He’s right. I fantasized about all the things I’d say to him if I finally got him to speak to me, all the things I’d ask if we ever ended up somewhere alone and private. Here I am, and I can’t put together a coherent thought.
I stand and hand him my ice pack. “Here. I think I’m good. You should ice your knuckles.”
He flexes his hand a few times but doesn’t show even a hint of discomfort. “Nah, feels good.”
Feels good? I mark that down on my mental list of things to obsess about, but not tonight. Way too much has happened and I need a moment to process.
“Right, well, it was nice to finally hang out with you. Thanks for saving me . . . three times.”
His face grows serious. Thoughtful. “Hey”—he shrugs—“you saved me too.”
I didn’t. Not when it mattered most. But I’m here to make up for that.
Five
The evil comes after my body
With strokes and whispered words.
I yell for death to take me
But my cries all go unheard.
--Ataxia
Rex
This night is dragging. Other than a quick run to my place for a shirt, I’ve been crammed on the tiny couch, watching reruns of Tattoo Nightmares, and I’m restless as hell. This place is small. Too many walls. I absently toy with the rubber band on my wrist.
Mac hasn’t made a sound since she went back to Emma’s room to crash. Must be nice to fall asleep wherever you fall.
Me? I don’t do sleepovers or all-nighters, and I hate traveling. The only place I can fully relax in is mine, open space to breathe and visitor-free. A yawn peels from my throat. I’m exhausted, but catching z’s tonight is completely out of the question. The combo of last night’s royal-REM debacle has my head heavy and my thoughts tripping.
As much as I’m itching for the comfort of my place—a hot shower, clean sheets, and my bed—I know this was the right thing to do. Because of me, Mac probably has a concussion. The least I can do is sacrifice a night to make sure she gets through it without slipping into a coma.
I don’t know a thing about this girl, but something about her feels familiar. Maybe it’s her easy-going attitude. She acts more like a guy than a chick. Not what I’m used to at all. Most of the girls that I’ve hung out with whine when the waitress forgets the lime in their cocktail. Even Emma bangs my door down, squealing like kid when she finds a spider in her place. But with Mac there are no high maintenance demands or overreactions that most women are known for. I mean, fuck, she took a hit from a dude and didn’t even cry.
Tough chick.
I bet Mac kills her own spiders, probably with her bare hands.
Funny I haven’t noticed her before. I mean it’s not as if she blends in. Shit. My guess is she’s hovering around five-foot-ten, and her skin is pale, not creepy pale, but the kind of pale you don’t see on females here in Vegas. The combo of her height, light skin, and black hair is eye-catching. She’s a damn knockout.
And those lips. Fuck me. I’ve never seen lips so naturally dark before. Full and the color of a cherry. And that smile. The few times her mouth ticked up from something I said I felt it in my gut. The slight lift of her bow-shaped mouth and her arched eyebrows over those big eyes were sexy and daring like nothing I’ve ever seen. My chest gets tight and I blow out a long breath. And just like seeing it, thinking about it now stirs an energy that makes me feel equal parts curious and disgusted.
Fuck. I scrub my face. My body reacts to a beautiful woman, and I’m disgusted? This shit cannot be normal. My therapist has a hundred different theories, none of which I can stomach. I don’t remember much from my past, so I choose not to spend the time and energy figuring it out. Forward is the only direction I’m headed. And for whatever the fuck reason, getting turned-on also makes me sick. I’m a twenty-five-year-old man. Sex should be on the top of my priority list, right under air and above food.
But no. I squash my needs for as long as I possibly can, throwing all the excess energy into my fighting and my music until I can’t take another second. When I finally succumb to my sick-fuck urges, I get it over with fast with a stranger, usually paid for to avoid the personal connection. Once I’m relieved, I walk away quickly to avoid embarrassing myself, because shortly after I come, I always puke. Every. Single. Time.
God, I’m a mess.
With a sudden urge for a shot of tequila, I get up to ransack Emma’s kitchen, as quietly as I can, in search of anything that comes close. No beer in the fridge. No vodka in the freezer. No bourbon in the cupboard. Nothing.