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Real bad.
“So,” I say, because silence is dangerous right now. “What exactly is your plan here?”
“My plan?”
“Yeah. You said you came to warn me. You said there are people coming. What exactly am I supposed to do about it?”
His face shifts. The lightness drains out of it and something else moves in — something serious and focused and cold in the way that reminds me who he is. Who he was. Who he’s probably still capable of being.
“The Sons,” he says. “They know you saw that one murder, and it’s a bigger deal than you know. Midnight’s got a hard-on for making sure it stays quiet. He’s got people looking for you, and considering all the info they stole from the Devils, it won’t be long until they come here.”
“And you?”
“What about me?”
“You walked away from them. Don‘t they want you too?”
“I slipped out when things were chaotic after that gunfight at the clubhouse. It won’t be long until they suspect something.” His jaw tightens.
“So you’re running.”
“I’m doing what I have to do. There’s an opportunity in this mess, and I want to take advantage of it.”
“Really? So you’re just here because you want to spin it so you can take advantage?”
“I told you. I owe you. And I’m trying to keep you alive. That’s it.”
I look at him for a long moment. The wine is making everything softer around the edges, warmer, easier to accept. I can feel it working through my blood, lowering the walls I keep up, making his face more appealing than it should be.
“You actually care about me.”
He’s quiet. Silent. Which is answer enough for me.
“Why?”
“I told you already. I owe you. And maybe we can help each other out…”
There’s something in his voice when he says it. Something raw. Something more that I can clearly hear. And I realize, sitting here on the floor of my studio apartment with my defenses down and wine in my system, that I believe him.
Which is either the smartest thing I’ve done all morning or the dumbest.
Probably the dumbest.
I drain the rest of the bottle and set it down beside me. Then I realize, with a slow creeping awareness, that neither of us has moved to put clothes back on. My bra is still on the floor by the radiator. My sleep shorts are somewhere near the bed. His jeans and shirt are in a pile by my feet.
And we’re both just sitting here. Mostly naked. Drinking wine. Talking.
This is fine.
This is completely fine.
Because that’s all we’re doing. Talking. Like responsible adults do.
Except I keep looking at him. I keep noticing things. The way the light falls across his chest. The way his boxer briefs sit low on his hips. That he’s still hard, or hard again, I can’t tell which, but either way it’s there and I’m noticing it and I’m thinking about it and I need to stop thinking about it immediately.
I need to say something. I need to break this moment before it goes somewhere I can’t walk back from.
I open my mouth.
