Seth (Damage Control #3) (15 page)

Damn, I need a break.

“Yeah, my mom.” I swallow the rest of my lukewarm beer and slam the bottle on the low table. “And she wanted me to bail her out.”

“Jesus Christ.” Micah comes around the sofa and plants himself in the chair across from me. “She’s got some balls.”

“Yeah.” I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand, survey the line of bottles. “I think we need more beer.”

“Just… what exactly happened?” Micah is still nursing his beer. “When was the last time you saw her, man? Why did you think she was dead?”

Fuck.
He’s going straight into dangerous territory.

“Long story,” I say, “and I’m kinda tired.”

“What, is that code for I’m-not-gonna-talk-about-this-so-fuck-off?”

“More or less.”

Micah laughs. He’s a good guy. The golden boy of Damage Control. Not because of the hair. It’s his heart. One hundred percent, twenty-four carat gold. He’s so kind he’s still beating himself up over not believing Jesse when the shit went down with Cassie at Asher’s wedding—over believing Jesse was cheating on his girl. For Micah, that’s serious.

“You can trust me,” he says, and I know I can.

For most things. Normal things.

Not this, though.

“I’m just unlucky,” I tell him, and hope he drops it.

“Buddy, getting struck by lightning is unlucky. Or by meteorite.”

“Meteorite? You’re making this shit up.”

“I’m not. My point is, whatever happened isn’t bad luck. Just life.”

“Well, life sucks.” And he has no clue what he’s talking about.

“There was also this guy who survived two atomic bombs. In Japan. Heard of him?”

“All right, shut up, okay? Shut up.”

He laughs again, drinks up the rest of his beer and lifts his hands in surrender. “I’ll leave you to your beauty sleep.” He gets up, shakes his head at the forest of bottles. “Man, can’t believe we drank so many.”

“Good thing you’re walking.”

“Yeah, Halo isn’t far. You should come.”

I don’t reply. Don’t wanna see the guys, talk and shit, though I know that, come Monday, I really have to go to the shop, pick up my training. Don’t want them asking questions, like Micah.

Rafe keeps asking how my knee got fucked up, Asher why I picked a fight with that guy the other night at the party, Zane wants to know what’s going on with Manon—which is exactly nothing, nada, zero—and the girls who have a sixth sense keep asking if I’m okay and if I’ve found a job.

I haven’t. Like I said, it’s not like I haven’t looked. I just can’t find one. I’ve tried everything, and got nothing. Yeah, they didn’t come out and say it, but even the freaking burger joints don’t want someone like me, and if I don’t find something… Shit, the thought of returning to the streets terrifies me.

“Bad luck,” Micah says, grabbing his jacket from the hook by the door, “afflicts people who believe in it.”

“And your point is?”

“Start believing you’re lucky, and you will be.”

“You serious? Want a fist in your face?”

“Kayla says that. Start believing you’re lucky. You should call her to cleanse your apartment or something. Read your fortune.”

“The only thing she’ll read will be the imprint of my fist on your stupid face.”

He’s still laughing as he lets himself out and closes the door.

But I’m not.

Fuck my life.

***

I’ve rolled myself into an old blanket on the sofa, half-dozing, the picture of my mom beside me. I thought I’d thrown it into the trash, but I found it straightened and flat on the table the other day.

Like a sign—though of what, I have no fucking clue. I can faintly see its shape in the half-dark. Ribbons of light from the street below cut through the slats in the window. I can hear distant music. A street party. Micah mentioned it. They were heading there after a few drinks at Halo.

I used to do that. Used to believe things would finally turn out all right. That I was free of the curse of my past.

What the fuck was I thinking? Now I’m avoiding the only family I’ve ever really had to escape the truth.

The
truth
, goddammit. A truth that will damn me in their eyes just like it does in the eyes of everyone who knows.

Shane has texted me a few times. He knows something’s up, ’cuz I’m avoiding him, too. We’ve always been tight as brothers. But he’s got his own demons to fight. Bigger, badder demons than mine. Can’t heap mine on top of them.

‘Sides. What can he do? Nothing, that’s what. Talking about the past will only serve to make his nightmares worse. No fucking way am I doing that to him. If push comes to shove, if Zane and Rafe find out about my record, I’ll leave.

Damn.
A knot forms in my throat at the thought of leaving, and I pull the blanket over my head.

Chill, Seffers.
Nothing happened. It’s just been a bad couple of weeks.

Months.

Years.

Fuck.

I drift, and it’s cold all the way to my fucking bones. I’m in my cell, the steps of the guard approaching. Dread curls in my stomach, burning acid. Can’t do this again. Can’t let it happen.

Can’t stop it.

But the guard’s steps falter. Their rhythm changes. They stop.

Another sound reaches my ears and I blink, taking in my dim living room, the table, the sofa I’m on.

Not the cell.

No danger.

Still my heart is racing a hundred miles an hour as I lower the blanket and sit up. Sounded like a knock.

There it comes again—a knock on the apartment door. Frowning, I throw my legs off the sofa and scratch at my jaw. Who can that be? Jesse, trying to drag me out for drinks? I wouldn’t put it past him, but fuck, I need a shave. And a shower. I’m only dressed in my sweats and a T-shirt.

I wait, but silence spreads. Did I imagine it?

Cursing to myself, I push myself upright and test my knee. It holds, so I limp to the door and open it.

The last person I expect to see tonight is standing right in front of me, her small fist raised to knock again:

Manon.

***

“May I come in?” she says, and I realize I’ve been staring at her like an idiot.

“Sure.”

She steps inside, her heels clicking on my bare floor. “Oh, I’m sorry.” She glances from the blanket on the sofa to me and back. “Did I wake you up?”

“Good thing you did,” I mutter, my brain still short-circuited from dozing, from the snatches of memory-dreams and her unexpected presence at my door.

“Are you all right?” She steps closer, her eyes concerned, and I step back, not sure I can take this show of caring when I know she doesn’t really mean it.

She kissed me back last time and then vanished for a week. Just like she vanished the time before. And I’m pretty sure I know where she’s been: her boyfriend’s arms. I wonder if this time they did it, if everything’s fine now between them.

I don’t wanna know.

“What brings you here?” I wander back into the room, leaving her to close the door, if she’s staying, go if she’s leaving. “Didn’t my lessons help? Want a refund?”

And there I go again, where I shouldn’t. The memory of kissing her burns through me like a wildfire.

“I was at this street party. It’s close by. Thought to ask if you’d like to come.”

“You did?” I try to rub the sleep from my eyes, clear my head. “Nah, I’ll pass. Thanks anyway.”

Her face falls. “You’re probably still tired from the concussion and all that. And that’s my fault. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I sure as hell am not.”

“You’re not? I almost killed you, and even though I didn’t, you got a good hit to the head.”

I sigh, because my mouth’s still not connected to my conscious brain. “Yeah, there’s that. But it was still nice meeting you.”

She snorts, and I smile. Hey, it’s the truth. She probably thinks I’m teasing. I’m not. She’ll never know how much I mean it.

“Wanna stay a while? Order some takeout or something?” I mentally count the money I’ve got left. Fuck, it’s not much.

Sudden panic grips me. The money’s running out—between food and bills, and damn what about the money I owe the landlord—and I still don’t have a goddamn job.

“Not sure,” she says, and I nod, turning away and rubbing a hand over my chest.

“It’s okay. Forget it.” I’m not gonna push her if she’s so uncomfortable and hey, it’s not like I’m good company anyway—torn between angsting about tomorrow and lusting after her. “Fuck.”

Can’t breathe. I grab the hem of the T-shirt and pull it over my head as I limp toward my bedroom. I throw it to the floor and sit down on the bed, trying to get some air back into my lungs.

What the fuck’s happening to me? Haven’t had this in a while.

“Seth?” I start when she enters my room. Didn’t hear her. She’s kicked off her shoes, and her feet whisper on the thin carpet as she approaches the bed. “Hey.”

She’s wearing a low-cut white blouse and a flared black-and-white skirt that leaves her pretty legs bare. I gaze at her, waiting for my lungs to start doing their thing again, allowing me to breathe.

“Something’s wrong,” she says, not asking, and comes to sit beside me. She places her hand over mine. Over my heart. “Tell me what it is.”

Shit.
Can’t. I shake my head.

“Is it your mom? Did she call you?”

Goddammit, I forgot about her for a while there. I groan between my teeth.

Seconds tick by in silence.

“You were right, you know,” she says at last. At my uncomprehending look, she leans closer, putting her other arm around my back. “That everything would be okay. I made up my mind about my studies, and somehow I’m not as sad as I thought I’d be. In fact I feel… free.”

She’s looking up at me, her eyes bright, and the knot in my chest eases a little.

“That’s good,” I manage.

“I’ll transfer to the sports department, and later I hope to become a physical therapist. How does that sound?”

I smile. “Sounds awesome. Anything you decide to do would be awesome. You’ll do great.”

She smiles back. “You’re a really nice guy, Seth.”

Yeah.
Only “nice” isn’t what I want to be with her. I want more. What I want is to kiss her, fuck her, brand her. Hold her. Make her mine.

What a clusterfuck.

“You should go back to the street party,” I say, trying to be gentle but sounding gruff and winded. “Celebrate.”

“Only if you go with me.”

I huff, press the heel of my palm into my chest. “Some other time.”

She lets go of me and gets up, leaving me cold. I think she’s about to say goodbye, but instead she says, “I’ll make you some tea, warm you up.”

“I don’t have any.”

“Oh.” She looks unsure for a second.

My breathing is easing, at long last, and I prop my hands behind me on the mattress and lean back. “Manon.”

She’s staring at my chest, I realize, her eyes lost in shadow. Chicks generally seem to dig my ink. But a ballet dancer, a rich girl like her, maybe not. Can’t remember if she seemed repulsed last time, too lost in tasting her mouth and touching her to notice.

Only one way to find out.

“Come here,” I say, and she wavers briefly before giving in and coming back to me. I take her hand and press it to my chest, skin to inked skin.

Her pupils flare, black swallowing green. Her lips part and she draws a shallow breath.

Well, well.
She may not want to go out with me, but her body wants me. That much is clear.

“Your boyfriend still hasn’t fucked you?” I ask under my breath, rude of purpose. Pushing her. Searching for a reaction, a glimpse of the truth. “Still hasn’t kissed you?”

She jerks, but doesn’t pull her hand away. The crimson blush rising over her neck and face tells me all I need to know.

That bastard.

But I’m so glad I could whoop for joy. Stupid, I know. He’s the one she wants, and that’s all that matters, but he still hasn’t claimed her.

“Are you two really together? Is he really your boyfriend?”

She shrugs. “He asked me out. But not officially, no.”

I turn my face to the side to hide my smirk.

Don’t, Seffers. Just fucking don’t.

“So you’re back for more lessons?”

Yeah, don’t listen. Suit yourself. Dive headfirst into this shit and see if you can swim before you hit the bottom.

“Lessons,” she whispers, and the satiny sound goes straight to my already hardening cock.

“Yeah, that’s right. In fact, I think it’s test time. See if you learned what I taught you.”

She’ll flake. She’ll run. I just know it. Maybe that’s why I’m pushing her. To make her go and not come back. Save us both.

White teeth sink into that soft lower lip, and I swallow a whimper. Fuck, I’m so hard it hurts.

Then she lifts her skirt and straddles my legs, looping her arms around my neck, and she’s kissing me.

I’m sinking. The feel of her weight in my lap, her arms pulling me to her, her legs braced at my sides, her pussy pressed to my hard-on—her soft, hot lips on mine. I’m gone. I grab her waist, deepen the kiss, and to hell with it. She gasps, and I fuck her mouth with my tongue, my cock giving desperate little jerks inside my sweats, trying to drive through two layers of cloth to get to her.

Oh fuck.
Heaven.

She breaks away all too soon, and it takes all my willpower not to throw her down on the bed and bury myself in her so deep, deeper than anyone before.

“Good enough?” she pants, and it takes me a few heartbeats to understand her question.

“Could use some more practice.” I lick my lips, tasting her, and it only makes me want her more. “And there’s more I could show you.”

She gets up, moves back. “Is there?”

“Yeah. Lots.” Can’t help how husky my voice is. My cock is trapped at an awkward angle in my briefs, and I reach inside to straighten it. I sigh in relief once it’s done, and when I glance back up, I find her gaze on my crotch.

“You’re…” She waves a hand at me, turns her gaze away. “Excited.”

I blink.

“Shit, yeah, I’m excited. A pretty girl kissing me, sitting on my lap… How couldn’t I be?”

“So it’s automatic? Any girl kissing you and sitting on your lap would produce…” That wave of the hand again. “These results.”