Rain has started to fall. It taps against the roof of Gray’s truck with a metallic rattle and runs in rivulets down the fogged-up windows. Inside, it’s warm, the old heater blowing steadily as we sit not speaking.
We’re parked in front of my house, listening to Nine Inch Nails’ Right Where it Belongs play softly on the radio, the sound haunting in the relative silence. Gray hasn’t moved, and I’m hesitant about saying a word. He’s clearly in his own world right now, his strong profile unmoving as carved stone as he stares blindly forward.
Every line of his body is tense, as if he might shatter if he moves, and I hate it. I’d seen the rage and the fear cloud his eyes when his brother taunted him. I’d seen the hurt and shame. Gray is in pain, and that is unacceptable.
Slowly, my hand slides across the truck’s leather bench seat. His fingers are curled into a fist, but the moment I touch him, he opens his hand, turning his palm upward to clasp my own. Until I feel the warmth of his touch, I don’t realize how much I’d needed it.
We don’t speak. Gray’s hand engulfs mine. For a moment, I simply sit and soak in the small connection between us. It’s strange how good it feels just to do this. Almost absently, he traces the back of my hand, down the sensitive edges of my fingers and over my knuckles. Pleasure hums along my skin.
I explore as well, sliding a finger along the length of his as the tip of my thumb strokes his palm. I love Gray’s hands. Warm, rough skin. Long fingers and broad palms, and the strength. He could crush my hand without effort yet he holds onto me as though I’m made of spun sugar. Tenderness batters my heart.
“Hey,” I whisper. “What kind of shoes do spies wear?”
At first I don’t think he’s heard me, then Gray’s lips twitch. “Don’t know.”
“Sneakers.”
“Har.” The corners of his eyes crinkle as his smile grows. Still he stares out the window.
I give his hand a small squeeze. “What do you get when you cross a vampire with a snowman?”
“What?”
“Frostbite.”
Gray snorts. And then his eyes find mine. They glint with humor in the dim interior. “What’s green and smells like pork?”
Relieved that he’s engaging, I have to bite my lip to keep from grinning. “What?”
“Kermit’s finger.”
“Eew.” I laugh as I bat his arm. “That is vile.”
His broad shoulders shake as his laugh rolls out. He has a gorgeous laugh, booming and infectious. And right now, it’s the best sound in the world.
I’m still laughing when I give him another one. “What did the duck say to the hunter?”
Gray chokes down a laugh before asking, “What?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I wasn’t there for that conversation.”
And he laughs again, his expression open and happy. “That is the lamest one ever, Mac.”
“I know. Hey.” When he looks at me expectantly, I give his hand a tug. “What’s up with you and your brother?”
Gray’s expression falls as abruptly as a lid being slammed shut, and a twinge of guilt hits me. It’s a sneak attack and shitty of me. But there’s a difference between slapping a bandage over a wound and trying to help heal it. I can’t heal all of Gray’s hurts, but I want to try.
“You don’t have to tell me,” I say when he doesn’t say anything.
Gray leans back against the seat and runs a hand over his face before looking off. “I don’t want to.”
It shouldn’t hurt. He has a right to his privacy. But a lump rises in my throat anyway. And it takes effort to nod. Not that he’s looking my way to see it.
A gust of wind hits the truck and it shudders. I should take him inside, comfort him with my body and forget trying to make him talk.
He sighs and turns to me. His eyes are haunted, and it hurts my heart.