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“Don’t stop.”
I put my hands back on his body. Declan’s melting into the couch. “I pulled it a while ago,” he says. “Tore a ligament.”
“How did you do that?”
“When I was like, seventeen I think, my brother and I were running from … I don’t know,” he tells me with his eyes closed. “Maybe ten or a dozen guys. So, very outnumbered.”
“Running from them?” I keep up the strokes, running along the lines of his muscles as they relax under my touch. “It was a deal gone wrong. They set us up.”
My hands pause as I realize what he’s telling me.
“They had their guns pulled but we took off, ran behind this row of buildings.” He swallows and as I press down along his back, stretching the muscles, his expression is so serene with his eyes closed, even if the story he tells me chills me to the bone. “There was an alley and behind it a fence. My brothers jumped first and then I was right there, but my shirt caught.”
He pulls his arm behind him, letting his finger trail down a faint scar. “I got scraped up from it pretty bad, but I was stuck. Separated my shoulder.”
Adrenaline courses through me at the thought of what he’s describing.
“You were just hanging there? With your brothers ahead and the other men behind you?” I’m grateful his eyes are still closed, because my expression must show the terror I feel for him.
“No, they didn’t go ahead. I screamed when it happened.”
“So?” I feel the blood drain from my face.
“We had guns too. We made it out, Jase got hit in the shoulder, I had my fucked-up shoulder. Carter and Daniel went around the house for weeks making fun of it, pretending to injure their shoulders so they could fit in.” A faint smile grows on his face at the memory.
I’m careful in between strokes to keep my breathing even so I don’t let on.
Seventeen years old and he was in a shoot-out. He could have died. That’s when I realize, he killed someone at seventeen. When I knew him. He had already committed murder.
We were only kids.
Questions pile up and I swallow them all down. I hurt for him. I hurt for all of them as the silence settles comfortably around us.
The thing about pain like that is it never seems to go away. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer.
I keep massaging his shoulder, easing up on the pressure. When I peek down at him … his eyes are closed. His breathing is deep and even.
Declan fell asleep on my couch. Sound asleep.
I let my hands go still. He looks so peaceful. I can’t possibly wake him. I can’t lie here with him either, because he takes up the full width of the sofa.
What am I supposed to do now that he’s asleep? I find myself going to get him a pillow and a blanket before I can overthink it. His story dwells in the back of my mind. His confession earlier about every rumor being true. There’s a darkness to Declan that’s very real. It’s all I can think as I make my way upstairs.
In the bedroom, I open the closet door and tug the pillow down. I’ve got a box on top of it, so I do it gently. I don’t want a big thud to startle him awake. I have the box out of the way and I’m getting the blanket when his voice comes from the doorway.
“Did you drug me?”
Fuck! I can’t stop myself from gasping, my hand flying to my throat. “Declan. You scared the shit out of me.”
His eyes are dark and suspicious, bordering on angry as he stands a good ten feet away in the doorframe of my bedroom. “Answer me.”
“No.” My heart is going to jump out of my body. “Of course not.” He stares at me, looking in my eyes like he doesn’t believe me. “You fell asleep. I was getting these for you.” I hold up the pillow and the blanket to show him. It’s insane he thinks that and I almost say it. But then I remember calling him a psychopath and I bite my tongue.
It’s more than evident that he’s paranoid, but I would never do that.
“I would never,” I tell him, stressing each word. “You fell asleep and I was just getting you these so you’d be comfortable. I didn’t want to wake you up.”
