No Saint (Wild Men 6)

His deep voice jerks me, and I glance over my shoulder to see him surging to his feet and starting toward me, flicking his cigarette away. His black T-shirt molds to his chest, his shoulders and muscular arms. This boy’s beauty makes me stupid.

I resist as best I can. “I can’t,” I tell him, opening my stride to put distance between us. “I have to go.”

“Wait. Hey, just wait!”

“What is it?”

“Just wait, goddammit.” His footsteps halt. “You dropped something.”

“What?” I stop and turn around as he bends with a grunt to scoop something up. “Crap.”

“Here.” He lifts the offending item—a thankfully plastic bottle of apple cider vinegar Dad insists makes all the difference in his stew and miraculously can be found in our grocery store—and I reach for it. “Luna—”

A grimace interrupts him, and he presses a hand to his side, over his T-shirt.

The guilt, the worry from before returns full-force. “What is it? You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He nods, but it strikes me how pale his face looks, white around the lips, tight with lines of pain. “Just scrapes and bruises.”

“Good, okay.” I stare at him. I want to believe it, but I don’t. I should be running the other way, but I’m not. I’ll probably regret this, won’t I? “Listen, Ross—”

“Can you do something for me?”

“You got your kiss,” I say automatically, heat spreading on my face, on my neck, and my mouth keeps going, on autopilot. “I don’t owe you.”

I haven’t been daydreaming about that kiss. Definitely not.

Nope.

“Goddammit,” he growls softly, “I know that.” Pink splotches his cheekbones, stark on his pale face. “Shit, it’s okay. Forget it.”

That’s it? I wait for more, for some smartass comment, and when it doesn’t come, I get uneasy. Curious. Concerned. From up close he doesn’t look like he’s playing a game with me. Instead he looks pale, and tired, and sad.

“Ross, what do you need?”

He looks like he’s about to keep his silence, refuse to reply, pale brows drawing together in a frown. But then he jerks a thumb over his shoulder at the shop behind us. “Can you get something for me from the drugstore?”

“No money?”

“What? No, I have the money. They just... they won’t sell it to me.”

My turn to frown. “Why not?”

“Why do you think, genius?”

I ignore that. Obnoxious Ross won’t get to me, no way, and besides he looks even worse than before somehow, his face sweaty and going gray. “They don’t want to sell to you? Is that it?”

He glares at the ground, mouth pressed flat.

Holy crap. “Tell me. What do you want me to get you?”

A broad shoulder rolls in a shrug. “Band-Aids. Or gauze. Some antiseptic.”

“Shit, you’re hurt, aren’t you?” I put down the grocery bags, grip the hem of his T-shirt. What would he need gauze and antiseptic for, otherwise? “Let me see.”

“It’s nothing.” His hand closes over mine, keeping the T-shirt down.

“I’ll be the judge of that. Now, let me.”