you don’t know what the hell you want either. So what’s all of this? Are you playing house, Jessa? Playing pretend, like you wanted to the other night? Because that shit’s only going to work for so long.
“I don’t want pretend. I want this to be real.”
Why?
“Because if it’s not real, then it means you’re not real. Then it means this, between us, isn’t real. And in the real world, everyone would tell me that this was some kind of ridiculous fantasy.”
Can’t think of anything more real than this world. Then he tugged me, fully clothed, into the shower. He hitched me close to his body, kissing me under the warm spray as he tugged down my sweatpants. My T-shirt was molded over my breasts and he leaned in and bit me on the other side of the neck.
Marking me.
Claiming me.
I thought about what Tru said and I shivered. I don’t care what she said—Mathias was just as possessive as the bikers she’d talked about.
Bishop called out, “I’m guessing you don’t need me for this part, although I’d have no problem watching.”
Mathias shot him a sign I had no problem interpreting and the door to the bathroom closed, giving us privacy.
I swallowed hard and asked, “You said you liked things rough. Does that mean...sex?”
He nodded. He’d been pretty gentle the other night but there were hints of roughness there. He hadn’t held me down or anything but because of the circumstances, it had been right. Now, he had my body craving something more. I was angry—at him and at myself—and there were still things I didn’t understand. And I needed him to mark my body and make me understand them.
“Please,” was all I said, hoping I could somehow convey all of that into a single word. Since he was a man of few, he seemed to appreciate the brevity. Mouthed, okay, and I asked, “So what are you waiting for?”
He looked me up and down, like he was wondering if I could handle it.
“You’re different after you fight. You need different things,” I said and he nodded. “You’re worried I can’t handle it. But just because I’ve been sheltered doesn’t mean I’m not tough. I just haven’t had a chance to prove it.”
He signed something then, mouthed it too, and I didn’t catch it, but I had a feeling it was along the lines of, You’re about to get that chance.