Deathmoth posters. I recognize Dakota at their center, Rafe in a corner, but I can’t remember the other guys. They’re pretty cool photos, black and white with red lettering.
A framed drawing hangs behind the easy chair—some sort of tribal design, with bold, black strokes and yellow dots. Made by ZM. Zane Madden? It’s beautiful. Simple and powerful. Looks like a devil’s head, fanged mouth open wide.
My neck prickles and heat spills down my back. I turn back around.
Rafe is peering at me from across the room, a hand clasped to the back of his neck, the intensity of his gaze hitting me like a laser beam.
“Nice place.” I clear my throat and move toward the sofa. “Live here alone?”
He blinks. “Yeah.”
I tug on my jacket to keep my hands busy. “Must be kinda lonely.”
“Yeah.” He shakes his head and a shadow flits over his face. “I guess it kinda is.”
Sadness grips me. I know the feeling. Raylin wasn’t much of a friend, but at least she was company.
“Why don’t you get a roommate?” Then I hear my own words and cringe. “I didn’t mean…”
He lifts a pale brow at me, and I blush again, because turning red like a tomato only once in the same evening just isn’t embarrassing enough.
“I’m not suggesting you take me as a roommate,” I clarify, mortified. “Didn’t realize it sounded so much like a come-on line.”
Both his brows lift. Hey, what do you know? I’ve caught him by surprise again. A good or a bad thing?
Good thing, I decide when he laughs. It’s a quiet laugh, head bent forward, hair falling in his eyes. A rich sound, deep and resonant, that makes me want to laugh, too.
“You had a roommate. This Raylin, right?” He’s grinning at me, killer dimples and all, and I swear my panties are melting.
“Yeah. She left without an explanation. I tried to contact her, but she never replied.”
“So you live alone now?”
I shrug. “I have Raf.”
“Raf?”
“A kitten.”
“Seriously?” He walks around the sofa, unzipping his jacket. He leans over to straighten a book on the low table—a History of Punk Rock. “He’s named after me?”
“Yeah. No! It’s a coincidence. Besides, he’s Raf, not Rafe.”
“You named him that?”
“He was named Horatio. How would you feel if you were called that?” I shudder.
Then I realize I’ve practically admitted I named the kitten after him, and clap a hand over my mouth.
Oh shit.
But Rafe is laughing again, his shoulders shaking as he stands up to his full height. “Yeah, Horatio wouldn’t suit me, either. Is he a ginger?”
“More blond than ginger. Kinda like you and—” I bite my lower lip viciously, to stop the flow of stupid words.
“Oh fuck.” His gaze lowers, focusing on my mouth and he takes a step toward me. His eyes darken. “Fuck, when you do that…”
He’s crowding me again, but nothing is stopping me from moving away this time. Only I don’t want to. I look up into his face, and my breathing stops. He’s like a golden god, the faint glow of the lamp casting shadows on his features.