Текст книги "Seth"

Автор книги: Jo Raven

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SETH

(Damage Control #3)

By Jo Raven

SETH (Damage Control, 3)

Jo Raven

Copyright Jo Raven 2015

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, events, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Model: Jack Wellon

Photographer: Gilles Crofta Photography

Cover art: Jo Raven

Blurb

Life is a bitch. Keeps screwing me over, and I take blow after blow, sucking it up, giving her the finger.

Don’t get me wrong: I love women. Especially one woman – Madeline. She’s gorgeous, she’s sexy, she’s goddamn perfect.

Plus – minor detail – she has a boyfriend already.

Not that she’d want anything to do with the likes of me. Apprentice tattoo artist, former homeless person, covered in ink, without a penny to my name.

And sort of cursed. I mean, I’d be lucky to run into a girl, any girl, on my way in and out of hospitals with the way life has been knocking me about lately.

But I’m not lucky. Never was. Doesn’t look like that’s gonna change any day soon, either.

Until the day the girl of my dreams literally runs into me. With her car.

Life hates me, and if this isn’t a clue, then I don’t know what is.

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PART I

Life is a game. A game of luck. And I keep losing.

Not gonna bitch about it. Did that, long ago. Learned a thing or two since then. You gotta learn to roll with the punches. It is what it is. So I try. I take the punches and roll as best I can.

Like now.

Chapter One

Seth

Broken legs are a bitch. They take too fucking long to heal and for the muscles to start functioning again. Been there, done that.

Doesn’t matter. I ditched the crutches a week ago, against the doc’s orders, because I’m done crashing on Micah’s couch—his and Ev’s apartment has an elevator, something my building sadly lacks—and I’m done hobbling around, and being unable to use my hands. Need to be independent again.

That includes walking to the closest convenience store for some much-needed ibuprofen and a pack of smokes, like, now.

So I’m using a walking stick, and I’m slow. Way too slow, and unsteady, despite the hellish exercises Rafe has put me through every night since I was released from the hospital. I know my balance is shitty, so when the afternoon darkens with the onset of a sudden storm, and the first fat raindrops splatter down, I do my best to hurry the hell up, because slick sidewalks and my stick? Not a good fucking combo.

Especially since the reason I ventured out in the first place was because my leg was killing me. Pain didn’t get any better after climbing down two flights of stairs and walking across three streets, let me tell you.

Never mind.

I’m almost there, anyway. The store is right across the street, and even though the rain is falling in buckets now, I won’t give up.

Not in my nature, see.

Squinting in the solid wall of rain, checking for cars, I step off the sidewalk. In the dimness of the downpour, the store lights from across wink at me. The cold is helping with the stiff muscles in my thigh and damaged knee. I practically drag my foot after me, one step after another, across the wet asphalt.

Almost there.

The car comes out of nowhere, tearing through the curtain of rain, headlights blinding me for an endless moment.

I jerk back.

The car swerves. Its tires screech on the wet asphalt as the driver brakes and tries to avoid me.

My stick sliding sideways, I stumble backward and wobble, trying to regain my balance.

No chance in hell. I drop like a brick. Letting go of the stick, I put down my elbows to cushion my fall, and ow, the impact cracks like a whip all the way down my spine.

Goddammit. Nice start to the week.

Happy Monday everyone.

I lie there, dazed and thankful I haven’t hit my head—I haven’t, right? I’m missing the last coupla seconds of my life—and wondering if I’ve broken my leg again. Or my arms.

Fuck, that would seriously suck in a year that has already sucked ass.

Then someone is kneeling down beside me in the rain, and I get a glimpse of wide eyes set in a small, pale face.

“Oh my God, are you okay?” Her hands flutter nervously as she looks me up and down. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you, I was distracted, I… I’ll call an ambulance.”

“Don’t. I’m okay.” My voice is scratchy, my mind reeling. I struggle to sit up, my walking stick forgotten as I stare hard at that pretty face.

A familiar face. It still takes me a moment to place her—my vision is sort of blurry, and hell, it just can’t be…

The person who almost ran me over is Manon, AKA Madeline Torres. Cassie’s best friend. Prettiest girl alive.

The girl of my dreams. Stuff of my wildest fantasies.

Yeah… With the way my life has been riding my ass this year, it figures she’d be the one to hit me tonight.

***

“Let me help you up,” she’s saying, and shit, I should stop looking at her mouth. “Can you move?”

“I just…” I shake my head, hoping that might put my thoughts back in line. Christ, she doesn’t even know who I am. “Need my stick.”

“Stick?”

“My walking stick.” I gesture vaguely in the direction where I think it fell. The brace I’ve been wearing presses into my knee, and I straighten my leg carefully, relieved that I can.

“Jesus.” She wipes wet strands of hair out of her face and fumbles around on the wet street for my walking stick. “This is… unbelievable. I’m so sorry. Never happened to me before.”

Yeah. Well, I believe it. I’m so unlucky my bad luck spills over to those near me. I get them hurt.

Shane, my cousin and half-brother, thinks he’s bad luck, which is why he chooses to live on his own.

I know I’m bad luck.

See the difference?

She hands me the stick. “We need to get you off the street.”

Makes sense. With the way things are going tonight, baiting luck isn’t wise. What if another car passes by and kills us both?

Two men arrive, asking if we need a hand, and I gratefully accept their help. Not sure she can take my weight, anyway—she’s only, like, five feet five to my six feet —and with the way my leg feels right now, I doubt the stick will be much help.

The two men help me hobble back to the sidewalk, and by then my leg is on fire. Let’s not even talk about my stinging elbows and hands. At least, the cold of the rain is numbing the scratches, cooling the fire.

I thank the guys and they go their way, but she hovers, water streaming down her face. It plasters her dress to her body in a very distracting way, and even through the haze of pain I can’t help looking.

Good thing the pain keeps my dick in check, or this could get awkward. More awkward, that is.

I mean, this is the girl I’ve wanted for ages, but can’t have.

Because she’s with someone. I not only saw her status on Facebook—‘in a relationship’—I fucking saw her with him, holding hands, laughing over something he said. Someone who’s better than me, I bet, someone smarter, richer, with good prospects.

Fuck.

Meanwhile, the rain is still falling, and I’m shivering—with shock more than cold, I guess. Trudging back home like this will be a bitch, but hey, I’ve had worse.

“Hey, wait!” She blocks my way when I turn to go. “You can’t. I mean, it’s my fault you fell, and I…” She frowns. “Don’t I know you?”

“That’s a good pick-up line, you know.”

“What?” Her brows arch, then she frowns again. “I wasn’t… Oh crap. Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

What the hell am I doing? I’m being an asshole when she’s trying to be nice. “I was just screwing with you,” I mutter. “I’m friends with Micah. Evangeline’s boyfriend?”

“Oh, right.” She looks uncertain again. I bet she can’t remember my name or where she’s seen me to save her life. “Can I offer you a ride home? It’s the least I can do. Or maybe the hospital?” She glances at my walking stick. “To get yourself checked out?”

“No, no hospitals.” I shudder. “I’m all right, really. Just need to pop a few painkillers and warm up. My place ain’t far.”

And oh fuck, going up those stairs will probably kill me. Not to mention I never got around to buying those painkillers in the first place, and there’s nothing at home to get me through the night, not even booze.

At least I wasn’t run over. Small mercies. I’m like a cat with nine lives, but even I would have trouble ungluing my flattened self from the asphalt.

“You sure?”

Oh yeah, so sure. Sure I can’t go home like this.

I pull my cell from my pocket, thinking to call Shane or Jesse, ask them if I can crash at their place tonight, but the damn phone looks dead. “Shit!”

“What is it?”

“Nothing.” I shove my cell back into my pocket. I’m shivering harder now in my drenched T-shirt and pants, and I clench my fingers on the handle of the stick. “Mind if I use your phone to call someone to pick me up?”

“Your leg.” She’s giving me a serious look, and fuck it’s hot. “What happened?”

“Broke it.”

Which is making a very long story short, but Jesus on a toast, I need to get out of this rain and sit down somewhere, take the weight off my leg before I keel over.

“Oh man.” She shifts from foot to foot and bites her lip. Shouldn’t be so distracting, dammit. “You do you have an elevator at your place, right?”

“Nope.”

“You don’t…?” She gapes at me. “Then can I call your roommate to come pick you up?”

“Don’t have one. Roommate, that is. Not yet.”

Maybe not ever. The last one who came by to see the place never called back. Still hoping, though.

“I can’t leave you like this,” she whispers.

“Sure you can.” I plaster on my brightest smile. “I’ll be fine.”

“No. I’m serious. I feel so bad about this.” She rubs her hands up and down her bare arms. “Why don’t you come over to my place?”

I blink at her, the rain water stinging my eyes. “What?”

Brilliant response. That’s me, the brilliant conversationalist. And probably also in need of a hearing aid, because she can’t have said—

“Come over to my place. It’s close by, and the elevator works. You can dry yourself, I’ll make you something to eat, and we can check your leg and your hands. You’re bleeding.”

I am? I unclench my hand, turn it palm-up, stare at it. Oh yeah. I am. Skinned my palms and probably my shins, too.

Joy.

“You sure?” It sure is tempting—for oh-so-many reasons. My teeth are chattering, my stomach is rumbling with hunger, and avoiding the stairs sounds like a fucking wet dream. Not to mention—her place. Manon’s place. She’ll be there. “I’ll make a mess in your apartment.”

She tsks and waves toward her car, parked at the curbside. “Don’t expect anything fancy or tidy. This is a fair warning. It’s more like a war-zone, really.”

Hard to believe. Can’t be worse than my place.

But I don’t care. I wouldn’t mind entering a fucking war-zone if it meant seeing her, talking to her for a while longer.

Which is fucked-up. I know, okay? I’m the biggest idiot in the world. She didn’t even remember me, doesn’t know a thing about me—and if she ever finds out about my past… I’ll never see her again.

So yeah. Laugh all you want. I don’t fucking care.

***

Gritting my teeth with each and every step at the pain shooting up my leg and a pounding headache, I make my way to her car. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse…

But that’s bullshit. Things always take a turn for the worse, right when they seem to be going better.

It’s a good trick, this one. Life has it down pat. Lets you relax a little, only to trip you up when you least expect it. God knows, it happened to me so often I should be able to see the pattern by now.

Besides, chin up. And stop whining. How basic is that? You aren’t dead, plus there’s a hot chick—the hottest chick ever—taking you home. Her home, with promises of warmth and food and…

And nothing. That’s all. More than what you have now, though. More than you ever hope to get with her.

Take it.

Keeping a groan behind my teeth, I fold myself into her small car and prop my walking stick between my legs. I’m shivering with cold, and fuck, need to stretch my leg, but there isn’t any space.

Suck it up, Seffers.

To take my mind off the pain, I glance at her as she slips in behind the wheel and cranks up the heater. Even dripping wet, long dark hair stuck to her face and neck, she’s beautiful.

Scratch that, she’s even sexier like this. Of course she is. Her dress is glued on her body like second skin, the light gray almost see-through. I can see clearly her black bra, the curve of her tits, and fuck, why was I feeling sorry for myself?

This is worth the pain.

“Hang on,” she says, and without the noise of the rain, her voice’s soft and exotic. Musical. I can’t place her accent. “We’ll be there in two minutes.”

I unglue my tongue from the roof of my mouth and nod. The heater is warming up the air fast, at least, and I’m not shivering my bones loose anymore. I work on keeping my eyes straight ahead as she drives off, on the wipers sluicing water off the windbreaker, and on the street, the pools of light cast by the lampposts and shop fronts.

She parks outside a white building, three stories high with big lit-up windows and trees on the sidewalk. Red maples, their leaves already turning ruddy with the onset of fall. We had them outside out house, too, when I was little.

Feels like centuries ago.

She turns to me, flashes me a brief smile. “Home sweet home. I hope, uh…” She turns the engine off and sticks her tongue out to the side. Makes me want to laugh. Or maybe I’m just nervous. “Hope this is okay. I may have pressured you a little to come over. I just didn’t feel okay leaving you there, you know? But if you change your mind, I can still drive you back to your place, or call a cab for you.”

I blink at her. She’s… sweet. Don’t know why it catches me by surprise.

“It’s fine,” I mutter. “Honest.”

The thought of going back to my cold and empty apartment right now is damn depressing.

The smile flashes again—small, white teeth, the canines slightly crooked.

Charming. Cute.

Hot.

I lick my lips. God, I want to kiss her. This is fucked-up. So instead, I throw my door open and start the slow process of getting my sorry ass out of her car.

“Let me help you.” She comes around and grabs my arm, steadying me as I try to find my footing. Her grip is shockingly strong for such a small girl.

She puts the walking stick in my hand and closes the door as I take a few tentative steps, hissing and leaning on the stick when my knee shoots fire up my leg.

Ow, dammit.

When she puts a slender arm around my back, I suck in a sharp breath—not from pain this time. Her touch lights up a different kind of fire in my blood. I was semi-hard during the car ride, and now I’ve gone to diamond-hard in two seconds flat.

Oblivious, she helps me to the entrance of the building and punches a code into the keypad by the door. It clicks and we enter into the dark but dry lobby. Fuck, it’s cold in here. Her arm is a naked flame wrapped around me.

The elevator carriage is there, and we ride up, pressed together, side by side. I shouldn’t like this so much. My dick shouldn’t like it so much, either. I shouldn’t get used to it.

She’s being nice. But she has a boyfriend. And that’s not the only problem.

Dammit.

We step out onto the landing, and she unlocks the door, pushes it open and flicks on the lights. I hobble inside, taking in her living room—warm and cozy, with a red sofa and armchair, huge black and white posters of houses and horses and… a dancer?

She’s moving around the room, lighting another lamp in a corner, opening the window a crack. Her movements are graceful, her legs slender, and her ass is a perfect heart, full enough to fill my hands.

My mouth is dry. I desperately lick my lips and maneuver my uncooperative body sideways to hide the hard-on tenting the front of my soaked jeans. In the very last second, I remember that maybe I shouldn’t drop my wet ass on her furniture and hesitate, half-bent over, leaning on my stick.

“Should I…?” I glance around, trying to find a safer place to land, but fuck, my leg is killing me and won’t hold me up for much longer. “Manon?”

She turns around, surprise flitting over her face. “What? Oh, I’m sorry! Only my mother and Cassie call me that.” She bites her lips. “Give me a sec, I’ll be right back.”

On the plus side, the longer I stand, the more pain I’m in, and the more my erection flags. By the time she’s back with a plastic sheet, I don’t have to hide my crotch anymore. All my focus is on staying on my feet.

She sits down and spreads it beside her. Pats it in invitation.

Oh yeah, at last. I hobble over and sink down with a groan. The ceiling spins a little, and I can’t help but lean back and squeeze my eyes shut until I’m sure I won’t toss my cookies all over her sofa.

“Shit, you don’t look so hot,” she whispers. “Let me bring you some water—”

I reach out blindly, find her arm and grip it. “Gimme a sec. I’ll be okay.”

“I’m so sorry,” she says, her voice choked, “for all of this. If I’d been more careful—”

“Not your fault.” I crack an eye open. It’s safe. The ceiling has stopped moving. “It’s been a shitty couple of months, that’s all.”

“Why?” She doesn’t shake off my hold on her, instead bending and grabbing with her other hand something from the floor.

A first-aid kid.

I release her anyway—because what the hell are you doing, Seffers? Don’t be an asshole by taking advantage—and realize I’ve smeared blood on her arm.

“Fuck.”

She looks up, dark brows arching in question, and I gesture vaguely at her bloodied arm. She smiles. “It’s okay.”

The fuck it is.

“So what do I call you, if I don’t call you Manon?” Man, her eyes are the prettiest forest green with golden flecks and long lashes, and… damn, I shouldn’t be staring into them.

“Oh, I don’t mind it. You can call me that, if you like.”

I fucking love her name. Of course I wouldn’t admit it even if she tortured me with a Disney movie.

She takes my hand, and I flinch a little. Not even sure why. She’s gentle as she dabs ointment on the scrapes. “How’s your leg?”

I grunt.

“We should ice it. Let me finish with your hands, and you should undress.”

“What?” There I go again. Caveman. Not that I’d mind undressing with her.

“You’re wet, you’ll catch a cold. I’ll give you something dry to wear.”

Ah… right. “Your boyfriend’s clothes?”

She narrows those pretty eyes at me. “Okay, you know my name, and you know I have a boyfriend. How?”

“You’re Cassie’s friend.”

“Yeah, I am.” Her mouth twists. “And you are?”

“You don’t remember me? I’m crushed.” I put a hand to my chest melodramatically. “I’m Seth. Told you, I’m a friend of Jesse and Micah. Jesse is…”

“… the guy Cassie kissed against his will at Asher’s wedding. Almost caused a nasty break up between Jesse and his girlfriend.”

“Yeah.” I look down as she cleans my other palm. Her hands are small and fine, her skin so much paler than mine and flawless. Smooth like silk.

She puts everything back in the first-aid kit and puts it down on the carpet, her lashes throwing long shadows on her cheeks. She smells of rain and vanilla.

“I’m going to change.” She stands up. “I’ll bring you a towel and clothes.”

I nod and wipe a hand over my mouth as she walks out. Fuck, the thought of her undressing in the next room is driving me crazy. I’m pretty sure what I’ll be dreaming of tonight. It wouldn’t be the first time I wake up with my hand on my dick and images of her naked body flashing in front of my eyes.

But now I have her scent, the feel of her soft skin, the color of her eyes lodged in my mind. It’s gonna be a mega-porn production.

Goddamn.

Chapter Two

Manon

Honestly, I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m still in shock. I almost ran over a man. Sure, the visibility was bad, and my mind was on other things.

Like my meeting with my academic advisor. Like what to do with my life now that my dream has been shattered for one last, final time. What I always wanted to do, to be… It won’t happen.

Plus, I got a text from Fred letting me know he can’t meet me tonight because he has music practice.

It just about killed me, for so many reasons. I mean, I should have practice, too—dance practice, which won’t happen, oh God… And at the very least, when I told him I needed to see him he should ask why, right?

If he really was interested in me. Like he says he is.

Like I am in him.

I stumble into my bedroom, kick off my shoes and pull off my wet clothes with angry motions. I needed to talk to him tonight, ask his opinion. Be comforted.

Irrational, I know. He has to work. And we’re not together. Not really. Not yet. I mean, he asked me out, but we’ve barely started dating. So instead, I’m here with…

Seth.

I pull on yoga leggings and a long T-shirt, thinking about what happened. How scared I was when I got out of the car and found him lying there, in the rain. How worried I was when he could barely walk.

How different he is from Fred. Rugged, where Fred is cute. Bulky where Fred is slender. Dark where Fred is pale and blond. Seth’s all dark hair, dark brows, dark stubble, dark eyes. Black studs and silver bars in his ears. Tanned skin. Big shoulders, huge biceps.

Frowning, I rummage through my closet for men’s clothes. Not Fred’s, of course. We haven’t even kissed yet, let alone leave clothes at each other’s place. But my dad left some old clothes here when he helped me move in and paint the apartment, and I think…

Ah, there. Grabbing the old draw-string pants and T-shirt with paint stains on it, and a towel from the bathroom, I hurry back to the living room.

I stop. He’s sprawled on the sofa, head propped on the backrest, eyes closed. With his broad cheekbones and that strong jaw, the full, soft mouth, he’s sort of… handsome.

…Nah. Stop the crazy thinking, Manon. He’s just a stranger on your couch, a stranger you almost hit with your car.

Not handsome. Not at all. Nope.

No way.

Shaking my head at myself, I drop the clothes on the sofa, startling him. He jerks away from me and knocks his elbow into the back of the sofa.

Ow.

Crap, he really was asleep. He looks tired, and this is all my fault. Guilt is eating away at me. Poor guy.

“Found some clothes,” I say when he blinks blearily at me and rubs both hands over his eyes. “I hope they fit. They’re my dad’s. He won’t mind.”

He takes the towel and starts rubbing his hair. I lay out the clothes meanwhile, trying not to look at the way his dark hair is getting all messy and spiky, and…

“Your dad living around here?”

“No. Not that far, though. Davenport.” I sense the weight of his questioning gaze, and I force a smile as I look up from straightening the T-shirt as best I can. “My mom is French. She lives in France.”

Both his dark brows shoot up, and he opens his mouth to say something, but I beat him to it.

“Let me help you get out of those clothes.”

His mouth flaps. He snaps it closed, but his eyes go round. “Help me?”

“So that you don’t have to get up.”

“I’m…okay. I got this. Really.”

Wait, is he blushing? Is that color in his cheekbones?

It’s…cute.

Oh God.

“I’ll leave you to it, then, and start some dinner.” Turning around, I head to the kitchen and open the fridge to check what I could cook up. At least, that’s where my thoughts should be at.

Not on the guy in the other room. Not wondering what his bare chest looks like, what he looks like naked.

Because the one I want is Fred, and that’s all there is to it.

***

When I walk back inside fifteen minutes later, water for the pasta heating on the stove and the sauce simmering, I fully expect to find him asleep again.

He’s not.

He’s fumbling with the belt of his jeans, his sodden T-shirt already off. He’s bare-chested, yes, and that stops me in my tracks—not because his chest, shoulders and arms are thick with muscle and sculpted like a work of art, no, that’d be crazy—but because of the ink covering them.

A lot of ink. Dark, twisted, tangled—faces and demons and beasts on his chest and shoulders. And a snake, I realize. A snake on one shoulder, fangs dripping, forked tongue lolling.

The men I’ve known in my life were never covered in tattoos like him – and such scary ones, too. It’s a little disturbing.

And fascinating.

Maybe that’s why it takes me a while to realize he’s struggling to push down his pants and not quite managing. His teeth are gritted, and his face is white.

Crap, he’s in pain.

That snaps me out of my slight daze—a daze I have no job being in—and I hurry over to help him.

“Here.” I kneel on the carpet and start on the ankles. “Let me.”

He hasn’t even taken off his boots, and really, Manon, if his leg hurts so much, how is he going to do this on his own? I shouldn’t have listened to him when he said he could handle it.

I take the boots and wet socks off. He’s still trying to push down his jeans, hands shaking. I really don’t like how pale he is.

“Stop pushing them down like that,” I mutter. “The fabric bunches up and makes it harder to get them off. Let me do it, it will be easier from this end.”

“Okay.” He lets his hands drop at his sides and puffs out a long breath. I work the sodden fabric over his feet and gently pull. He lifts his pelvis slightly to allow the pants to come off. He’s wearing black boxer briefs underneath, and for some reason my face gets hot at the sight of them.

And the bulge between his legs. Yeah, not looking at that. At all.

His legs. Safer place to look. Nicely muscled thighs, which are revealed as the jeans come off, really thick and cut, and…

A knee brace, the black material digging into the flesh.

“You said your leg was broken. When did it happen?”

“Two months ago. Right after Asher’s wedding. Had the cast taken off two weeks ago.”

Shit. No wonder he has trouble walking. “And the knee brace?”

He hesitates. “Long story.”

Huh.

“Well, broken bones can affect joints, and your knee is swollen. Need to ice it.” I pull his jeans all the way off. “I think I have one in the freezer.”

He’s hunched over, hands braced on the sofa. Silent.

Without waiting for an answer, I jump to my feet and rush back to the kitchen. To check the pot, I tell myself. That’s the only reason.

The water is boiling, so I throw the pasta in, and I turn off the heat under the sauce pan. I take out dishes, silverware, paper napkins and glasses. Can’t remember the last time I had dinner here with someone.

Have I ever done it? I doubt it. I’ve never been here much, always at practice and rehearsals and—

I put everything down on the counter and bite my lip, my eyes stinging. Looks like I’ll have much more time to enjoy my apartment. To think about my future. Find something else to busy myself with.

But how can I? When this is what I wanted all my life to do?

Clenching my teeth, I grab everything again and march back into the living room, to the dining table, and slam the things down.

And oh crap, I forgot the compress.

Back to the kitchen. I find the compress in the depths of the freezer from a time a few months back when I sprained my ankle. Wrapping it up in a clean kitchen towel, I head back, then remember I must have codeine pills in my cupboard, too, and I made a detour at the bathroom to get them.

Seth is still where I left him, although he’s meanwhile pulled the old T-shirt on, covering his ink.

He gives me a quizzical look. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Perfectly fine.” I force a smile and realize he probably shouldn’t wear the pants yet if he’s going to use the cold compress—and that sitting at the dining table probably isn’t the best idea right now. “Here, use this.” I put the wrapped-up compress on top of his knee, and he hisses softly. “I’ll be right back.”

I drain the pasta, throw it in a bowl, serve the sauce in another and return. He watches me, supporting the compress on his knee with one hand, as I place the food on the low coffee table in front of him, then go grab the rest of the things from the dining table.

“You didn’t have to cook,” he says quietly, and I can’t read his expression.

“It’s nothing much. I hope you like pasta with cheese and mushroom sauce.”

“Oh sure.” His stomach rumbles loudly as I serve the spaghetti onto the plates and ladle the sauce over them. That hint of color rises to his cheeks again, and I catch myself staring.

Again.

“Let’s eat, then,” I tell him, and he flashes me a bright smile. “I’m famished.”

And to be honest, a little bit confused.

***

After a while, I notice he’s not eating all that much. One of the few things I know about guys is that they are like black holes, inhaling every scrap of food on the table, including that on other people’s dishes, so this can’t be normal.

“Not hungry after all?” I ask when he puts down his fork and leans back.

“Nah.” He shifts his leg and grimaces. “Not really.”

“The compress not helping?”

He shakes his head. “I was on my way to get some ibuprofen when we, uh.” He waves a hand. “Met.”

Of course, where’s my head? If he’s still in pain, it’s no wonder he has no appetite.

“Let me get you some painkillers.” I get up to get the pills from the dining table where I left them. “Codeine will help. Ibuprofen won’t do much.”

“I know,” he bites out.

“They must have prescribed something stronger for you at the hospital.”

He shrugs and looks unhappy, that generous mouth turning down at the corners. “I don’t need stronger stuff. No addictive shit. No way.”

Still, he accepts the pills when I put them in his hand and swallows them down, chasing them with a sip of water. I take away his half-full plate and put it in the fridge. Easy to reheat later on, if he wants it.

He’s glaring down at his knee when I return. I sit down beside him and put my hand on it.

He flinches and scoots back, pressing into the sofa. “What?”

“That brace has to come off. It’s useful when you walk, but when you rest, better remove it.”

“What do you know about it?”

“I had some basic first aid training.” And seen a lot of injuries—part and parcel of a dancer’s training. You learn a few things over the years.

I reach for the brace again, and he says nothing as I undo the straps and ease it down, though he can’t help a grimace. The skin is hot to the touch. I pull the brace off, trying to decide whether it needs a second compress.