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Ross
I’m sitting on a stool in the kitchen of Mike’s Diner with a pretty girl right in front of me, frowning in concentration, the tip of her pink tongue sticking out of her mouth as she tapes gauze over the cuts in my side.
If I wasn’t feeling like death warmed over, I’d have a pretty fucking inappropriate—or maybe appropriate—reaction to her closeness. I’m half-hard as it is, from the touch of her fingertips, the tickle of her hair on my bared skin, the brush of those soft tits on my thighs as she half-crouches down to secure the gauze.
I’m not dead yet. I’d have to be, not to react to a girl this pretty, despite the anger I’ve seen flashing in her eyes, the sadness in her voice, that I put there. Despite this being the mother of all bad ideas.
“Saying you’re sorry isn’t enough.”
Then what the hell am I supposed to do? And why is she still here, still helping me, her touch so fucking soft I wanna break something, yell and curse and run, anything but take it, feel it—knowing it won’t fucking last. It makes me want things, feel things.
I can’t do this. I’m not supposed to feel anything, not anymore.
“Actions trump words.” She said that, too. What in the fucking hell does she expect from me? No-one’s ever expected something good from the likes of me. I don’t know how to deal with it, how to figure it out.
And then someone else is there, beside us. A shadow against the light.
A voice says, “Ross? That you?”
I flinch before my brain can register the tone, the pitch.
But it’s just another girl, not as pretty as mine, but I guess you could confuse them in the dark, with chestnut hair and bright eyes, curious like a cat’s. In the dark only—and only if you couldn’t smell Luna’s light scent, see the line of her face and body, hear her voice.
Damn. I’ve got it so damn bad. It was all good and well while she was away and I was distracted with being in prison and dad trying to kill me, but the moment she came back I went back to square one. Hot lust, confusion, and rash, stupid decisions.
Like right now, sitting here, torn between grabbing and kissing her and bolting through the half-open door. If I mess with her... the whole town will come at me with pitchforks. Prison will be a relief.
“Ross and Luna?” The girl is staring at us, with what looks like a teasing gleam in her eyes. “I was right, then, wasn’t I?”
Right about what?
“Hey, Dena,” Luna blurts, standing up, a flush spreading over her cheeks. “No, you weren’t. I was just—”
“—undressing Ross. Yes, I have eyes and can see.”
“No! That’s not...” The flush darkens. “Anyway, we’re done here.”
Right. I guess this is my cue to go. The world tilts sharply when I push off the stool, but I lock my knees and stay upright, clenching my jaw.
“Go home,” I tell Luna who’s still red in the face and looking anywhere but at me. “Thanks for the help.”
“You’re welcome,” my girl says.
My. Girl.
When did I decide she’s mine and when the fuck did I completely lose my mind?
***
“Ross!”
The street keeps trying to trip me up and I shake my head to silence the voice.
Then I stop and turn so fast my head spins. “Luna?” My mind’s hazy and I don’t know how to clear the cobwebs. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going home. We’re heading in the same direction.”
True. Hadn’t thought about that. Hadn’t thought, period. Can’t think, except... “Let me take those.” I reach for the grocery bags she’s carrying. “Give them here.”
