“Well now they’re back, and want more. As if they haven’t taken enough from Shun already, from both of us. Our whole fucking childhoods, just… They should be in jail, both of them, not out and about, demanding more. I wouldn’t have made it to adulthood if not for my brother. He was mother and father to me, and I’ll be damned before I see them suck him dry.”
I’m clutching the wheel so hard I’m probably leaving dents in the old plastic. Dammit, no idea why I’m telling him all this. Could be because he’s so quiet, listening, his eyes on me.
I sigh. “I’ll set a meeting with them. With my dad. Settle this once and for all. Tell him to get lost.”
“Did he threaten you?”
“What?” Jesus. A chill runs through me. “Why are you saying that?”
How would he know?
“Did he, Raine?”
I swallow hard. “Yeah. But that’s bullshit. He has nothing to back those threats with.”
“You sure about that? Ocean was into illegal street racing back where you lived, wasn’t he? Who knows what the hell your dad was involved in. Just… watch your back. That’s all I’m saying.”
You’d almost think he’s concerned. About me.
Yeah, whatever.
“I can take on my father,” I say, killing the engine and opening my door, letting the cold of the night in. It sobers me up, chases away the fog of doubt. “Let’s go.”
The moment I step inside the apartment, I switch on the lights and crank up the heating, then take off my jacket.
Jason closes the door softly behind me. He’s still limping—I can hear his uneven steps.
“So what happened tonight?” I ask, keeping my tone casual, preparing for another round of snark and yelling, followed by furious silences. “Run into another thug in a back alley?”
But he doesn’t take the bait. I turn around prepared to repeat the question, ask why he smells like he rolled inside a dumpster, and the words die on my lips.
The look in his eyes is so bleak it’s like a punch to the chest. His bruised face is drawn, his shoulders slumped.
Not glancing at me, he turns away and limps over to the sofa, shrugging off his jacket. His movements are slow and a bit uncoordinated, and then then as I watch, he stills, the jacket off his shoulders, his arms still in the sleeves, his back to me.
What the hell? I realize I’m holding my breath, no idea what’s going on but a weird feeling twisting me inside. I want to go to him, help him. Ask again what is wrong, check that bruise and that cut on his face.
But I don’t move.
The moment stretches.
Then he moves again. Taking a shallow, ragged breath, he slips his arms free of the sleeves and lets the jacket drop to the floor.
“So listen,” he rasps, without turning around. “I don’t normally do this, but before anything… Can I use your shower?”
I watch his broad shoulders, the narrow dip of his waist and hips, his rigid back, his hands clenching at his sides. His black pants have wet patches and stains on them, and when he turns around to face me, the front of his light blue tank top looks smeared with something dark like blood.
Even more disturbing is the fact that he won’t meet my gaze, and he’s biting his lip like he wants to gnaw through it. He attempts a smile, but it crumbles around the edges.
What the fuck happened?
“Sure, no problem,” I say, and wave a hand vaguely in the direction of the bathroom. “I’ll find you a clean towel. Water heats up fast, just run it for a minute.”
Dark brows draw together over his eyes, and he glances at me—a question, a flash of warmth, a shadow of doubt—and then he’s nodding and starting in the indicated direction, still gnawing on his lip.
In a strange daze, I watch him find the bathroom and get inside, then shake myself and go look for that damn towel.
So many questions buzzing around in my head, and in any case, imagining him in the shower, with suds and water running over his strong body, shouldn’t affect me so much, shouldn’t get me hard as a rock. I mean, I’ve seen him naked before, right?