Page 35 of The Sin Eater

He does, but only so he can gulp. His obvious appreciation helps me feel less self-conscious. “See this?” I point to my right shoulder, more specifically, to the thick scar that goes from about four inches above my nipple to the acromion, where my clavicle and scapula meet. The scar is flanked by a pair of puncture wounds from the drains the surgeons left in.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

“Apparently my body likes to make scar tissue, and the injury was pretty severe to begin with. I’m not sure I could play center field for a neighborhood softball team these days.”

“Whatever.” He shrugs like he couldn’t care less about what position I play. “Do you like nipple play?”

“What?”

“I mean, you areallman, and it’s taking serious self-restraint not to crawl into your lap right now and go to town.”

Laughing, I grab my shirt from where I’ve tossed it on the floor. “We’ll get there, Ezra Morgue, after we finish our dinner.”

“What the fuck?Morgue?”

“You’ve got your last name covered with tape.”

He raises his chin, like, a millimeter. “Huckaby, but not the same family as that evil governor.”

I move to pull my tee shirt on. “Don’t,” he says.

“Don’t put my shirt on?”

“Nah, I like you just like that.”

I leave the shirt draped over my knee. “Ezra Huckaby.” I savor the name. “I’ll remember that.”

“You better.” He stands and, moving like some kind of big cat, comes around the table. “Because I’ve been waiting quite a while to do this with you.”

My mouth goes dry. “Do what?”

He straddles my lap, gripping the posts in the chair’s back to bring us closer together. “This.”

Cupping his cheek, I close my eyes and inhale. Cigarettes and spice. Stubble rough against my palm. “There’s something about you, something I can’t shake, you know?”

“I’m the bad seed that keeps sprouting in your peaceful garden.”

“Peaceful garden.” I echo him and laugh. “Is that like a lady garden? Cuz I for sure don’t have one of those.”

“Never seen one, to be honest.” He flexes his hips, an easy motion that promises more. “But I want you, and I’m pretty sure you want me. The only thing I don’t understand is why we’re sitting here talking about it.”

“Because we both just stuffed ourselves with Indian food?”

“Oh, for fuck’s”—he jerks his head away from my hand—”if I bend over and spread my ass cheeks, will you find something else to complain—”

“Stop.” I cut him off, my voice low. “Don’t be like that.”

He laughs, a bitter sound. “Like what? I’m nobody from Bumfuck, Arkansas. Better men than you have used me and abused me and lived to tell the tale.”

“Ezra.”

“Cut it out. Pity’s not much of a turn-on, you know.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, this isn’t about pity.”

“What, then?” His voice rises and I cover his mouth with my hand to shut him down before he completely ruins the mood. Instead of biting, he licks a stripe across my palm. Whatever resolve I’ve cobbled together starts to shred and I slide my hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

“You’re not nobody, not to me, anyway.”