God, what is it with these guys? Why do they all have to be so strong and sexy—and on top of it all, sleep half-naked? So not fair. It’s as if they do it only to tempt me.
“Kash,” West says, unfolding his long frame from the sofa and turns toward the door.
“What do you mean?” I turn to look.
The door’s open. It creaks, swinging wider, and I see Kash, on his knees on the floor, hunched over.
Shit.
Nate’s already rushing over to him, sinking to his knees beside him, dropping a hand on his back. “Man, Kash, what’s wrong?”
His gasping breaths are overly loud in my ears as I hurry across the room, West by my side.
Dropping on the floor, the impact traveling through my knees distant, I rub a tentative hand up and down Kash’s back. “Are you okay?”
“Close… the door,” he pants, looking up at me, his eyes wide, his mouth white. “Lock up.”
“What the hell, man?” West exchanges a questioning look with me, but moves around us and closes the door, sliding the lock into place. “Done. Now, what scared the bejesus out of you?”
“Someone… was following me.” He’s still gasping for air.
“What?” Nate’s gaze narrows. “Who? And why?”
Kash fumbles at his back pocket. A pouch falls on the floor. His tobacco pouch, where he keeps the weed he often smokes.
“Panic attack,” I whisper.
“Shit,” Nate hisses.
“Kash.” West crouches down right in front of him. “Look at me. Just breathe. Focus on that.”
Nate raises a brow. “What do you know about panic attacks?”
“Oh fuck you, Nate. You thought I wouldn’t research it when I found out you had them?” He turns his attention back to Kash, a frown on his face. “Moving could help, or so I read.”
“Let’s get him up,” I say, “let’s walk around. Come on.”
“Let me,” West says, and I cede my place next to Kash so West can wedge a muscular shoulder under his arm. “Come on, dude.”
“Need… to smoke.”
“Okay. Let’s go to the balcony then.” West heaves him up with Nate taking the other side. “Lead the way, Syd.”
I hurry ahead to clear the way and open the balcony doors, in a bit of a shock that West has taken charge. Since his family died, he’s been in a sort of a fugue, unfocused and distant most of the time, lost in his own mind.
Kash’s distress has snapped him out of it.
I look at them as they step outside, into the cool night air, the three of them. Tall, broad-shouldered, two dark heads and one blond, bent together as they navigate the empty plant pot in the corner and prop Kash against the rail.
Nate offers him the tobacco pouch, but strangely Kash doesn’t reach for it. He’s leaning back against the rail, his hair faintly glowing, his elfin face pale. Nate and West are steadying him with their hands on his shoulders.
“Red,” he rasps, his breaths still so quick and shallow it’s a miracle he’s standing upright. He opens his arms just a little, just enough to make it an invitation.
Or a plea.
With a sigh of relief, I walk into his embrace, wrap my arms around him. “Tell me what you need.” I don’t know what he’s asking for, but I’d give him anything.
“You.” His voice is so broken it slices through me like a shard as he draws me flush against him, against his pounding heart. And then, he says, “And Nate.” Another shallow breath. “And West.”