Wrath (Sinful Secrets 4)

“To Birmingham?”

“Well, yes. Is he an unsafe driver?”

“No. It’s not that.”

“You don’t want him to go? I’ll call Jenna’s mother. She can—”

“No, Mom. I don’t need you to do that. Jenna would be worried. I don’t really want to tell her right now.”

“Well—”

“Did you tell Ezra already?” I ask.

“Not yet. But he offered to do anything we needed.”

My dick twitches at that, and I have to shut my eyes and put my face in my hand.

“That’s fine,” I tell her. “I can ask him myself.”

“Carl will ask. He’s a nice, safe ride for you anyway because he used to be a lifeguard. Meaning he knows CPR and those sorts of things.”

“What?”

“Like you, he was a lifeguard for most of his summers.”

“Was he really?”

I hear the smile in her voice. “Are you so surprised?”

“I guess I don’t think of Richmond as having a lot of pools,” I bullshit.

He’s a fucking swimmer, and he nearly drowned himself down at the trestle bridge?

I shoot the shit some more, to reassure my mom, and then I swing for a while, arching my bare foot against the cool deck, rocking myself slowly.

That’s just…so weird. About the swimming. If she told me before, I don’t remember. I run my tongue carefully over my teeth, still tasting blood. Back inside the house, I eat a half sandwich and take the stairs back to my room, where I lie on my back on the bed with my eyes half shut. I don’t even like fried catfish that much. I don’t know why I said I did.

But…I do. I do know.

I think of Ezra in his room. I think of Ezra’s arm around me as we both lie in his bed. I pull his sheet around me, set my phone’s alarm, and let my eyes drop shut.

I wake to the alarm three hours later. My room is too hot, and I’m thirsty. There’s one sip left of the Icee. I swallow it then go brush my teeth before getting in the shower. My left shoulder is pretty sore, and so is the back left side of my head. When I wash my hair, I try to be sure there’s no bump there—but there’s not. I’m okay.

I throw on some olive green shorts and a pink Polo shirt and my most comfy pair of Jordans, and it’s almost six. Shit, I’m moving slow. I feel better, but still sort of weird and out of it.

I knock on Ezra’s door a few times, and when he doesn’t answer, I go downstairs. The house is quiet. Smells like dish liquid—the green Dawn stuff. By the time I get back up to his door, he’s opening it, looking sleepy-eyed with messy hair.

“Sorry,” he says, blinking. “I’ll get ready quick.”

“It’s all good.”

Our eyes hold for just a moment too long. He gives me a strained smile before shutting his door. A few minutes later, while I’m sitting at my desk chair fucking with the cello, I hear the shower come on.

I don’t know why I want to play right now. I guess I want to hear the music. I start into Beethoven’s “Cello Sonata No. 3,” the third movement, feeling half surprised to find my arms and hands still work like normal. By the time he knocks, I’ve moved to Debussy. I’m so into what I’m doing, I can’t put the cello down before he opens the door.

I can’t breathe as his gaze finds me. I check him out as quick as I can, noting his crisp, white Rolling Stones T-shirt, black shorts, and black Jordans. Then I notice his mouth open.

“Shiiiitttt,” he says, his lips curving into a grin.

I try to suppress a smile as I set the cello back on its stand. “Hope it didn’t sound like that.”

“That’s fucking amazing, dude.”

“Is it?” I turn back to face him, and I know I’m frowning, but I can’t help myself.

“It is.” Ezra holds my gaze. He’s got his thumbs tucked into the waistline of his shorts, one thick shoulder leaned against my doorframe. His hair is damp, hanging over his forehead like it does. He looks like a pinup. Like a nice guy. I can’t look at him for too long.

I grab my phone off my desk, scoop my keys up, and slide my wallet into my pocket. We don’t talk as I follow him downstairs. I don’t let my eyes drop lower than his back, which means they’re stuck on his now-bulky shoulders. How’d he do it? I swear, he’s put on fifteen pounds of muscle since he moved here.

There’s about two feet between us as he wraps his hand around the front door’s handle, pulls it open, and steps onto the porch. I’m stepping out behind him when he turns back around. I bump into him.

Both of us say, “shit.”

His eyes widen. “Sorry.” His hand comes down on my shoulder. Then he lifts it off and steps back, bumping into my mom’s fern stand.