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Sky
Hunter never showed up for dinner, and after the guys go to bed, I make my way toward his room. Guitar music is traveling through the closed door. I recognize the haunting melody from Outlaw, one of my favorite bands. I knock on Hunter’s door, and he stops playing.
“Go away. I told you to fucking leave me al…” He opens the door, clutching the electric guitar in his hand.
I tear my eyes away from the instrument, and my breath catches in my throat. He’s bare-chested, hair still wet from a shower, his tattoos and piercings on full display. He takes a step forward, and I back away from him.
“Sorry, thought you were Drew busting my balls yet again,” he drawls, running his fingers over the strings before setting the guitar in its holder. He turns off his amplifier.
Putting my hands in my jeans pockets, I look around his room. “Drew is out with Timothy.”
“Great, that’s fucking awesome, another poor asshole that’s gonna get his heart broken,” he says, sarcasm underlying every word.
“Tim’s not like that.”
He scoffs and searches the coffee table that’s littered with junk for something. After rearranging the mess, he finds what he was looking for—a pack of cigarettes.
He lights one up. I have no idea what I should do… walk away or go into his room.
“Want something to drink?” he asks, the cigarette dangling from his mouth as I lean against the door I just closed. This bad boy picture is too much, and I can’t suppress a grin, which he returns.
“Sure.” I nod, walking around his place, taking it all in. The black and white pictures on the wall of him surfing or riding his bike. The books lying around. I scan the titles—Oscar Wilde, Jane Austen, Kevin Powers, and a book of poems by Mark Strand I recognize.
I tug at the collar of my shirt. A clammy film coats my skin.
“God, is it hot in here?” I ask.
“Yeah it is. I need to fix the air-conditioning. Haven’t gotten around to it.”
I let out a shaky breath. He holds up his hands. “Before you tell me it has been over a hundred and twenty degrees for a week now …” He locks eyes with me. “Drew already beat you to it.” He winks and I can’t help but smile.
He takes two glasses from his little kitchen and pours some pink lemonade in them. “Drew made it.”
I glance around his room, focusing on anything but him. He has a small living room, an open kitchen, and a screen obscuring the rest of his place, probably hiding his bedroom.
I don’t know what to do. I lean awkwardly against the armchair of the couch, trying not to focus on his nipple piercings. I’m failing, of course; the guy is half-naked and when he turns away from me, I can’t help but stare at the big tattoo of a skull and some writing on his lower back. In the truck he kept his shirt on, I only felt his nipple piercings then. They’re even hotter up close. I bite my lip, peeking up at the ceiling. That’s the safest option.
“Want to sit?” He nods toward the couch, handing me the drink.
“Sure,” I say, smiling, taking my seat next to him.
He stretches out his legs, smoking the last of his cigarette before grinding it in an ashtray. He looks like Ryan Gosling in The Place Beyond The Pines.
He waggles his eyebrows and smiles. “See something you like?” he asks, tapping his fingers impatiently on the glass.
Shaking my head, I set my cup on the table and stand. “I now know you aren’t still beating your head against the door, so I should probably go.”
He’s on his feet in a second, blocking my only exit. “Shit, Shorty,” he mutters, his eyes darting around the room, almost as if he’s uncomfortable. Goose bumps break out on my arms. “Sometimes my mouth has a mind of its own. And I say stupid shit.”
“Say or do?” I taunt, giggling.
He winks at me. “Both.” His voice low and smoky.
I’m so irritated with myself, I should stay away from him. I’m playing with fire, thinking about the way his lips pressed against mine, or the way he moaned my name. I hope he’s going to kiss me again, but he turns his head away, breaking the spell.
My eyes travel south, zeroing in on his nipple piercing, making me think of all the other places he has a piercing. Running my tongue along my bottom lip, I quickly divert my gaze before my cheeks turn any redder than they probably already are.
“What is Timothy’s deal?” he asks. Dipping his chin toward the house, he crosses his arms. “Did he give you drugs before leaving with Drew?” he growls, leaning against the wall, his angry voice going right to the spot between my legs. I squeeze my thighs together. What the hell is wrong with me that him going all drag-you-by-the-hair-to-my-cave makes my heart race?
