Page 51 of Bend

It’s that they’re all different, and somehow every single one of them has something that gets under my skin.

Draygon is intense in that quiet way. Not loud and flashy. Just focused enough to make you feel pinned by his attention. The kind of guy who asks if you ate like it’s casual, when really it’s not. The kind who’d remember your coffee order after hearing it once and then act like that’s completely normal.

Wolfe is warm. Easygoing, funny, and so goddamn steady. The kind of man who makes everything feel lighter right up until he does something so genuinely sweet it catches you off guard and sticks.

And Thorne…

Thorne is pure fucking static. In another life, he had to have been a fucking comedian. He’s sharp, cocky, gorgeous, but also fucking impossible. The kind of person who acts like nothing gets to him until suddenly it really, really does.

The craziest part is, I’m not ashamed of it.

Because they’re not interchangeable. This isn’t me collecting hot men like some emotionally unstable Pokémon trainer. Even from the short time I’ve spent with them, I can tell they all carry different damage.

Different edges. Different things they pretend don’t matter.

I type back to Draygon.

Me:

i’m busy this morning

He replies immediately.

Draygon:

Didn’t ask about this morning.

I snort.

Me:

Pushy much

Draygon:

Only when its something i want

I stare at that for a second, thumb hovering. Then I put the phone down without answering. Because honestly, I cannot deal with him right now. Shit, I can barely deal with my own reflection.

I finish my makeup, drag my hair up into a high ponytail, then redo it because I hate it, then leave it down because I hate the second ponytail more. I pull on my boots and strap them up tight before pulling my hoodie followed by my chest protector and secure it firmly. Bag strapped on, and helmet in hand, I pause at the door, and take one last look around the motel room.

Wolfe was right, it is a dump, but honestly, it’s been my only form of safety for weeks, and for that, I’m willing to overlook its flaws. One last deep breath, and I head out into the Tampa heat, letting the door lock behind me.

Sayshen is waiting outside when I come down, coffee in one hand, helmet hanging from the other handlebar of his bike. He’s leaned against it like he’s been there a while, all black tee, dark ink crawling up his neck and over his hands, messy dark hair falling over his forehead in that effortless way that probably takes effort even if he’d never admit it. There’s something sharp about him this morning, half awake but still watchful, like he notices everything before he decides what to do with it.

He looks up when he sees me and does one quick, big-brother scan that somehow manages to be assessing, protective, and mildly judgmental all at once.

I stop in front of him. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s a lie.”

He holds out the coffee. “You just look a little less ‘yes, I am obviously the perfect candidate for this job’ and a little more ‘one wrong word and I’ll kill you.’”

I take it. “How sweet of you to point out I look like shit. Did it ever occur to you that maybe, just maybe I had a rough night?”

His mouth twitches. “Rough night? Doing what? Binging reality tv and clearing out the Motel vending machine?”