Wrath (Sinful Secrets 4)

"No," he murmurs.

My throat feels too tight to breathe.

"I only know one thing," I manage, as we drive past the “Welcome to Tuscaloosa” sign.

"What's the one thing?" Josh asks.

I give him a fucked-up little grin. "What do you think?"

"I have no idea, man. Enlighten me."

I bring our joined hands to my mouth and brush my lips over his knuckles. "It's a fucked up story, Miller. But it looks like we're together at the end."

Eleven

Josh

Ezra parks in a shady lot beside the University of Alabama’s swank athletic dorms, and we follow a brick sidewalk to the building. He makes a funny little nervous face as he pulls the lobby door open for me, and then we’re stepping into a space that smells like new carpet and Doritos. Two guys sitting on the couches hop up and high five him, talking about the game in a way that makes me realize they must be on the team.

Ezra introduces me as his best friend Josh, from Auburn. I don’t know what I was expecting, but best friend doesn’t make me feel too bummed out.

As soon as we’re in the elevator, he murmurs, “Was that okay? I didn’t really think about it before we got here.”

“I loved it,” I tell him.

“We can change it later. Anything you want,” he says, and I can feel my face heat up as my chest goes all warm and happy.

The elevator door opens on the third floor, and he takes my hand. “C’mon, my Mills. Let’s go see my little dorm room.”

I feel buoyant that he’s holding my hand in the hallway, even though his door is just a few feet from the elevator. He doesn’t seem scared or in a hurry as he opens his door.

The place smells like him. Just…like Ezra…in a way I can’t quite explain. It’s not as empty as I thought it might be, nor as sterile. The walls are medium blue—the color of the sky around dusk—and there’s crown molding around the top and bottom of them, plus a nice-looking faux hardwood floor and a rug he tells me came new with the room. He’s got a bookshelf filled with paperbacks, an oil painting hanging near his bed, a wall-mounted flatscreen, and a few plants perched near his two windows. There’s a dresser on one wall, a night stand on one side of the bed, and a gray armchair with a floor lamp near the bookshelf.

“This is pretty nice,” I tell him.

“Athlete bonus.” He rolls his eyes.

I sit in the armchair. “I think athletes deserve good cribs.”

He snorts. “So does everybody else.”

“Are you a college socialist?” I tease.

“I don’t know,” Ez says. “Which way do you lean?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “I lean the way of moving to a private island where there’s nobody but us, and we live in a hut right by the stream.”

“I’m feeling that vibe.”

We end up in his bed, both lying on our sides, turned toward each other. He’s tracing my freckles and I’m running a finger over a little bruise below his left eye.

“I swear, I don’t remember getting it.” He smiles softly.

I kiss his eye. And then his cheek. “You gotta take care of you out there for me. I’ll start sitting close to the field.”

That makes him grin. “If I get hurt, you gonna take care of me?” The smile fades from his face, probably as he considers what would happen if he did get hurt. “Could you, sometimes—sit close?” he asks. “If you’re ever there?”

“Of course. Like at the Rose Bowl?”

A slow smile spreads over his face. “How do you know that’s our bowl?”

“I was keeping up with you, Ez.”

“Wish I would have known,” he murmurs. He presses his forehead against my chest, and I stroke his back as he tells me about some of the hazy memories he had of us that same night he took the Xanax. He says they didn’t feel like memories. More like a fever dream, but based on what they were, they are—dim memories. Which leads us back around to his wild trip to San Francisco.

“I was such a wreck. It was a fucking miracle they didn’t call the cops, have me committed or some shit.”

“A miracle?” I smile, and Ez props his head in his palm, looking a little dreamy.

“They’re good people. Luke McDowell hooked me up with the therapist I’m seeing here. A trauma specialist. I’m supposed to start doing some stuff with them this week. More stuff.”

“Yeah?”

He nods, looking down as he bites his cheek. “We said we’d wait on harder stuff till after the season was over.”

My stomach does a quick flip at the thought of Ezra doing “harder stuff,” but I know I should be supportive. “It’s so good you’re doing that. You deserve to heal from that shit.”

“Thanks. Josh.” He gives me this small smile. Sad smile? Maybe not sad—just thoughtful.