“I’d share your girl with you, T. If she’d have me, that is.”
I grin at my friend, who looks more like a thug or a criminal than a man you’d entrust the love of your life to. “The universe sent her back to me, G. On the day of her friend’s wedding. If this is fate at play ‘if’ won’t come into it.”
10
SANDY
The bed is empty when I awake to the heavy thump of vehicle doors closing. Tyler's curtains are awesome at keeping out the sun, and from the groggy feeling in my head, I'm pretty sure that I've slept for longer than I usually do.
Sex used to do that to me, or at least the mind-blowing, soul-shattering orgasms that only Tyler could ever yank from my body. And sleeping next to him too. There used to be so much comfort in having his body next to mine, and surprisingly, it was still the same after so many years and so much pain.
I run my hands over my face as my mind flitters over what's going to happen today. Tyler will probably want to talk. Or maybe not. Maybe he came to sleep next to me without touching me to let me know that cares, but not enough to be more with each other again.
Maybe he just needed time to think about what he wants to say.
Maybe it's all a huge mistake to him.
A huge mistake to both of us.
Ugh. I need to use the bathroom and take a shower. There's no way I'm padding around a house filled with men with semen-encrusted satin shorts and a cami that's been torn in a frenzy. It's not the only thing that feels a little torn. Between my legs there's an unfamiliar feeling, the ghost of a cock that penetrated too fast and felt too good.
A bubble of emotion rises in my chest, but I suck in a quick breath and push it back down. It's something I've become an expert in. Inside me, there are so many feelings I have to keep closed away. Feelings, and secrets that need to be kept.
One of Tyler's shirts rests over the back of a chair, and I tug it over my arms, breathing in the scent of him that makes me lightheaded and heavy-boned all at the same time.
When I'm clean and presentable, I pad down the stairs and into the kitchen, wondering if I'm alone. It's 10 am, so well after the time – I'm assuming – Tyler and his friends need to be at work. Except, just as I'm about to fix myself some coffee, awkward as hell about making myself at home here, footsteps sound in the hallway. The thud of my heart, expecting Tyler behind me, is deep and anxious. When I turn, I find that it's Greg instead.
I'm anxious for a different reason.
Of all the men in this house, Greg has the most intense air about him. There's power in his body and a forcefulness to his presence that concentrates into an imposing air that sends a shiver up my spine.
"Sandy." He nods once, the sparsest greeting that anyone has ever given me.
"Oh, hey Greg. I was gonna make myself a coffee." I show him the mug I managed to find in the many cupboards.
"I'll do that for you," he says. There's no way I'd disagree with such a forceful statement. "Would you like toast or cereal? We have fruit, eggs, or I can rustle up some pancakes."
Pancakes. This man who looks as though he could rip my head right off my body is capable of cooking sweet treats? It just goes to show you can't judge a book by its cover. As much as I'd love to see this man whipping batter and flipping pancakes, I don't want to put him to any trouble. I'm not an invited guest as such, even for Tyler. For Greg, I'm just an inconvenience.
"Just cereal would be great."
"It's in the pantry. Go choose, and I'll grab the milk."
I shuffle over to the large door in the corner and find a well-stocked cupboard with at least ten different boxes of cereal to choose from. I pick the ridiculous multi-colored option that I used to eat when I was a kid, which elicits an amused snort from Greg. He hands me the mug filled with steaming black coffee held by a hand with the word HATE emblazoned across the knuckles.
Shit.
Maybe he notices me looking because as soon as the mug is safely in my grip, he drops his hand, rubbing across the tattoo as though he'd like to be able to erase it.
"Cream or sugar?" he asks with a slight dip of his head.
"Neither," I say.
"Sweet enough," he mumbles, retreating to the fridge for the milk and returning with a bowl and spoon too.
I perch on a stool at the counter, and Greg passes me everything I need to assemble my breakfast, then leans his hip against the counter on the other side, watching.