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It was hurt.
And vulnerability.
Because he thought I didn’t want to look at him. What? Because of his scars? Weren’t we beyond that? If the scars bothered me, wouldn’t I have washed my hands of him years ago?
“Hey,” I called, tone forceful enough for him to glance over, showing me the guard that was down over his eyes. “When have I ever said I didn’t like how you look? Do you think I go around fucking random guys I’m not attracted to?” I asked.
“I don’t know what the fuck you do,” he told me, still not convinced, so he was being a dick as a defense.
“Did it ever cross your mind that maybe, possibly, I think it’s not a good idea to stand in front of the window at night, naked, where you could possibly traumatize some poor old lady with your giant cock?” I asked, rolling my eyes at him.
To that, I got a small lip twitch out of him.
“Happy?” he asked, turning to face me fully instead of the window.
“I’m notunhappy with the view,” I told him. “You look rough,” I said, looking at his red eyes.
“It’s late.”
“Right. Because you’re never up until four in the morning.”
“It’s… work shit,” he admitted, shrugging.
I knew better than to ask. He wouldn’t tell me. Neither would the Murphy brothers if I asked, no matter how close we may have gotten over the years.
“Seems to be going around,” I said. “Cillian and the others were off today. Why don’t you sit for a couple?” I invited, waving to the other side of the bed. “It’s probably not smart to ride your bike with none of your blood in your head.”
“Think the blood goes back to where it’s supposed to after you come,” he said, eyes warm.
“Still. Probably smart not to take the chance,” I told him, then busied myself with trying to figure out the remote in an attempt to make it look like it was no big deal that I was inviting him to actually spend some time with me.
That wasn’t how it worked.
We tended to get up, get dressed, and leave before the sweat was even dry.
But just as I got the channel guide on, Slash was sliding into the bed from the other side.
There was a massive space between us.
Physically and mentally.
Two badly broken people who had no coping skills, no way to say that we were both struggling at that moment and kind of wanted to spend a little time together when our bodies weren’t going to town on each other.
It was a whopping fifteen inches between us, max.
It might as well have been acres.
A lightyear.
“What?” I asked, feeling his gaze on my profile when I finally put a channel on.
“Golden Girls?” he asked, brow quirked up. “I had you pegged for a horror chick.”
“I might have black hair, tattoos, and a love of metal, but I loathe horror,” I told him. “Real life is dark enough. I like feel-good shit when I have time to watch something,” I told him.
I didn’t tell him that Dorothy, Blanche, Sophia, and Rose had practically raised me. That I took solace in their found family when I’d been a little girl in need of a family of her own when her mom was gone for days on end on a bender somewhere with some random guy.
I didn’t tell him that I secretly bought myself individual slices of cheesecake from the grocery store when I had a really bad day because that was what theGirlsdid.
