And it’s from Arkin.
Fuck.
Suddenly, all I can focus on is his name on the screen, the letters blurring until I’m forced to blink.
Why would he message me? Angling the screen away from Amy, I open the text to find a picture of my unmade bed. Confused, I blink at the crumpled navy sheets. Liam ducks for cover on the TV, and the ‘rat tat tat’ sound of gunshots fills the room.
Pulse thundering in my ear, I type out a response.
Me:??
Me:Sup?
I delete the last one, my knee jiggling incessantly, questioning why I’m so nervous. Amy shifts beside me, and I quickly place the phone down, smiling weakly. The look on her face is unconvinced, though, and she leans in close to whisper in my ear. “Are you okay, babe?”
“Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
It’s not that I want to sound defensive, but my nerves are shot. Why would Arkin take a photograph of my bed to send me? What’s the reasoning behind it? Come to think of it, he must have been staring at my pillows and quilt for quite some time. Was he thinking of that night—when he laid on top of me and held a knife to my throat?
At the illicit thought, my hands grow clammy and Amy tries to stroke my cheek, but I flinch.
She studies my face. “Something is off with you.”
Sometimes it really sucks that she’s so perceptive.
“Would you please drop it,” I all but plead.
I had a guy on top of me and liked it.
A hurt look crosses her face, and for a second, I regret snapping at her, but I don’t have it in me to apologize either. As she turns her attention back to the TV, I check my phone.
There’s no response from Arkin.
A sinking feeling weighs me down as I stare at the chat, debating whether to send another text. It’s a bad idea, right?
I toss the phone aside, wondering why he left me on ‘read.’
I fucking hate that.
Amy puts a possessive hand on my jiggling knee. Suddenly nauseous, I fly up from the couch, startling her and the guys. “I need a piss.”
Exchanging confused glances, they stare after me as I leave the room, but I don’t relax again until the door is shut and locked behind me. What the hell is happening to me?
My father’svoice drifts from the kitchen when I return home after dropping Amy off. She tried to stick her hand in my trousers on the drive to her house, but I couldn’t get away fast enough.
Dad smiles at me as I enter the kitchen. “You’re home early.”
I make a non-committal sound and open the fridge. Arkin is up on a ladder, repairing parts of the ceiling while my dad talks him through it.
As I grab a bottle of orange juice, Dad says, “Arkin is a quick learner.”
“That’s great.” I turn and take a long sip.
Arkin’s tight gray T-shirt has ridden up to reveal his ridged stomach and skin that’s covered in a sheen of sweat. I try not to stare at his abs, but it’s difficult not to.
His jeans hang low on his hips—low enough that I can see his defined V, and he’s working hard, screwing or unscrewing something. Fuck if I know since I struggle to look away from the straining muscles in his arms.
I go to take another sip, but the bottle is empty. I discard it in the recycling.
