Ocean (Damage Control 5)
“Look,” she says, “you brought me home last night. Made sure I made it to my bed safe. Consider this my thanks for spending the night in my armchair.” She clears her throat. “And before you reply, you should know I make mean chili omelets. And pancakes. For realz.”
She winks, and it’s a hot bolt to my crotch. Looking at her, listening to her is doing something to my insides. Like a knot kept tight for too long, clogging my lungs, is unraveling.
What’s happening to me?
“Can’t,” I say, my voice hoarse. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She sticks out her tongue, smiles. Her teeth are a little crooked, her incisors cutting into her lush lower lip. It’s charming. Sexy. Kinda hypnotizing.
Like I wanna push her against the wall, suck her lip into my mouth and bite.
Hell.
“I’m outta here,” I mutter, turning, “just need to—”
“Sure, I’m only—”
We crash together, her elbow knocking in my ribs, and pain shoots through my chest, making me gasp.
“The fuck.” I wrap an arm around my middle, trying to breathe around the pain, while Kayla gapes at me. “Christ.”
She hangs back for precisely two seconds, then pushes at my arm and lifts my sweater. She’s lightning fast, this girl.
“Holy crap, what happened to you?” She pokes at my side, and I swear under my breath. “You’re black and blue.”
I grab her hand, stop her from poking the tender spot again. “Black and—?” Oh. Right. I look down at my bruised self. “It was the seatbelt.”
“What?” She’s blinking those big eyes, confusion written all over her face.
“Someone rear-ended my truck last night. The bruising’s from the seatbelt. See, I’m—”
“Holy crap. Nobody told me.” Red spots appear on her pale cheeks. “You should get checked out. Does it hurt when you breathe? Oh God, you carried me last night!”
“I’ll live,” I tell her, letting my sweater fall over the livid bruises. “It’s not so bad.”
“It looks bad.” Her full bottom lip quivers, and she bites it again. Goddammit, this girl is trying to drive me mad.
Against my better judgment, I put a finger under her chin and lift it until she looks me in the eye. “I swear it’s not that bad. And you’re light like a feather.”
She snorts, and it’s a bit watery. I frown. Before she glances away, I see her long lashes wet.
As if she’s about to cry for me. For the ugly bruises decorating my chest and the possibility I hurt myself carrying her home.
I’m so transfixed by that I don’t even breathe.
Nobody has given two shits about me since I was a kid. Nobody ever cared if I was hurt, if something was wrong.
Nobody has ever fucking cried for me.
The knot in my chest untangles a bit more and it aches. Hell. What am I doing?
“Take care.” Letting my hand drop from her face, I grab my jacket and hurry the hell out of her bathroom, her apartment, the bright energy that surrounds her, cursing myself all the way to the street.
***
The day drags. Despite feeling worn out and stretched thin from lack of proper sleep, I force myself to the gym for some cardio on the bike and a few rounds with the punching bag. Shane’s girl, Cassie, who mans the reception desk, keeps giving me questioning looks.
Why? Is it my sexy raccoon look, complete with dark circles and three-day scruff? Or the fact I move gingerly, swallowing curses every time I lift my right arm or breathe too deeply?