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Ryder sprawled himself on my bed.
“Stop moving,” I scolded, picking up his foot with one hand and steadily applying the nail polish with the other. I was sitting awkwardly near the edge of the bed, the immense cast over my leg prohibiting me from getting any more comfortable.
“It tickles,” he said, jerking his body yet again. I wanted to retort that nails couldn’t be ticklish but held my tongue. It was a miracle he had allowed me to paint them in the first place.
“I don’t want red nails.” Ronan was standing over my shoulder, watching me beautify his brother with undivided interest. I chuckled at the disgust in his voice, and my chuckling ascended into full belly laughter when he added, “I want green. Like my hair.”
“Then you’ll really be a leprechaun,” I pointed out gleefully. It was a nickname I had given him when we had first met and one that he took to heart. The fact that he smiled almost reverently at the name now made my stomach soar.
“What about you, Tam?” I asked. Tam sat on the leather chair in the corner of my room. His hands rapidly flew over the keys on his phone, whatever he was doing holding his entire attention. “Tam!” I repeated when he didn’t respond. He glanced up, startled, before setting his phone down beside him. I couldn’t help but wonder who he was talking to and if it was a girl. I didn’t know why jealousy bucked me like a bull at the mere thought. Pushing the feeling down, I flashed him a smile.
“Sorry.” He ran a hand through his hair, the strands becoming even more bedraggled than before. He had deep bruises beneath his eyes as if he hadn’t slept in days. “I got distracted.”
“Texting a girl?” I teased. Did he hear the note of jealousy in my voice? At my words, his face darkened, surprise giving way to unreadability. Just as quickly, he ducked his head, and his signature blush spread up his neck.
“Tam doesn’t text girls,” Ryder said in a mock conspiratorial whisper. Tam’s blush deepened.
“Doesn’t believe they’re worth his time besides a quick fuck,” Ronan added. I knew that the boys were only attempting to tease him, but their words made my stomach plummet even further until it practically fell through the floor. “He hasn’t texted a girl back yet.”
Conversation veered to a storm that had hit the west coast and the cancellation of their favorite sporting game (I didn’t know the difference between balls and nets and sports names). Mercifully, they didn’t bring up Tamson’s strange behavior.
I never did find out who he was texting. All I knew was that my phone buzzed later that night, just as the moon peeked through the boughs of trees. I turned towards the phone, believing it to be Calax or Ryder or Ronan, but was stunned to see Tamson’s name blinking at me on the screen.
Tamson:You still up?
I was pulledout of my thoughts by Tamson's hand tangling in my hair. I groaned at the contact, pleasure warring with pain. Pleasure, unashamedly, won.
“She could be fucking beautiful if it wasn’t for that scar on her face,” Greg sneered, pointing to the long scar etched across my face. The blemish was the remnant of my time with Liz. Time when she tortured both me and Ryder for her own twisted pleasure and amusement. Self-consciously, I placed my hand to my cheek as if that could somehow cover the permanent scar. It was still red and raised - ugly - but it was gradually disappearing. With time, it would become nothing more than a pink mark marring my skin.
“She’s perfect,” Tamson snapped, the first break in his normally lackadaisical front.
Greg opened his mouth, no doubt to protest or call Tam out on his uncharacteristic, almost possessive, behavior, when a van crashed through the storefront window.
