Page 97 of The Games We Play

“Not ... the same.” Spark gives up on trying to move and lays his head back down on his pillow. His long sigh is weary.

“Let me ease you, Tyler. Let me take care of what hurts, like you took care of me. Let me clean you up, and then you can be mad at me when you feel better. But the idea of you being like this and alone is too awful to think about.”

He opens his eyes, a tear leaking from his uninjured one. He doesn’t say anything, just tips his chin in a subtle nod.

I get the bowl before dipping the cloth into the water. I do the best I can to wring it out without getting my brace wet. Starting with his face, I drag the cloth gently over his forehead, snaking around the areas Switch cleaned and bandaged or applied ointment to. I wipe his good eye and sweep beneath the one that looks so achingly painful I can almost feel it.

One side of his lip has been split, and I clean up the trail of dried blood on his chin. When his mouth is clean, I press the gentlest of kisses to the unscathed side.

Spark never moves.

Doesn’t respond.

I clean his neck and make my way over his chest that is now a patchwork of dressings and bruises. I have so many questions I want to ask. The main one is if this was my uncle. But I’m also scared to know, because that would surely be the final nail in our coffin.

His breathing increases, his mouth opening as I work my way down to his abs. Slowly but surely, he becomes aroused, which must hurt in his jeans.

I reach for his belt and begin to unbuckle it, but he quickly grips my wrist. “Don’t.”

“You can’t be comfortable in denim. Let me take your boots and jeans off.”

“Fine,” he grunts.

I tug his boots off, remove his socks, then open the buckle on his belt. “This might hurt a little,” I say as I try to jostle his jeans down. He grunts as he leverages his hips up by grounding his feet on the mattress. It only takes another second to get them down his legs.

Spark sighs as he lies back down.

There is sweat on his forehead, so I mop his brow again.

“Did you get painkillers?” I ask.

He shakes his head softly. “Don’t like them. Make me puke.”

“Well, I already threw up in front of you, so it would make us even.”

The corner of his mouth twitches like he might smile. “I haven’t slept with anyone else while I’ve been with you,” he admits.

“Good.”

Music blasts from the bar area, and it’s grating on my last nerve. It’s loud. Metal. Spark’ll never get the rest he needs. “I’ll be back.”

Marching down the corridor, I’m on a mission. “Who is controlling the music?” I ask a prospect.

“Probably Niro, given what’s playing.”

Niro. The one with the scar. I scan the bar and find him by the pool table with King. “You need to turn the music down,” I shout.

He laughs at me. “I don’t have to do anything,little chick.”

The two words, which bring me so much joy when Spark says them, now rankle me. “First, you don’t get to call me that. And second, your so-called brother needs rest. He can’t get it because of the volume.”

Niro huffs a laugh and chalks the end of the pool cue. “Volume’s always this loud. And plenty of people have slept through it.”

With a complete lack of self-preservation, I bat the pool cue out of his hand and step right up into his space. “Yes, but they shouldn’t have to, you dick. Turn the music down.”

A hand wraps around my waist and pulls me back. “Steady, Iris,” King mutters in my ear. “I get you’re upset, but you don’t talk to any of the guys in here like that.”

I spin in his arms, tears burning my eyes. “He’s hurt, King. Badly. He needs to sleep it off, and until he’s well enough to move home, he needs to get it here.”