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“You have my offer. Take it or leave it.”
Refusing to tremble at the expression on his face, my thighs tighten together, a wave of heat rolling through me because I know that look all too well.
This man can’t decide whether to rip my head off or throw me down to fuck me, and that’s a bad way to start this friendship.
The energy surrounding him affects me just as much, my mouth going dry while wet heat blooms between my legs.
How will I survive six weeks of being this close to him without losing my sanity?
I take a step back to place distance between us because I can’t trust myself not to reach out and touch him.
One touch.
That’s all it would take for both of us to lose this battle to stay apart.
Six weeks offriendship.
I laugh at the lie.
If anything, it’ll be six weeks of soul-wrenching torture.
“Fine,” he barks, “I’ll tell you the parts that I can.”
Turning, Ezra marches to my door, angrily yanks it open and is halfway into the hallway when he pauses to glance back at me.
“I’ll see you this Friday.”
I blink my eyes. “I don’t remember making plans with you for Friday.”
“You just did,” he says with a grin. “It’s so good being friends again.”
“The best,” I snap, my gaze fighting his.
He doesn’t say another word, just walks down the hall and around a corner. I hear the front door slam in the distance as he lets himself out of the house.
My body gives out almost immediately, and I lie down on my bed and curl into a ball.
Six weeks of hurting myself.
Six weeks of lying.
And in that time while I’m not with them, I’ll be running a different game that neither of the twins can know about.
Ezra
It’s a familiar scent of oil and sweat in Priest’s shop, the high-pitched squeal of an impact wrench scraping my eardrums as I let myself in through a back door and stare at a mess of crushed metal.
Whistling loudly to be heard over the wrench, I lean back against a wall and watch Priest roll out from beneath another car on a lift, his chin nudging in my direction before he sits up on the creeper.
The garage is a hell of a lot bigger than most people realize, easily fitting ten cars. Every bay and lift is full as Priest’s guys prepare for a show Shane told me about a few weeks ago.
Priest pushes to his feet and walks over to me. After slapping my palm, he pulls the welding helmet he’s wearing from his head and drops it onto a large steel table beside us.
I angle my head toward the car closest to us that has seen far better days.
“What the hell happened there?”
Priest laughs, his shoulder length hair pulled back at the nape of his neck, his white shirt smeared with dirt and oil.