“Was thirsty,” he mutters, frowning down at me. “Did you hurt yourself?”
“I’m fine.” His eyes are a warm brown, like cinnamon, and the way I’m pressed to his body I can feel how strong he is, feel the hard muscles in his thighs and chest.
Shit. I jerk back.
He lifts a hand to my face, stopping me. “Don’t run.”
Frozen still, caught once more, I don’t know what to say. Why is he saying that? I don’t want to run.
Not sure what I want, in fact. How I feel. We’re friends, right? That’s all.
I pull back until his hand drops away. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
***
When I bring him the water, he has his head turned to the side, a hand shading his eyes. “Light’s too bright,” he murmurs.
I hand him the glass, then go to turn off the overhead light and switch on his small bedside lamp. “Better?”
“Yeah.” He sips at the water, and I catch myself studying his hand, large and strong, an old, white scar running from the wrist down his palm. “Listen…” He puts down the glass on the worn bed-side table and I reach out to steady it. Our hands brush, and I flinch at the spark of heat. “You don’t have to be here. You probably feel like you have to, but you don’t, okay?”
I tuck my hair behind my ears. “Want me to go?”
“No. That’s not… Fuck.” He leans back on the stacked pillows and closes his eyes. “Not what I meant. I like it.”
“What then?”
“You. Here.”
Warmth travels up my chest, and my heart does a weird little flip. Which is plain weird. “Feeling better?”
“Sure.” He’s not convincing, though, and he’s quiet for so long I’m pretty sure he’s dropped back to sleep, when he shifts on the bed with a wince. “Tell me something about yourself.”
I still, muscles tensing. “Something? Like what?”
“Anything you want.” He gives me a faint smile. “I’m not picky. I’d read, but I’m dizzy.”
“I could read to you.”
“Ya know, I read these books ten times over while my leg was in the cast. Besides, I’d rather hear about you. Anything. Your full name. Your favorite color. The last book you read. The places you visited.”
I shake my head, but an answering smile tugs at my lips. “Okay. I can do that, I guess.”
My hands shake a little when I put them in my lap, but in the dimness, with no one looking on, I tell him.
Chapter Seven
Seth
“My name is Madeline Amelie Torres.” She draws a deep breath. “My dad’s from Texas, my mom’s French from Algeria. I’m…”
She falls silent, and I crack one eye open, needing to see why. Her hands clench in her lap, and her gaze is distant. Clad in a dark blue dress with a narrow belt cinching her tiny waist, with her dark hair curling around her heart-shaped face and those large, dark eyes she looks like a movie star from the forties. There’s something so delicate about her face I’m afraid I might crush it if I cup her jaw.
Not that it matters. I won’t be touching her. She’s not free.
“So… Madeline Amelie Torres,” I drawl. “Ça va?”
Her gaze snaps up, and her eyes widen. I grin at her startled expression. “You speak French?”
“Nope. That’s it. And Je t’aime.”
Her cheeks redden. “Used this last one a lot?”
I shrug, and my shoulder stops me, shooting a sliver of pain up my neck. “Told Shane once. He didn’t appreciate it.”
She giggles, then claps a hand over her mouth. “This is ridiculous,” she whispers. “Me sitting here, telling you about myself. I don’t talk about myself to anyone.” But before I ask why not, she sighs. “I like blue. Anything that’s blue.”
Great. I bet this Fred she’s dating has baby blues, unlike me. “Gotcha.”
Hey, I asked for it, didn’t I? Somehow.
“Last book I read was… In Search of Lost Time.” At my confused look, she explains, “A book by Marcel Proust. Talks about himself mostly. Very French.”
“That explains it,” I mumble. My stomach twists, and man, I really fucking hope I won’t throw up again.
“My mom wanted me to read more French literature while I was staying with her, and I tried.”
“D’you like it?”
“It was okay.” She smooths the fine fabric of her dress over her thighs, and I’m caught in a spell, staring at her small, white hands on the black cloth. “Suited the mood while I was there.”
“Not fun?” I guess.
“Not really. I was there for the last year of high school. I had been looking forward to it, you know? I hadn’t seen her in years. I’d missed her. I thought we’d have fun together, but…” She leans back, bracing her hands on the mattress, and my gaze dips to her breasts, high and pert, stretching the bust of her dress. Like clockwork. Can’t help myself.
“Sorry,” I say automatically, trying in vain to look away.
“Yeah, me too. And then this happened, with the dance school, and I am…” She bites her lip, and the catch in her voice finally does the trick. I look up, at her face.
“Hey. You okay?”
She nods, but she’s not okay. This is obviously crushing her, this rejection from the school, the loss of her dream. And yet here she is, taking care of me.
“Forget about this,” I say. “This talking shit. It was stupid. I got another idea. Why don’t you lie down with me?”
“Lie down with you?” Her voice rises to a horrified pitch.
“To catch a few Zs. You know.” I blink at her, my lids heavy. “It’s late.”
She doesn’t move, and it occurs to me belatedly that maybe I’ve offended her. She barely knows me, and I’m telling her to get into bed with me. A narrow bed, at that. Why would she?
“Hey, I’m not coming on to you,” I mutter. “I promise. I’d just feel better knowing you’re getting some rest, too.”
Fuck, I’m an idiot. She’s probably considering her exit strategy right now. Not sure how to fix this, I rack my mind for something to say to smooth things over before she runs.
Which is why I jerk in surprise when she toes off her shoes and climbs onto the mattress, lying down beside me. She’s on top of the covers, I’m below, but even through the quilt I feel her curves, and despite the queasiness, I harden and have to shift to accommodate my swelling dick.
Shit. Didn’t count on that. Thought I was too zonked out, but my dick has other ideas.
I pretend nothing happened, that I’m not two seconds away from flipping the covers back, grabbing her and sinking into her until she comes so hard she can’t speak. Until I come so hard I can’t think. I pretend that we are just a guy and a pretty girl on their way to becoming friends.
It will have to be enough. No choice. Not for someone like me.
She curls up against me, and when I extend my arm over the pillow, she snuggles closer. Jesus Christ, can’t remember the last time I’ve had a girl in my arms. Not like this. On my bed. By my side.
The girl I’ve been fantasizing about.
I shift again, draw a deep breath of her vanilla scent, and close my eyes, determined to catch some winks despite everything. Despite the silky softness of her hair under my cheek and her warmth along my side.
Yeah, as if. Dammit, I can’t sleep. My head is throbbing in time to my heartbeat.
“Seth?” she whispers.
“Yeah?”
“What about your family? Micah said…” She stops, starts again. “Crap, sorry. It’s none of my business.”
She’s right, it’s not. Automatic defenses rear up, put in place years ago, and I open my mouth to tell her Micah should learn to keep his fucking big mouth shut.
But I don’t.
Roll with the punches, right? Don’t lash out, don’t take the suckage that is life seriously. Despite the call this morning, despite the fact my mom is alive, that she left me to rot behind bars and took off with God knows whom to do God knows what… I don’t.
Besides, I asked first.
I take too long to reply, though, and she starts to sit up.
“I’m sorry,” she says again. “Really am. I shouldn’t poke my nose in other people’s lives. I should go.”