Caveman (Wild Men 1)

Okay, I’m drunker than I thought. There’s no reason for her to be at my door on a Monday morning, looking pissed, cute and damn sexy in her ripped jeans and tight black top.

“Dakota?” My voice slurs, and I wipe a hand over my mouth, hoping I’m not drooling.

She stalks inside, her eyes unreadable, and I grimace, waiting for the tirade I can see coming. Why the hell did I let her in? Where does my good sense go whenever she’s around?

I close the door and turn to face her, bracing.

But she doesn’t speak. She steps close and gazes up at me with those big blue eyes. I can’t help noticing they seem a bit too bright. Then she shakes her head, opens her arms and wraps them around me.

I flinch. I can’t help it, but she holds on tight, and slowly I relax. It’s just a hug, I remind myself. I can do friendly hugs. Erin and Megan hug me often. As long as there’s nothing sexual about it, I’m okay.

Besides, unlike in some of my darkest nightmares, I can see her face, and I know it’s all right. It’s her, Dakota, and nothing bad will happen.

Her light honeyed scent calms me. I don’t know what the hell I am supposed to do or say, except put my arms around her too and close my eyes for a moment. The tension that’s been keeping me rigid for days melts away, and weirdly, as I sag heavily against her, I feel like I’m floating.

The moment doesn’t last. She pulls away. “You should call Asher and Rafe,” she whispers, and this time she doesn’t look me in the eye. “They’re worried sick about you. The only reason Asher hasn’t called the police is that your light has been on, and he heard you yell at him to fuck off.”

Crap. I’ve worried everyone. And what if Matt called about Emma and found my cell phone off? Smart, Zane. Very smart.

Breaking through my thoughts, she moves away, and I reach after her, not sure what I’m trying to do. Not sure what happened, why I let her hold me. I let very few people inside my guard, and they know not to surprise me.

But I’m slow and dizzy, and I don’t catch her. She walks to the sofa and picks up one of my drawings, then another. When she turns to look at me, her eyes are wide, and she looks pale.

“Zane…”

“What?” I draw skulls and skeletons, monsters and roaring lions, more thorns than roses. More death than life. That’s how my mind works. Then again, I’m so drunk I might have drawn just about anything. “What is it now?”

“Nothing. Just…” She looks again at the drawings, then places them on the coffee table.

“Just what?” I take a step in her direction, and shit, everything is spinning. “Fuck.”

She’s at my side immediately, pulling me toward the sofa. “You need to drink lots of water and eat something. I’ll make you some breakfast. Something greasy is good.”

“Why?” I sink against the cushions and rub my hands over my face.

“To absorb the alcohol. It really helps.”

“Dammit, not that. Why are you here, making me breakfast and all this shit?”

“Because I want to make sure you’re okay?” She shrugs, then grins. “And because I’m going to prove to you that I’m a roommate worth having. Where can you find better than me, huh?”

She winks and saunters to the kitchen.

I shake my head a little, wondering if I’m hallucinating or dreaming. But her sweet scent lingers, and my head hurts too fucking bad for it not to be real. Even weirder, a smile is tugging at my lips. Here I am, feeling as if I’m sinking in quicksand, as if I’m dying, and my face hurts from smiling like an idiot.

“Coffee?” she calls from the kitchen.

“Yeah.” I sit up straighter. “Coffee sounds good.”

That’s when I catch sight of the drawing sitting on top of the pile Dakota has gathered from the couch. My smile slips. I lift the drawing, gripping it so hard the edge of the thick paper is dented.

I’ve never done anything like this before. This is worse than skulls and death. There’s none of the harsh lines and rough cross-hatching I usually use for shadowing.

Soft curves, bare lines.

Shit. I let the paper drop back on the table and groan out loud.

It’s a portrait of Dakota.