Dark Child (Wild Men 5)

‘I can’t,’ I text him back. ‘My sis isn’t doing so well. Waiting to see if I need to drive over to help out.’

A few seconds with nothing.

Then, ‘Where?’

‘Memphis.’

The next message comes immediately:

‘How can I help?’

I stare at the words, wondering why my eyes are stinging even as my lips curl into a smile. No reason why my throat should feel so tight.

‘I don’t know yet. For now I will be apartment-sitting.’

‘And cat-sitting?’ he writes back with a cat emoji.

Reluctantly I smile.

‘Not sitting on the cat, obviously,’ he writes a few seconds later. ‘Or is that what you meant?’

I open my mouth, glance at the kitty. She cocks her little head and stares back at me. Then she hiccups.

My phone dings again. ‘That would be uncomfortable.’

Ding. ‘For the cat.’

Ding. ‘Lucky cat.’

Ding. ‘Come sit on me instead.’

I snicker. He’s crazy. And his texts keep coming.

‘Damn. Now I can’t stop thinking of you sitting on my face.’

Oh holy crap… Heat washes through me. My belly clenches. My pussy tightens.

I take a few deep breaths. This boy is nuts. I should be laughing, but instead I feel like I’m on fire.

‘I’m just waiting for more news,’ I make myself type.

‘Let me bring you breakfast,’ he replies. ‘Just say Yes or No. Actually, just say Yes.’

I stare at his text. I couldn’t care less about breakfast, my stomach one big knot, and I shouldn’t care about seeing him right now. But I want Merc here, I realize, his arms around me, his steady, solid presence by my side.

Family. I need him like I need family. What would it hurt to have him over, anyway?

‘Yes,’ I type, my fingers shaking. ‘Yes.’

Seconds later, his reply appears on my phone: ‘On my way.’

He brings donuts and coffee and that warm, bright grin I love. My own private sun, and I’m getting caught in his gravity. Dressed in old sneakers, ratty sweats, and a patched black hoody that has seen better days, he’s a sight for sore eyes. His ever-present set of headphones hangs around his neck.

“Were you out jogging?” I take the coffees, and he places the paper bag with our breakfast on the kitchen table.

“Yeah. Sometimes.” He rakes those long musician fingers through his pale hair. “When I can’t sleep, I get up early and jog.” He makes a rueful face. “It doesn’t help with the sleeping problem, but it calms me down.”

The sleeping problem. I uncap the coffees, the aroma of good coffee and cream wafting up to my face, and try to find the words to ask.