“Whoa!” I take a step back before I crash into him, and have a surreal moment like a déjà vu from a nightmare thinking I was about to walk into my distorted reflection. “Watch where’re you going, man.”
“I called the cops.”
“Say what? You fucking serious?”
“I saw the guys gathered here, waiting for you. I saved your ass. Me and you, buddy,” Jenner says, smirking. “Me and you.”
“Son of a bitch. If anyone else except Elba had turned up, I’d be in jail right now.”
He frowns. “I only wanted to help.”
“I don’t need your goddamn help. Stay out of my way.”
“Look, Ross... these guys wanna hurt you.”
“What gave them away, huh?” I wipe more blood from my lip. “The fact they beat the hell out of me?”
“Yeah, about that. Maybe you should leave town for a while.”
Well, fuck me. Things just took an even weirder turn. Why would Jenner wanna help me? “If this is about you imitating me and taking my place...”
He flushes darkly and stammers something I don’t catch, then he’s the one turning and walking away as quickly as his feet can carry him.
No fucking way... he’s carrying a torch for me? I’d been sorta joking earlier when I told Luna he was trying to look like me, and sure I felt he was acting strange, but I never thought it was... well, this serious.
Or maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s some sort of twisted hero-worship, just different from the one Ed and his guys have got going—one that doesn’t include me getting beaten to a pulp while being asked to join their god-knows-what little enterprise.
Fuck knows.
It’s not until I’m almost at the house that I start to relax. Rubbing at the back of my head, cataloguing new bruises, I go around to the steps of the porch and practically jump out of my fucking skin when I see a shadow waiting.
“Luna.” I let out an explosive sigh. “Fuck. Give a man a heart-attack, why don’t you?”
She comes to the steps to meet me halfway, mouth quirking in a little grin. “Did I scare you, big man?”
“No, my heart always does this thing when it races like I’m about to die for no reason.”
“Do not joke about that, Ross Jones,” she hisses, grabbing the front of my shirt in a small fist and getting in my face. “No talking about dying. Not even in jest.”
My brows go up. “Yes, ma’am.”
She’s on the top step, I’m on the bottom one, so I look right into her sparkling eyes. A faint crease between her brows speaks of worry, or so I like to imagine when she says, “You’re always black and blue. What happened this time?”
“Same old.”
The small crease deepens. “You should fight them, Ross.”
“Who said I’m not?”
She smiles, then, bright and pleased, and I ghost my hand over her cheek, leaning in to kiss her, the weight of the day falling off me like dried mud, the pain of the bruises fading, my thoughts unknotting, releasing their claws from my brain. Even the fucking house doesn’t bother me.
“You taste of blood,” she whispers. “Always of blood, and pain.”
I frown, remembering the cut in my lip and bring a hand up to touch it, but she just kisses me again, so I guess she doesn’t mind.
Blood and pain. All my scars ache anew and this time the kiss isn’t light but heavy and hard, and I climb up the steps to take her in my arms, feel her against me.
I don’t give a damn about the future, or the price I’ll have to pay for allowing myself this. Tonight, I’ll take whatever she’s willing to give, and wrap myself in it, forgiveness, worry, soft skin and heat—and shut out this goddamn world.