His chest was bronzed to perfection, ripped with muscle—and covered in crisscrossing scars. Some looked like teeth marks, some like claw marks.
He had a myriad of beautiful tattoos, a few designs but mostly words that were scripted just below each of his collarbones. On both of his arms was a grim reaper’s scythe. Each staff began at his wrists and stretched all the way up, with the hooks ending on his chest, just over the names. There was a trail of dark hair that led from his navel to below the waist of those low-hanging jeans.
“Should I pull on a shirt?” he asked with a hint of amusement.
I will not blush. “No.” He’d be doing the world a favor if he never wore a shirt again, but I wasn’t going to tell him that part. “You’re fine.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
Okay, so I blushed. “I didn’t mean…that was… Oh, never mind!” I was too frazzled to be witty.
He chuckled.
“So what do the words mean?” I asked.
“They’re names,” he said, fingers brushing over the ink. “Friends I’ve lost in the fight against the zombies.”
A way to honor them, I realized, and in that moment I knew I would one day have the names of my family tattooed somewhere on my body. “My first day of school, Kat mentioned that two boys in your group died from some kind of disease last year. Did that have something to do with the zombies?”
He nodded. “They were bitten and couldn’t fight the infection.”
An ice-cold lump formed in my throat. “I was bitten.”
“Yeah, but I administered the antidote in time, saving you from having to fight the toxin. You remember a sting in your neck, right after I found you, right? You’ll be fine.”
I did remember a sting. Gradually the lump melted and I warmed. “You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
Well all right, then.
“Come on.” He held out his hand. “You want the rest of your questions answered, I’m sure.”
Overjoyed that that was still an option, I closed the distance and linked our fingers. The calluses on his palms comforted me, reminding me of his strength and his ability to take down anyone or thing that threatened us.
He led me into the living room, where Frosty, Mackenzie, Bronx and two people I’d never met waited. They all stopped what they were doing and got real quiet the moment they spotted me. When their gazes moved to my hand, still joined with Cole’s, they donned rabid-mean expressions.
I tried to extract myself but Cole held tight. He lifted his chin in a sign of pure stubbornness, kinda reminding me of, well, me. “You got something to say?” he demanded of the group.
They sure did. A rapid-fire conversation ensued.
Frosty: “She shouldn’t be here.”
Cole: “Maybe not, but she is.”
Unknown boy number two: “We know nothing about her.”
I’d call him Spike. His dark brown hair stuck out all over his head, as if he’d come into contact with a very mean light socket.
Cole: “We’ll learn.”
Mackenzie: “She’s a liability. She’ll tattle.”
Cole: “Please. I practically had to torture the information I do have from her.”
Unknown boy number one: “What about the mind-screw she was doing on you?”
I’d call him Turd. No explanation needed.
Cole: “Apparently I was doing the same to her. We don’t know what’s causing those visions or why, but they’re happening to both of us.”
Spike: “And you trust everything she says?”
Cole: “Look, she stays and that’s final.”
Everyone else: grumbling and muttering.
I noticed Cole had ignored the question about trusting me. “Thanks for the welcome, everyone,” I said. “Really. Means a lot to me.”
That earned me several (more) glares. Cole squeezed my hand, but whether it was in comfort or in warning, I could only guess—and I guessed warning. His friends were important to him, and he wouldn’t want me to smart-aleck.
I once again tried to pull from his grip, and he once again held on with vise-tightness.
“Try to get away now,” he muttered. “Dare you.”
“I wasn’t trying to get away,” I muttered back. “I just wanted a free hand to slap you with.”
He tried not to grin as he pointed out, “You have a free hand.”
“Well, the urge to hurt you has passed.”
“Lucky me.”
“You have no idea.”
“Well, I just figured out the problem,” Turd said drily.
The problem with me? Oh, that burned. “This doesn’t have to be about me,” I said, doing my best to sound calm. “Either you trust him or you don’t.” These people were his friends, but they’d put him in the leadership role. That meant his judgment ruled, and they could suck it. “Besides, what is it, exactly, that you think I’m going to do?”
“Tell people what we can do,” Mackenzie said.
At the same time, Frosty said, “Show the wrong people where we keep our weapons, and turn this into another JS situation.”
JS?