Page 43 of Make Me Mean It

CHAPTER TWELVE

CONNOR

Stumbling into the hallway, the door thuds shut behind me, the sound echoing a little too loudly inside my head. Everything feels slower, softer around the edges, the alcohol sitting warm in my veins and leaving my limbs loose, my thoughts lagging slightly behind where they should be.

Dragging a hand through my hair, I cross to Marcus’s door and reach for the handle, my fingers missing it the first time before I manage to catch it. I yank it down, frowning when it doesn’t give, rattling it again before leaning my weight into the door.

My shoulder knocks against the wood with a muffled thud.

I step back and stare at the door.

Why has he locked it?

“Marcus,” I call, lifting my fist and knocking, the sound heavy and uneven beneath my knuckles.

“Fuck off, Con,” Marcus’s voice comes straight back through it, deeper than usual.

My mouth opens, the argument already sitting on my tongue, but a woman moans loudly from the other side before I can get it out.

I wrinkle my nose.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I mutter, snatching my hand away and scrubbing both palms down my face.

A door creaks open behind me just as another moan carries through Marcus’s room, deeper this time and loud enough that I physically flinch.

I clap both hands over my ears and squeeze my eyes shut, but I’ve already heard more than any younger brother should ever be forced to hear.

“Jesus,” I huff. “You’re a fucking pig, Marcus.”

I thump my palm against the door again, and Marcus fires something back that disappears beneath another burst of noise from inside.

I don’t even try to make it out. I’ve already heard more than enough for one night.

A chuckle comes from behind me, and I breathe out through my nose, turning. Every scrap of patience Marcus has left me is ready to land on whoever finds this funny.

Theo is leaning against his doorframe.

Shirtless.

The irritation dies on my tongue.

His hair is still mussed from sleep, dark strands pushed in every direction, one arm stretched above his head against the frame, the other hanging loose at his side. Ink covers most of the skin I usually only catch pieces of beneath his clothes, winding over his shoulder and down his arm before disappearing around his ribs.

I snap my eyes back to his face, only to find that stupid smirk already waiting for me.

His eyes are still heavy with sleep, green softened by it in a way I’ve never seen before, and for some fucking reason I can’t make myself look away.

I follow the dark ink of his tattoo’s lower across the easy rise and fall of his chest and the taut line of his stomach until the waistband of his joggers comes dangerously close to my sightline.

“Enjoying the show?” Theo asks, his voice low as he glances towards Marcus’s door.

I fold my arms across my chest, turning my glare on the wood instead of him. “I’m being traumatised.”

A quiet laugh leaves him as he pushes away from the frame and steps into the hallway. “Bit dramatic, princess.”

I roll my eyes. “Shut up.”

It should have more bite than it does. Usually, princess is enough to sharpen every word that comes out of my mouth, but the alcohol has blurred the edges somewhere between my head and my tongue, leaving the insult embarrassingly close to fond.