The Friend Zone (Game On 2)

Her dark eyes are wide and worried, gleaming up at me with a silent plea. And I soften. I don’t want her to see this ugliness. But my distraction is a mistake. I hear Jonas snarl.

“Thought I told you to mind your fucking business, girlie.”

He lunges, and I can only think of Ivy, threatened. My vision goes white, a roar tears from my throat. I’m barely aware of moving. I slam into Jonas with enough force to rattle my bones. Fisting his shirt, I propel him upwards, my thighs bunching with effort. And he goes airborne.

His massive shape is a silhouette in the streetlight, and then he’s crashing down onto the pavement with a loud thud. I stand over him, my teeth grinding. A slow shake works deep through my guts. “Get the fuck out of here, or I will end you.”

He stares at me, all wide-eyed with his mouth hanging open. Blood dribbles from his lip, and my knuckles throb. Had I hit him? I don’t even remember doing it. But he spits a glob of red from his mouth as he rolls over, so I must have. Slowly he stands.

We stare at each other for a long moment. When I speak, the finality of our relationship feels like shards going down my throat. “Don’t ever talk to me again.”

He just shakes his head. “Mom wasted her time on the wrong kid.”

And then he leaves me there, gutted and filled with useless rage.

* * *

Ivy

Rain has started to fall. It taps against the roof of Gray’s truck with a metallic rattle and runs in rivulets down the fogged-up windows. Inside, it’s warm, the old heater blowing steadily as we sit not speaking.

We’re parked in front of my house, listening to Nine Inch Nails’ Right Where it Belongs play softly on the radio, the sound haunting in the relative silence. Gray hasn’t moved, and I’m hesitant about saying a word. He’s clearly in his own world right now, his strong profile unmoving as carved stone as he stares blindly forward.

Every line of his body is tense, as if he might shatter if he moves, and I hate it. I’d seen the rage and the fear cloud his eyes when his brother taunted him. I’d seen the hurt and shame. Gray is in pain, and that is unacceptable.

Slowly, my hand slides across the truck’s leather bench seat. His fingers are curled into a fist, but the moment I touch him, he opens his hand, turning his palm upward to clasp my own. Until I feel the warmth of his touch, I don’t realize how much I’d needed it.

We don’t speak. Gray’s hand engulfs mine. For a moment, I simply sit and soak in the small connection between us. It’s strange how good it feels just to do this. Almost absently, he traces the back of my hand, down the sensitive edges of my fingers and over my knuckles. Pleasure hums along my skin.

I explore as well, sliding a finger along the length of his as the tip of my thumb strokes his palm. I love Gray’s hands. Warm, rough skin. Long fingers and broad palms, and the strength. He could crush my hand without effort yet he holds onto me as though I’m made of spun sugar. Tenderness batters my heart.

“Hey,” I whisper. “What kind of shoes do spies wear?”

At first I don’t think he’s heard me, then Gray’s lips twitch. “Don’t know.”

“Sneakers.”

“Har.” The corners of his eyes crinkle as his smile grows. Still he stares out the window.

I give his hand a small squeeze. “What do you get when you cross a vampire with a snowman?”

“What?”

“Frostbite.”

Gray snorts. And then his eyes find mine. They glint with humor in the dim interior. “What’s green and smells like pork?”

Relieved that he’s engaging, I have to bite my lip to keep from grinning. “What?”

“Kermit’s finger.”

“Eew.” I laugh as I bat his arm. “That is vile.”

His broad shoulders shake as his laugh rolls out. He has a gorgeous laugh, booming and infectious. And right now, it’s the best sound in the world.

I’m still laughing when I give him another one. “What did the duck say to the hunter?”

Gray chokes down a laugh before asking, “What?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I wasn’t there for that conversation.”

And he laughs again, his expression open and happy. “That is the lamest one ever, Mac.”

“I know. Hey.” When he looks at me expectantly, I give his hand a tug. “What’s up with you and your brother?”

Gray’s expression falls as abruptly as a lid being slammed shut, and a twinge of guilt hits me. It’s a sneak attack and shitty of me. But there’s a difference between slapping a bandage over a wound and trying to help heal it. I can’t heal all of Gray’s hurts, but I want to try.

“You don’t have to tell me,” I say when he doesn’t say anything.

Gray leans back against the seat and runs a hand over his face before looking off. “I don’t want to.”

It shouldn’t hurt. He has a right to his privacy. But a lump rises in my throat anyway. And it takes effort to nod. Not that he’s looking my way to see it.

A gust of wind hits the truck and it shudders. I should take him inside, comfort him with my body and forget trying to make him talk.

He sighs and turns to me. His eyes are haunted, and it hurts my heart.

“Gray…”

“It’s okay, Ivy.” He seeks out my hand and holds it again. His fingers have gone cold. With his free hand, he rubs his eyes as if his head hurts. As if in a fog, Gray stares at his hand, his fingers spread wide. Red abrasions mar his knuckles. As if it pains him to look, he makes a fist and lowers it. “I hate violence. Believe me, I get the irony of being a football player. It isn’t the same. On the field, it’s controlled. Well, mostly. And we’re fairly matched up. But off the field?” He shakes his head. “Only a coward uses his fists when he can easily walk away.”