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After he pulls out what he needs, he leans against the counter and holds out his hand. “Can I see?”
I toss the washcloth into the laundry basket by the bathtub and stare down at the little cut causing all this trouble before doing as he asked.
It’s quiet as he rubs a cotton swab of peroxide over the sensitive skin, so when a sad noise leaves his throat—something that might come from a wounded animal—my head snaps up as tension fills my spine.
Atlas drags his thumb in a gentle stroke across my wrist, and I know exactly what he’s feeling. It’s a collection of scars, too many to count, bleeding into each other. Some older, some newer.
He stares down—rubbing and rubbing so softly like he could erase it with a simple touch—then his eyes flash to mine, sadness and something fierce, something like protectiveness shining in them, and suddenly I can’t take it.
I pull my hand from his as easy as I can, tucking my arm into my side and smiling like he hasn’t unearthed one of my most well kept secrets.
“Blair.” His voice is rough, tone like a kicked puppy.
“I’m alright.” Because I am. It’s not as bad as it was when Dad would yell at me and work would beat me into the ground, and I had to listen to my baby brother cry himself to sleep at night, all while I had to be the strong one.
Things are hard, but they’ve been harder, and I do what I can to deal.
Sometimes that means hurting myself so my pain doesn’t hurt someone else.
“You needed something else to do with your head, right?” I ask, standing to reach around him and grab a bandaid, sticking it over the cut so it can be over and done with.
He doesn’t seem like he wants to let it go, but he nods and looks away. “I wanted to go for a run, but Shiloh vetoed and suggested having a Family Night.”
“And like a wet cardboard box, you cave for my baby brother every time.”
Atlas groans, biting down on his smile. “I did just give him a minor heart attack.” He presses his hand to mine again, offering but not taking. “Thank you for earlier. I’m sorry if I scared you.”
I hold up my wrist, breaking contact. “Makes us even.”
His brows pinch, but then laughter rumbles out of his chest and he pushes me towards the door. “Fuck your humor, man. I’m going to kick your ass at Twister. And Trouble. And whatever-the-hell-else Shiloh scrambled together for us.”
This is what I’ve always loved about Atlas. His ability to take the serious moments as needed and shift into joking around just as seamlessly.
I can’t take B away from him.
It doesn’t matter what I’m starting to feel; it’s another secret I’ll have to bury down in the wasteland of emotions that will either dry up or bleed their way out.
Chapter 9
Atlas
It’s no surprise that Shiloh wants to play Drink or Dare, but we veto that in favor of agreeing to play truth or dare on the condition that he has to win one of the other games first.
Let it be known that Shiloh Novak is nothing if not competitive.
Blair and I both silently agreed to give Shiloh as much hell as humanly possible to keep him from winning, which has been surprisingly fun.
I’ve had too much time to be in my head today. The nurse said I had a panic attack, and I’ve been keeping that tidbit to myself. I don’t know if she told Blair, or if he already knew because he’s the one who showed up, but I haven’t wanted to risk saying anything.
Who the hell has a panic attack after an orgasm?
Apparently I do, and I’ve been too embarrassed to even contemplate talking to B again.
So, I threw myself into baking, and I did my stretches in the room, and I was prepared to burn this shit out of my system until I was too damn tired to think anymore, and I could quit agonizing over how fucking strange B must think I am.
Except here I am, losing a game of Exploding Kittens.
Me and Blair are both out, leaving Noah the only one standing in the way of Shiloh getting what he wants. Which means I’m keeping my distance and preparing for the fact that Shiloh is most definitely going to talk us into alcohol of some kind.
