“Sorry I didn’t warn you about them,” Jerome says.
“S’okay. I bet I’m going to sleep like a baby. Not a colicky baby, one of those babies that sleeps through the night.” She pats my hand and tips her chin up, trying to look at me, but I’m standing behind her. “Can you stay with me tonight? In my room? I still feel like my body is a magnet.”
“Why don’t we get you settled and see how you feel once you’re in bed?” I don’t like the hot feeling creeping up my spine, or the fact that Mark and Jerome are bearing witness to this. “I’ll be right back,” I tell the guys.
“You need help?” Mark asks.
“Nah, man, we’re good. It’ll just take a minute.” I spin her wheelchair around, heading for the hallway to her bedroom.
“I think I’m too tired for full service tonight, which is too bad, ’cause I was really looking forward to it.” She pats the back of my hand again.
I shush her and rush her down the hall, so we’re out of earshot of the guys.
I help get her into bed and she keeps on with the chatter. “I really wanted another orgasm tonight, but I’m so tired. I think I’d probably fall asleep on you and that would be embarrassing. And a lot of wasted effort.”
“Shh, Ave, it’s okay.”
“I think I’ll probably appreciate it more tomorrow. And I’ll be able help you out too.”
“Let’s talk about it in the morning, ’kay, babe?” I kiss her forehead and tuck her in.
Her eyes are already closed, and she seems to be down for the count before I even have her comforter pulled all the way up. I leave her door open a crack and stand in the hallway for a few seconds, trying to gather myself before I face Jerome and Mark. I sincerely hope they didn’t catch any of the telling comments she made.
Based on their cocked brows and inquisitive expressions, I’m guessing they did.
Mark is the first one to talk. “Wanna explain what ‘full service’ means?”
The real answer to that is no, I don’t, but I don’t think that’s going to cut it. I hold up my hands in supplication. “It’s not what you think.”
“So you and Avery aren’t screwing around?” Leave it to Jerome to be blunt.
I tuck my thumbs into my pockets so I don’t run my hand through my hair, aware it’s what I do when I’m stressed and having a conversation I don’t like. “It’s not like that.”
“So what’s it like then?” Mark asks.
“She only has one working hand, and it’s her weak one. She needs help with everything.” I don’t know why I don’t own up to it like I should.
“Seriously?” Mark looks incredulous. “You do realize there are toys out there that can do the same thing, without the added layer of complication.”
And this, right here, is why I wanted to keep it between me and Avery. “She was frustrated. What was I supposed to do? She needed relief, and I helped her out because she asked me to, and I will keep doing whatever the hell she needs me to until she tells me she doesn’t anymore.” I cross my arms, defensive and on edge.
Mark frowns. “Why are you trying to make it sound like some selfless act on your part?”
Jerome sighs. “If you have feelings for her and she has feelings for you, just own it, but don’t stand here and pretend you’re doing this just because she couldn’t do it herself.”
“Obviously I care about her. She’s my best friend.”
“We all care about her, man,” Mark says. “But the last thing either of you needs is a broken heart to go along with all the other broken parts.”
20
THE FREAKING TURTLES
AVERY
My brain is full of fog. I glance to the right and am surprised to find Declan’s large body in my bed. The sheets are shoved down to his waist, bare chest rising and falling slowly.
I’d like to be able to appreciate the incredible view, but Declan never sleeps in my bed, so instead, all it does is incite panic and some questions. I catalogue the aches in my body. There’s no unusual pain, so I don’t think he’s in my bed as a result of me hurting myself.
I try to remember what happened last night, but it’s a haze. I had one beer and a lot of snacks. Peanut butter brownies that had a bit of an odd taste to them. And then a whole lot of orange juice, which isn’t usually something I drink much of. That’s typically Declan’s go-to drink of choice.
My phone buzzes from my nightstand and I glance at the clock. It’s late, closing in on eleven, and I don’t often sleep past eight. I shimmy over a few inches and nab my phone, fumble it and nearly drop it on the floor. I manage to catch it with two fingers and fling it up onto my comforter-covered stomach.