Jagged Edge

He’s staring at me, and his dark eyes seem a bit unfocused. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but nothing comes out.

I frown. Is he on drugs? I may not have spoken to him in a while, but I’ve heard him talk to Ocean on occasion. Guy’s quick with his tongue—and I don’t mean in that way.

Fuck, now I can’t stop thinking about his tongue and what it can do.

Jesus.

“Jason.” I crouch down in front of him and realize he’s shivering. “What’s the matter, forgot your jacket?”

He swallows hard, and my gaze follows the movement in his throat. “Something like that,” he drawls finally. “Whatcha doing down here in the gutter with me, pretty boy?”

Okay, this is more like the Jason I remember. “I pass by here every morning on my way to work.”

“Work?” He makes it sound like an unknown concept, and fuck, I really should stop staring at his bright eyes, the way his teeth are sinking into his lower lip, the muscles flexing in his inked arms as he loops them around his bent knees. His knuckles are red and scuffed, and there’s a fine tremor to his long fingers.

“Collateral.”

“Damage?” he mumbles.

“Ah-huh. The tattoo shop? Damage Control’s sister shop?”

He sighs, closes his eyes. “Fuck, right. I didn’t know it was around here.”

“Right around the corner. Never seen you around here, though.”

“Not my usual haunt,” he admits softly, a rough edge to his voice that stirs something in me. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t like it. “You tattoo people, like your brother?”

“Nah. I just hold the fort in the mornings.” At his clouded look, I shrug and straighten, my knees creaking. “I man the front desk. Megan is there in the afternoons. Well, I need to get going, or I’ll be late.”

And hell must have frozen over if I’m making polite conversation with Jason.

“Yeah, off you go, baby,” he says softly. Then he sneers. “Wouldn’t want you getting scolded, would we now? Run along to your cozy, boring little job.”

I knew it was too good to last. I snort and shake my head, shoving my hands into the pockets of my rain jacket. “Forget I even asked.”

“Asked what?”

Christ. “Just don’t stay out here, or you’ll freeze to death.”

“I can take care of myself. Always have.” Stubborn. Glaring at me.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

As I turn to go, I realize I’m straining my ears to hear his comeback. Ought to be good, and I want to hear it. I want the snap of his anger, the spark of it.

But it doesn’t come, and come to think of it, why is he sitting there in wet clothes, doing nothing? Isn’t it too early in the morning for him to be working the streets?

A muffled sound from behind me stops me in my tracks. Not sure what it is, but it makes me turn around. Cars are passing by, splashing the sidewalk with last night’s rain, their lights on. The rain is picking up.

Through the curtain of falling drops, I can barely make out his slender form huddled in the darkness of the shop entrance, but somehow, I know deep in my bones that something’s wrong.

So I start back toward him

, resisting the urge to run.

The sound I heard before comes again. He’s coughing, and when I duck under the awning, I find him hunched over and panting, wet hair hiding his eyes.

“Jase.” I reach for him, and he jerks back, eyes wide. “Hey. You okay, man?”