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A wince pinches his face, and he looks away, muttering something under his breath.
“He did. And it’s not happening,” I say stiffly.
He nods and mutters, “Right.” With that, he walks away, and my heart gives a dull thump.
Hanging my head, I stare at my hands, taking in the bruises and redness surrounding my knuckles. The scabs healing over. I’ve been down in the basement nearly every night now for weeks, taking it out the heavy bag until I’ve busted through the tape, and am seconds from keeling over.
A laugh travels across the room—his laugh. Breathy and raspy…
Not unlike the moan I heard over the phone weeks ago.
I clench my fists and close my eyes, counting to five as the blood roars in my ears.
Big mistake.
The second they’re shut, I’m greeted with an image of wandering masculine hands buried in thick white strands of hair. A smooth creamy back arching. Two little dimples sinking into the dip right above a plush ass, covered only by thin black boxer briefs, like the ones I saw years ago.
This time, the guy in my head man-handling him lifts his head, and it’s not a faceless stranger. It’s Will. Will, who’s surging down to claim Jeremy’s lips in a fierce kiss, and I?—
“Mason?”
My eyes fly open, and I rear back, when I find Shawn only a couple feet away.
He stares at me, brows furrowed over dark unreadable eyes.
“Y-yeah?”
He thrusts the broom at me, and I nod. Right. Get to work.
“You good?” he says shortly. He’s been asking that a lot lately.
“Yeah, just tired,” I tell him, my voice pitching ever so slightly.
He eyes me skeptically. “Uh huh. Still not sleeping well?”
I nod, and avert my gaze. Not a lie.
I can feel him scouring my face, looking for some kind of explanation. He won’t get one. Not…not this. He won’t understand. I don’t even fucking understand.
Still, I wonder what he sees when he looks at me.
Can he tell how fucked in the head I am?
I feel hot.
Nauseous.
My pulse beats rapid-fire against my neck. Tugging at the collar, I turn away from Shawn, blinking around the room, not really seeing anything.
Izzy.
Izzy, Izzy, Izzy.
Chanting her name to myself summons forth a tide of grief.
What the hell would she say if she knew the shit I was thinking?
She’s out there, God knows where, waiting for someone to find her—rescue her—and what the fuck am I doing?
