Page 12 of Cruz

If she comes crashing down, she’s going to hit the coffee table. The glass coffee table.

I’m not doing much over here besides staring at my phone screen, watching all the security feeds, standing in a slight stretch. Okay, I’ve been glancing between my phone screen and Sloane, trying not to stare at her solely. I change strategies and set my phone down. I get ready to catch her or brace her if she needs it. Seeing her tremble and shake, wobble and waver, immediately sets off a protective alarm bell in my head.

“Why don’t you ever say anything?” Sloane grinds out. I’m shocked she can talk at all. She was measuring her breaths before and concentrating so intently. “Is it an actual condition? PTSD?”

I study her, wondering how I’m supposed to gather up enough words to answer something that’s gone on my whole life.

“You’re going to hurt yourself like that.” My voice is like gravel. It’s awful, but the words burst out of me. Sloane wavers and gasps. My hands shoot out, but I stop short of touching her. She wouldn’t forgive me if I messed up her pose before she lost it. My throat burns, but I force more words. “I could show you some exercises that are more effective, but less risky.”

I see now why Sloane rolled and tucked her t-shirt. It doesn’t ride up and expose anything and she doesn’t have to keep tugging it down. It pretty much stays right in place on her hips. A sliver of creamy skin is exposed above her leggings, but I rip my eyes away.

“I’ll pass, thanks.” She blinks at me from upside down. “Why are you looking at me like that? Just because you have a quintillion black belts doesn’t mean that you’re better at this than I am.” I blink at her. “Oh. You think you are. By all means, you give it a go. I—argh!”

She tumbles over, falling sideways before she can catch herself and come safely out of the pose. She’s heading straight for the sharp edges of that metal and glass coffee table that I wish she would have moved to the other side of the room.

She falls fast, but I’m faster.

I get my arms around her and catch her, bring her safely down to her side. My chest presses against her chest. My shoulder to her shoulder. Our hipbones brush.

She gasps and wrenches away, wriggling out from under my arms. She kneels on her mat and quickly composes her face, smoothing it into the pleasant mask that she probably reserves for asshole customers, but she can’t hide the flush staining her cheeks. I don’t know if she’s humiliated, pissed off, or something I shouldn’t be thinking about because ridiculously turned on isn’t an option.

“I had it,” she huffs, going with anger because that’s easiest. “Falling is part of learning. I didn’t need your help.”

“Okay.”

“You’re so obnoxious.” Her words are heated, but it sounds forced.

“Okay.”

“Don’t use your reverse psychology SEAL training whatever on me.” She waves her hands around all in my face like she’s casting a spell, but I guess she’s just animated. My face wants to crack open and smile. I want to do something I haven’t done in a long time. Laugh. “And don’t you dare say okay.”

Silence fills the room.

She seems satisfied with it. She’s still breathing roughly.

So am I. What the fuck? I immediately start on measured breaths, counting them out for myself.

“I don’t want you to show me exercises. I was trying to clear my head. The happy little let’s stretch ourselves out and tone ourselves up yoga wasn’t going to cut it for me tonight.”

That’s debatable, but of course I don’t say that.

Sloane studies me, her eyes burning a hole through my skull. My stomach clenches, but not in a bad way. Despite the fact that I’m kneeling here, totally still, my heartrate kicks up again.

“I want something to think about. The physical stuff is obviously easy for you, Mr. Ass Kicker Extraordinaire. How about some poetry?”

“Why do you hate me?” I groan. She must, if she’s asking me to entertain her with verse. That involves speaking. And poetry. I might be a lot of things, but a damn artist of any kind isn’t one of them.

She takes that literally. “I don’t. I just don’t want Liam involved with you or anyone else from the club. I appreciate what you’re all doing, and I know that this was something Liam did wrong and that you don’t have to do any of it.” She snatches the remote and switches the TV off. “I’m struggling between gratitude, guilt, and worry that something even more horrendous will happen if Liam gets any deeper with the club. You can’t promise me it won’t, so don’t even try. I’m not really at a point where I’m ready for platitudes yet.”

“Okay.”

“This is like water torture!” She scrambles up and starts pacing, taking ten steps in one direction and ten steps the other. I wonder if she’s counting. “Or sleep deprivation. It might actually be worse.” She whips around to face me, eyes bright, though they’re so full of emotion that I don’t know how to untangle any of it. “A poem and I won’t give you a hard time tonight. I’ll go straight to bed. I won’t even ask you to convince the club’s president not to allow Liam to join. I’ll save all of that for tomorrow, when I might look at things in a new light, although… I doubt it. I’m always going to want what’s best for Liam. The best meaning not joining a motorcycle club. So… tomorrow. When I’ve had a chance to try and sot myself out.”

“This is… hard.” Awesome.

Nice, captain obvious. A poet you definitely are not.

Sloane’s eyes narrow as they rake over my face, digging for something I can’t give. “Do you have kids?”