Wrath (Sinful Secrets 4)

"Not a plaid guy,” I say.

"Oh. Okay."

I blow another puff of smoke out, this time away from Miller.

"When did you start that?" he asks.

My throat lumps up so I can't talk. I can't even swallow. Slowly, I blow my breath out. Drag another one into my lungs. "Recently," I manage.

I can feel the pills keeping my chest from tightening. I feel heavy, like there's something pressing on me—in a good way. I lie back again and shut my eyes so I can give into the feeling.

"My bud Brennan said you want to play for the pros,” Miller remake.

That’s right. I remember Brennan, one of the wide receivers, is a good friend of the Do Gooder here.

"NFL," I tell him.

"And you're good enough."

He's not asking. I guess he's heard or something. "My arm." I crack my eyes open and take the last drag of the cigarette. I lift my hand and wave it slightly.

"You mean your arm is good enough," Miller clarifies.

I shut my eyes and stub the butt out. "Yes."

"It's attached to you. Not sure if you were aware."

I smile before I tell my lips to stop, and when I peek my eyes open, I see him smiling too.

Josh

The guy's high or drunk. There's a dozen ways I can tell, but the weirdest one is how his hand—the left one, resting palm up on the shingles as he lies sprawled on his back—keeps on twitching. It's almost seizure-like, which makes my stomach flip until I tell myself of course it isn't.

Ezra is high. I'm sure it must be that. Despite all this NFL potential I've heard about, he's clearly not concerned with what he puts into his body. My face flushes at the wording of my own thought, going places it shouldn't.

He's been here a little shy of two weeks, and school starts in about one more. He spends every day practicing, and sometimes in the evenings he goes out with Marcel or Thomas. He's been at a party where I was one other time after that first time; I barely saw him, but I heard he was guzzling beer from a funnel.

His fingers twitch again, and he says, "Yeah. I'm not an arm though. Better to remember that."

Oh, I get it. He doesn't want to see himself as just a football talent. "That makes sense. I guess it is better not to base your life on only one thing." I look down at him. His eyes are closed. He's so still that he seems asleep. I see his hand flex, so I know he isn't.

Are you okay? It's right there on the tip of my tongue. I can't ask, though. I sit there by him for what feels like an hour—as a warm breeze ruffles my hair, and his; as the muggy air makes my palms feel sticky. I'm not sure if he's awake. His chest rises and falls slowly, like maybe he isn't.

I didn't bring my phone out, or even plan to come out, so I'm not sure how late it is. The moment feels outside of time. I can't keep my eyes from moving over his long body. If I let my eyes feast on him, I could see the bulge in his gray sweatpants. He's wearing a long-sleeved, dark T-shirt with a pocket, and a surfboard on it. I can see his pecs, the outline of them. I can see a swatch of skin—the “V” at his hipbone—between the shirt's hemline and the draw-string top of his pants. He's got the shirt's sleeves pushed partway up. I look at his arm. It's the left one, lying palm-up by me. He's got thick, curved forearms and big, if slim, hands. That's a QB prerequisite, I'm sure.

I'm a sucker for a guy's hands. No one even knows, but I love the squared angles, the thick bones and wide-planed palms. One day, I'll hold a man's hand as we walk down a sidewalk. It won't be in Alabama.

I think of dragging a fingertip down the inside of his forearm. It would be soft. He has a tan from practice in the sun, but everyone's arms are pale on the inside. I could trace the veins I see.

I look at his face just for a second, wondering about him. I've been avoiding him as much as I can. I don't want to be a dick, but he's one, so I can't not. At least that was true until tonight.

Nothing happened tonight, Miller. He's passed out, and you're just staring at him like a freak.

Still, I can't seem to pull my eyes away from him. The roof is slanted. Not much, but a little. If I go inside, he might roll off, or step on that weak spot. I'm pretty sure that he's asleep now. I sit beside him, feeling warm and strange and like there's an anchor someone just dropped down in my chest.