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Exposed.
Jerking to life, I retract my arm, pulling the sleeve back down to my wrist as best I can while still holding my beer. “I won’t ask about yours if you don’t ask about mine.”
“I don’t mind if you ask about mine,” he says softly.
Something tells me he’s being honest; he wouldn’t mind. And I can’t deny I’m dead curious about the beast of a scar marring his back. Too curious. But even if I asked, he didn’t say he would tell me. This is getting too deep. Too uncomfortable. I’m no longer appreciating the distraction, more resenting it. Because we’re getting personal. There’s too much talking. For the last two years, I’ve kept to my very small circle of “people.” I don’t strike up conversations with strangers. I keep to myself and limit interaction because I don’t want anyone asking questions I can’t answer. I don’t want to be known. To be seen. Invisible is safer. No one wants their lives dimmed by my shade.
I can’t bear the interest splattered all over his face. I knew this was a bad idea, not just the beer, but the job. I’ve not gained anything from taking on this project, only a ton of questions I shouldn’t be asking and many I don’t want to answer. I swallow, placing my beer down, and make to move. To leave. To escape.
But he stops me, seizing my arm firmly but gently. “Sit down, Beau,” he whispers hoarsely, and I freeze, my skin heating. His touch. His voice. The way he’s looking at me. I slowly lower to the stool, mesmerized by him. He unhurriedly shifts his hold and pushes up my sleeve again, so lazily, like he’s got all the time in the world. His gaze travels back and forth, from my arm to my eyes, watching how I’m responding, clearly taking pleasure from my useless form.
Then he dips, eyes on me, and places his lips on the edge of the scar tissue. I convulse. “What are you doing?” I ask, hardly able to breathe. I reclaim my arm, and he definitely scowls. “What the fuck is going on here, James? Why the games?”
“I don’t play games, Beau.”
“This is a game,” I assure him. “And I haven’t got a fucking clue what the rules are.”
“You’re absorbed.”
“There’s a lot to be absorbed by.”
“I agree.” His hand lands on my knee, and my stomach cartwheels. “An awful lot. And I don’t know what the rules are either.”
“Then why do you seem to be playing this game better than I am?” Experience? Success?
“You’re wrong.” He releases my knee and gets up, walking casually to the fridge and getting a bottle of water. I stare at his back, and all I can see are the scars beneath his T-shirt. Thick, uneven, damaged skin. “You’re playing the game far better than I ever could.”
So there is a game. “How?”
“Because I’m snookered,” he says quietly, and I frown at his back. “You want to be invisible,” he goes on. “Forgettable. Blend into the background.” He turns and tips the bottle to his lips, while I stare at him with my mouth slightly agape. “Problem is, Beau Hayley,” he whispers, coming closer. Closer. Closer. “I. See. You.”
My spine straightens, and despite knowing he can’t possibly really see me, I’m wary. “You don’t know me.”
“Don’t I?” he replies, his head tilting. “Your jokes on the phone were a poor attempt to mask your misery. Your fake carefree attitude is a poor attempt to mask your hurt.”
I scoff, getting up and walking toward the elevator, which feels like fucking miles away. Is this why he wanted me to stay for a drink? So he can point out my shortcomings? Pretend to know me? “Fuck you, James Kelly,” I say under my breath.
“Your anger now is a poor attempt to mask your craving.”
Outraged, I swing around. I don’t know when this job went from being a job to a personal annihilation. “Craving for what?”
“Many things.”
“Like?” I yell, getting worked up, something that hasn’t happened in a long, long time. I don’t allow it. Can’t allow it.
“Like revenge.” He starts a leisurely pace toward me, and I lose my breath. “Like escape. Like darkness.” He arrives before me, his fierce, almost angry face close to mine. “Like me.”
“I don’t crave you,” I breathe, avoiding that he’s probably hit the nail on the head with each one of his other assessments. Revenge. That one word hits me hardest of all.
His arm rises slowly, and he rests the tip of his thumb on my nipple, brushing the hardening nub into full erection through my shirt, making my chest concave. “Say it again. Tell me you don’t crave me.”
I can’t talk. Can’t see straight.
He works his touch up to my throat and strokes me softly. “You’re as clear as the glass you’re surrounded by, Beau Hayley.”
