Page 31

“Umm. Rafe?” he whispers.

“What?” I whisper back, as I walk to the edge of the bed, still naked as a streaker. Lyric only needs to reach out and touch me, but his widened eyes never leave my face.

“We are not having sex in my grandmother’s house,” he finally utters.

I lean in, inches from his face and say, “Then where should we have sex?”

He opens his mouth and then shuts it again as a loud thunk comes from the other room, jarring him out of his stupor. “Nowhere. Now get dressed or you will be sleeping on the couch in the living room.”

Damn. I was this close.

I grunt, pull on my boxers and shirt—there’s no way I’m putting my jeans back on—and lumber back to the bed. Lyric moves off the mattress, letting me have space to situate myself on my side near the wall.

“Comfy?” he asks smugly, like he has one over on me. But we will see about that.

I refuse to complain that I need another ten more inches to be comfortable enough to sleep. There’s no doubt that I’ll be banging my elbow against the wall. Then I silently chuckle, because by the time Lyric’s hit REM, his body will be snuggling against mine. Who knows, maybe there will be more.

I smirk at his back, readjust my body as I try to find some semblance of comfort, and close my eyes.

It was the worst night’s sleep I ever had. Every part of my body hurts. And my elbow. I swear I hit the wall at least ten times before I gave up and slipped off the bed, taking my pillow and blanket with me, and slept on the floor.

The really annoying part of it, though, is that none of my moving about or groaning at my pained elbow woke Lyric.

I must have finally crashed for a few hours, though, because when I get up from the floor this morning, he isn’t even in the room. The bed is neatly made, looking like it hasn’t been slept in. I don’t know how he managed that without waking me up.

With my bladder screaming for release, I fast-walk to the bathroom. While I piss, I look around, appreciating the room. The space is more like a wet-room, with a drain in the middle of the floor.

From floor to ceiling, the walls are covered in simple white tiles. There’s only one sink, but what makes me chuckle is the toilet. It’s located under a small window that looks out into the backyard.

I’m finished, but I stay standing there, holding on to my dick, glad for the window, because through it I see Lyric with his grandmother, working in her garden. He’s dressed in baggy, dark clothes that are at least a size larger than what he would usually wear, and the apron he’s wearing looks worn and seems to have more dirt on it than what’s clinging to his rubber boots. The big gloves that cover his hands look like they would be more of a hassle to wear than it would be to just dig into the soil with his bare hands and then wash them after.

How utterly ridiculous Lyric looks in what he’s wearing, but that doesn’t matter. His clothes faded from my view when I noticed the brilliance of his face, his smile. It’s genuine and gracious and solely aimed at his grandmother.

Watching the two clean up the garden makes my heart race at a hard gallop.

It’s not the idea that Lyric is enjoying time with his grandmother. It’s the wealth of love he has for her. It shows in his expressive features, in the way he helps her, bends over to retrieve a huge… Really, I don’t know what they just pulled out of the ground, but it kind of reminds me of an elongated cabbage.

I’ve only seen that kind of love through my brothers, from the band, and between my parents. The unconditional tenderness and trust, the unwavering commitment that I see on Lyric’s face right now is what I want from him. I want Lyric to look at me the same way.

I dip my chin to my chest and realize what I’ve been avoiding, been refusing to consider. Have I fallen for Lyric? Or is what I’m feeling still a lusty appreciation for him that I just need to get out of my system?

I think of all the times we were together. Yes, most of those times have been during sex, but there were other times when we’ve just talked. With and without the band around. And they weren’t shallow conversations either.

I put my dick back in my boxers and flush. Other than that, though, I don’t move. I remain standing there, observing the man who has become my fixation.

All that time I’ve wasted, agreeing when Lyric said that we were only hooking up. I was lying to myself. I think my feelings for him started growing—so slowly even I never saw it—when he first came into Callum’s hospital room, pitched a fit over the chaos we were all causing, and then threw Callum’s father out of the room, and then me and the rest of the band. Even though he’s not the usual type of guy I’m attracted to, he captivated me. Then we started hooking up and my feelings really took off—I was just too much of an asshole to acknowledge it.

My stomach growls with hunger, so I take one last look out the window, wash my hands, and step into the hallway—and run right into Fig, who looks worse than me.

“Jesus, that bed,” he mutters with a yawn. A trail of white crustiness is on the side of face.

I open my mouth to ask him what is on his cheek, but Fig rushes into the bathroom and closes the door, muttering something that sounded like “I shouldn’t have.”

Shouldn’t have what? I’d like to know. Instead, I shake my head and walk to the kitchen, where I find a full pot of coffee. I sniff, then groan as I snag a cup from the counter and fill it with caffeinated goodness. I put my nose to the rim and inhale. Yes.

I take a sip and moan. The strong flavor coats my palate, and I take another drink.

“There’s creamer in the fridge, if you want some,” Lyric says from behind me. I turn and watch him take off his rubber boots, then the apron that’s slightly muddier than I thought. He hangs it up on a hook.