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But somehow, I’m sure I’m not alone.
* * *
Everything settles into a strange sort of routine over the next couple of weeks.
I wasn’t wrong at all in my assessment that Marcus and his two friends have basically decided to stop hiding in the shadows of my life and exist unabashedly in the middle of it.
They’re everywhere.
When I go to work, one of them drives me. Whoever it is usually camps out at the end of the bar for my entire shift, and sometimes the others join him as well. Duke and a few of the other bartenders have definitely noticed it, and I get the feeling some of them think I’m dating all three of these men.
I don’t bother correcting them, because… well, I don’t exactly know why. But I tell myself it’s none of anyone’s business who these men are to me, or how they came into my life. I’m still trying to sort through all of that myself in a way that makes sense, and I definitely don’t feel up to the challenge of explaining it to someone else.
When I go to the library, when I go shopping, even when I go to various temp jobs in offices around the city—one of the men is always there.
I wonder if this is what it feels like to be a celebrity or a politician or anyone important enough to have a security detail that follows them everywhere. Only instead of being loved by millions or important t
o national security, I’m important solely to these three men.
Some days, I still hate it. Some days, panic wells up at how very normal this is all starting to feel.
In those moments of panic, I lash out at Marcus or pick a fight with Ryland. But no matter what I do or say, nothing pushes them away. The heat that always simmers between me and Marcus will ignite, and he’ll end up fucking me raw, but when it’s over, he always pulls me back into the cradle of his embrace—a protective, everlasting force that will never fade.
And Ryland, for as much as he seems to hate me and this entire situation, watches me with a laser focus sometimes that makes me feel like he can see all the way through my skin, like he’s slowly dissecting and analyzing my soul.
Theo’s the only one I can’t ever bring myself to intentionally provoke. For one thing, it would probably be pointless, since his easygoing demeanor makes it a lot harder to rile him up than the other two men. And for another thing, I don’t want to. He’s my calm in the storm that is Ryland and Marcus, the one whose voice and touch always soothes and never hurts.
The kiss we shared in the alley still hovers at the edges of my mind whenever I look at him, and I find myself daydreaming more than once about what it would be like to kiss him again. To drown in the sweet warmth of his full lips.
I think he thinks about it too. Or at least, that’s the only explanation I’ve been able to come up with for the few moments of tension that have bubbled up between us. Usually, he’s easy to talk to, his charming demeanor making me feel like I’ve known him for much longer than I have.
But sometimes, he’ll catch my gaze and fall suddenly silent, the lopsided smile slipping from his face. The air will fill with something thick and electric, and words will fail me too. It’s hard to even draw a breath in those moments, and I fear them as much as a part of me waits for them.
Something is building between us, and I don’t know what will happen when—or if—it breaks.
Nearly three weeks after the day Natalie moved back into my building, I step out onto the front stoop and find Marcus waiting for me in his car. I never tell these men my schedule, but they always seem to know exactly what it is anyway.
I slip into the passenger seat, and he leans over the console, threading his fingers through my hair and attacking my mouth with a hungry, starving kiss. When he breaks away, his blue and brown eyes gleam heatedly as he looks at me. Then his focus moves over my shoulder, and he frowns.
Turning, I track his gaze. Carson and Natalie are heading up the walkway toward the apartment. Her body is wedged so tightly against his I’m surprised she can even walk without tripping over his fucking feet, and he’s got an arm slung possessively around her shoulders. Like the day she moved in, she’s wearing much more expensive clothes than she used to, and jewelry glitters on her wrist and at her ears.
“I’ve only seen her once since she moved back,” I say, shifting my attention to Marcus again. He’s got a murderous look on his face, and tension is pouring from his body. “And I haven’t seen Carson at all until now.”
“Good.”
His answer is short and clipped. He still looks like he wants to shove his door open, stride up the walk after them, and beat the shit out of Carson. But instead, he just grabs the wheel and pulls away from the curb.
The foul mood he’s in seems to stick with him even as he takes his usual spot at the end of the bar at Duke’s and I get to work serving patrons. He stares moodily into his glass of whiskey, swirling the amber liquid around as if he can read the future in it like tea leaves.
His tension puts me on edge too, and after I spill my third drink and break my fourth glass, Duke asks me if I need a break.
“Yeah. Thanks,” I mutter gratefully. “I’ll just take a fiver and go wash up.”
I blow out a breath as I slip out from behind the bar and head toward the hallway that leads to the bathrooms and the back exit. I don’t know what it is that’s got me so twitchy tonight, and I hate to think that my emotional connection to Marcus is so strong that his feelings can infect me this easily.
Brushing a piece of hair off my face with the bicep of my damaged arm, I push open the door to the ladies room. But I almost lose my balance when a large hand shoves the door open wider. The scent of leather and soap surrounds me as Marcus pushes me inside and presses me up against the door, forcing it closed with a heavy thud.
His eyes are slightly glazed as he stares down at me, and I would think he’s drunk—but I’ve been the one serving him, and I know he’s only had one whiskey.
