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“Just answer the question.”
The blunt audacity of it left me reeling, a sucker punch of raw need that wrapped around my chest like barbed wire. Damn him for asking. Damn me for wanting to answer. I clamped down on the urge to shake my head, to dispel the absurdity of our exchange. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.”
“The conversation is the least of our worries, man. We’ve already done the deed. I’m here, I’m yours, so…” Darius’s voice tapered off, leaving an ellipsis hanging in the air like a noose waiting to tighten around my neck.
Yoursechoed in my skull, a word loaded with implications and promises. My lips twitched upward involuntarily, muscles betraying me with a grin I couldn’t suppress.
“What? You look creepy.” The accusation came out half-teasing, half-wary as he searched my face, trying to read the enigma wrapped up in my smirk.
“I’m yours?” I echoed his words, locking onto those hazel eyes that didn’t miss a beat.
“I didn’t say that.” His tone dipped in sarcasm, a shield thrown up instinctively, but it was too late. I’d heard the slip, felt the weight of it between us.
“Bullshit.”
I reached for the beer, my fingers wrapping around the cold neck with a familiarity that spoke of too many nights trying to drown out thoughts best left at the bottom of a bottle. The liquid gold slid down my throat, the last drop bitter as it chased away the remnants of Darius’s words.
“Fuck, I’m starving,” Darius grumbled, breaking through the haze of my thoughts. “Can we get some food?”
“Sure,” I said, setting the empty bottle down with a clink. “I’ll order something.”
His nose wrinkled in disgust, and those eyes rolled like thunderclouds about to unleash a storm. “Not the uppity, snooty shit you like. I want real food. Greasy, messy, heart-attack-on-a-plate kind of food.”
My chest tightened, watching him there, so damn unapologetic in his wants, his needs. It was raw; it was real—it was fucking refreshing.
“Greasy it is,” I conceded, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth despite myself.
“Good.” His lips curved up in a smirk, that goddamn piercing glinting mischievously.
We both crawled off the couch and changed into something more publicly acceptable. I glanced at the mirror, our reflections a pair of worn-down ghosts. My hair stuck out at odd angles, and the bruising on my torso had blossomed into an ugly mosaic of pain. Darius, somehow, made the haggard look work for him—hair tousled just so, tattoos peeking from beneath my borrowed sweats like dark promises.
“Fuck me, we both look like shit,” I muttered, prodding at a particularly nasty shade of purple that had taken residence along my ribcage.
“Perfect.” His smirk was audible even without looking at him. “No one will recognize us.”
“Whatever.” The words left my lips before I could think better of it.Whatevermeant stepping into his chaos, letting those walls crumble just a bit more. It meant grease-stained fingers and licking salt off lips that shouldn’t be mine to taste. “Let’s get some fucking food, then.”
* * *
Crumbling brick and the reek of stale piss assaulted my senses as Darius guided the car into the shadowy crevice of an alley. Darius assured me I would like the food, telling me repeatedly that it was better than any fucking overpriced Peking duck.
“Where the fuck are we?” The question escaped my lips before I could lace it with the indifference I wasn’t feeling.
“Somewhere where the food doesn’t taste like it’s been up someone’s ass.”
I rolled my eyes, disbelief and anticipation tangling in my gut. I swung the door open, stepping out into the grit of the alley. “I hope my car is still here when we leave.”
“Damn, stop being a whiny baby,” he scoffed, rounding the car with a predator’s grace. His hand found mine, smooth fingers sliding between mine with a possessiveness that sent a jolt straight to my flesh.
The cool night air bit at my exposed skin, but the warmth from Darius’s hand seared through me. I looked down, our fingers laced in a perfect union of flesh and intent. When was the last time? Fuck, I couldn’t remember. His hand was soft, almost tender against mine.
“Weston,” he said, a teasing lilt to his voice as we walked, “stop acting so hoity-toity. It doesn’t match your face anymore.”
His words were a slap, snapping me back to the present. The rowdy clamor of a bar spilled onto the street, dozens of TVs flickering like fireflies trapped in a jar. I shrugged off his comment with a grunt, our feet pounding the pavement in synchronized steps. We stepped into the establishment, the change in atmosphere immediate and pressing. It clung to the skin. Darius led the way with a confidence that seemed out of place in such a dive. He claimed it was the best Italian beef joint in the city—some old mom-and-pop deal. The air was thick with scents that made my stomach turn in both hunger and apprehension.
“Best fucking place for miles,” he boasted, pushing through the door that creaked on its hinges like an old man’s bones.
“Never had Italian beef.” I grimaced at the name alone. Appetizing? Hardly. But Darius was already moving ahead, leaving me to follow or be left behind in the dimly lit hole that buzzed with the sort of life I usually steered clear of.
