Page 28

Holy shit, it’s seven o’clock. Oh my God, I’m late for work. Harper is going to kill me.
“Dude, she’s not here!” Josh yells, his voice carrying down the hall.
Double shit.
“Last time I saw her she was with you.”
He’s not lying. He didn’t know I’d snuck into Grayson’s room.
Carefully removing myself from the bed, I press my ear to the door and listen to the sound of Shane’s voice. “She’s not at home or at work, so she has to be here,” Shane argues. “She’s with that son of a bitch, isn’t she?”
Pain hits my chest, my throat dry. Of course he thinks that.
A memory hits me. My dad yelling through the phone, calling my mom a liar. Accusing her of feeding him lies and half-truths even though everything she said was the truth. When I was younger, I used to get so mad at my mom for staying with my dad. He used to beat the crap out of her to the point she had to cover it up with makeup, yet stayed with him for years. Sound familiar? It should because it’s my life now. So why didn’t she leave? How’d she love him so much that he could hurt her and she stayed? Didn’t she have enough respect for herself?
Now that I’ve been in her shoes, I have an understanding for that mindset. The one that compromises to keep peace and protect the ones you love. Would my dad go so far as to hurt my brother and me? I don’t think he would have, but he threatened her with it time and time again. She stayed because it was easier.
“Who’s yelling?” Grayson asks, his voice muffled.
I spin around to see him roll onto his back, one leg bent at the knee, his foot on the mattress. With his hands on his face, he drops them to his sides and lifts his head. He smiles, his eyes on my legs. Shit.
“That would be Josh yelling at Shane,” I tell him, yanking at the ends of the dress.
His eyes dart around the room as he breathes in heavy. He sits up, his shoulders hunched forward.
I let my eyes wander over his chest. At some point he’d taken off his shirt leaving him in his jeans from last night. Wow. Army did his body good. Fuck, look at those muscles. He’s no boy anymore. That’s all man! Muscles bulge and pop in all the right places. Damn.
He stands, and it gets better. I honestly fight the urge to fan myself. I mean, they make men like this?Fuuuuuck!Cut V, twelve pack… it’s too much. They don’t make men like that in Alabama. This guy, he’s been sculpted by an artist.
In his haste to reach for his shirt on the floor beside his bed, he knocks over a pill bottle. It hits the wood floor with a thud and rolls under his bed.
I shamelessly watch his every move from retrieving the bottle to him checking his cell phone beside the bed, running his strong hands through his hair, his back muscles flexing with each movement.
“What are those?” I gesture to the bottle he places back on the nightstand, my voice a little dry and croaky like a frog jumped in my throat.
Grayson glances at the bottle in his hand and then back at me. His expression’s indifferent, so distant almost it’s as if he’s in another world. “Muscle pain.” And then he turns around and into the light coming in through his window.
I gasp at the sight before me. Across his back are numerous scars, the marks appearing to be fairly new, still purple and lumpy. Uneasiness throbs in my gut as I take in the sight of him. Jagged marks span from his shoulders to the narrow part of his waist and further down. There’s one near his rib cage, long, deep, the skin around it slightly discolored.
I want to ask him about them, but as I gather the courage, he slides his shirt on and steps in front of me. We lock eyes, his curious, mine, I don’t know. Scared? Confused?
Reaching around me, his grabs the handle of the door, his chest pressing to mine. “No!” I stop him when the door hits my butt. I lean into it and it closes with my weight. It clicks behind me with a thud. “I don’t want him to know I’m here with you.”
Shock hits his face and he steps back a foot. His eyes narrow, his jaw tightening. “Why not?”
Okay, well, now he’s angry. Awesome.
“Because.” I snort, as if he should know. But hedoesn’t and he’s looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. “He remembers you from high school.” That’s not entirely the truth. I don’t fear him knowing Grayson. I fear the reaction to him knowing I was here, in Grayson’s bed last night.
“I don’t give a shit if he remembers me or not. Why does it matter if you’re here?”
“Because, Grayson, it’s really complicated.” One look at him and I know that answer isn’t going to cut it. My voice shakes, my fear of him seeing why this is so hard for me weigh heavily on my words. “I just don’t want him to see you, or rather me here,” I insist, my eyes on his chest again. He’s breathing heavy.
He’s quiet, much too quiet, nodding while staring at the floor, his jaw rigid and set. And then he looks up, a quick snap of his eyes to mine, his mouth opens as though he’s about to say something, but he pauses. Swallowing hard, he shrugs one shoulder. “Do you think I care what he thinks? I saw his reaction last night to us.”
“I know you saw his reaction. All the more reason for himnotto see us together.”
Grayson shakes his head as if he’s disgusted. He folds his arms over his chest. “Tell me, ’cause I’m really fucking curious, what is that you see in him?”