Page 37 of Complications

I gave him a look that I hoped conveyed how much I wanted him to fuck off. He didn’t smile, but I saw the spark in his eyes. I didn’t need to see it on his face. His expression stayed bland, but I caught it anyway. Absolute asshole.

Admitting defeat was too painful, so I stared at him instead and gave him the same deadpan look he gave me. He had the decency to look slightly uncomfortable. I hoped it was because he knew he was being an asshole by not giving up the bed. Yeah…probably not.

“How about we leave it long enough to unpack your clothes and get something to eat?”

“Why are you always trying to shove food down my throat? If I were hungry, I’d get something.”

“Do you think I don’t know you well enough to know when you’re hungry? Put your stuff on the bed. I’ll put it in the drawers for you. I’m going to figure out something for dinner.”

With that, Frankie turned on his heel and walked out of the room. He didn’t have the decency to slam the door. Instead, I heard the quiet click of the latch catching, which pissed me off more than a slam would’ve.

Why the fuck did this man never lose his temper? I lived in perpetual annoyance, and he was so goddamn calm all the time that it just annoyed me more. It would be nice if he’d get messy once in a while—get his hair out of place or his clothes dirty. Even when he was on the job, he was always tidy, never messy, never sloppy, and the reason I dreaded the thought that the fuck-up was mine.

And I didn’t know how I would live with myself if something happened to anyone I was responsible for protecting—even if that included Frankie. Fuck, especially that asshole, Frankie Curuso.

“Mmmm.”

The heat next to me drew me closer and closer. Every time I even considered moving away, something kept me anchored to the warmth. After a while, I gave up trying to fight it and decided it was easier to stay comfortable.

When I’d gone to bed last night, I’d been stiff as a board, studiously keeping to my side of the bed as promised. After slamming a few pillows between us, I’d pulled the blanket up to my chin and contemplated the life choices that had brought me to this spot with this asshole next to me. The one who didn’t even have the decency to snore or make weird noises while he slept.

This motherfucker was the perfect bed partner—and that pissed me off too.

“You’re thinking too much. Go to sleep,” a raspy voice murmured in the dark.

It almost sounded like Frankie, but there was no goddamn way he’d be whispering in my ear, so I knew it wasn’t him. Instead, I snuggled closer with my pillow…made of bare skin?

“Joey, go to sleep.” The raspy voice ordered me again, and this time it didn’t seem open for discussion.

I was fucking exhausted. Rather than fighting, I followed the instructions and drifted back to my dream.

“Shit, it’s cold.”

I woke just long enough to register it. The heat from earlier had disappeared, and even wrapped up in the down comforter, I was cold as shit.

“Sorry, baby.” Frankie’s voice was in my ear as his arms circled me like a vice.

With a strength that shouldn’t have surprised me, he hauled me against his chest, threw one leg over me, and tightened his arms like a steel band around me. Instantly, the heat I’d been missing seeped into my bones and the shivering stopped.

I knew I should move away. I wanted to move away. But I wasn’t. The fight between my brain and some other part of me—probably my dick—was going strong. My dick won. I wanted to pretend it was involuntary, but I could’ve fought him off. I could’ve broken his arm. I could’ve shoved him away. Instead, I snuggled closer to the warmth and pretended we were kids again.

That fucking day in the shed. When I’d learned to hate him.

“You’re thinking again,” Frankie said softly. “What can’t you at least wait until the sun’s up?”

“I’m thinking about the shed.”

“Oh fuck, Joey.”

“What?”

“I think about the shed a lot too.”

“Oh, fuck me, no you don’t,” I grumbled. “I’d bet my whole fucking salary you haven’t thought about it since the day it happened.”

Somehow, Frankie’s hand found the back of my neck, his long fingers kneading hard at the tight knot of muscle there.

“Yeah, I do. I know how badly I fucked up that day.” Frankie’s words hung in the air like a heavy blanket. “I should’ve told my dad to fuck off. And I never told you I was sorry.”