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I’m so fucked…
***
“Last time you ran out of here as if you
had fucking hellhounds nipping at your heels,” Riddick says, pale eyes watching me carefully, though without anger.
I swallow. It’s hard to think, let alone formulate sentences. “Well, I’m here now.”
“Looks like it.” His lashes lower, hiding his eyes. “Is everything okay?”
Oh sure. I keep my hands on my lap, trying to hide a hard-on that’s like a ramming bull. “Yeah, fine. I just came by to ask how you’re doing.”
Those long lashes lift, as do his brows. “You did?”
“Hey, don’t look so surprised,” I say, my brain finally kicking in. “I’m not an asshole.”
“Yeah, no, I just…” Now he’s the one who seems to be lost for words. “Thanks.”
He walks over to a threadbare armchair and sinks down in it. His wide-eyed expression tells me he’s genuinely shocked at this show of concern—and I’m shocked to find my concern is genuine, not just a pretext for seeing him.
“How’s your back?”
“Better.” He shifts, his movement betraying him, or at least telling me he’s not one hundred percent yet.
“And your brother?”
The light in his eyes dims. “Hasn’t come home in a while. Haven’t been able to find him, either.”
Fuck, that sucks. I tell him so.
“Yeah, it fucking sucks,” he mutters, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’m so worried I can’t sleep at night.”
And that’s when I notice for the first time the dark circles under his eyes and find a new meaning in the scruff on his jaw. Like he hasn’t bothered, too tired, too worried.
I scratch at my own jaw, and think of my own reason for not shaving this morning—my shaky hand, because of a weekend buried in work. Because of my father’s missed calls. Because of—
“Want a drink?”
I start to shake my head—alcohol can raise your blood pressure and triglyceride levels, bad idea—but I hear myself saying, “Sure. What do you have?”
He reaches under the scratched coffee table that’s covered in magazines—astronomy and tattoos—and pulls out a bottle of Scotch and two glasses.
“This okay?” He pours the amber liquid and passes me a glass.
I take a cautious sip. I haven’t eaten since lunch and haven’t had a drop of alcohol in years. “Yeah, this is good.”
He takes a long swig and leans back in the armchair. He scratches at the tattoo on his chest—it looks like a constellation—and my gaze trails down his tight abs to the small blue towel and his long, muscular legs.
He’s tall, like me, his shoulders wider than I remember. His physique is impressive, obviously the result of hard work at the warehouse and not long hours spent at the gym.
I wonder how we’d fit against each other. Who’d be on top. What noises he’d make if I blew him. If I fucked him.
Christ, what am I doing?
I put down my glass and discover it’s almost empty. “I should get going.”
“Running away again?”
