by Harper Sloan
My life really is sad.
Screw it. I'm better than this.
Tossing the remote on the couch, I stomp to my room where I left my phone charging and make quick work of sending off a text, not willing to let myself think twice about it.
Me: My place. Tonight.
I look at the screen then consider that might have been a little rude.
Me: Please. It's important.
Ignoring the shake to my hand, I palm my phone and try to calm the nervous flutters. Thank God I changed his contact picture from the erection picture he had texted me, or I imagine I would be even more nervous than I already am at this moment. My eyes remain glued to the television when I drop back on the couch, trying to listen to the words the hunky salt and pepper cop on the screen is saying, but all I can feel is the giant weight of my phone--the phone that hasn't gotten a response.
Another hour passes before I lie down and continue watching my show, doing a terrible job of ignoring my phone. The workweek doesn't take long to catch up with me, though. The second my head is resting on one of my many throw pillows, I'm out.
"JOE JONAS!" I SCREAM, RUBBING my head and blinking the sleep out of my eyes. The pounding at the door starts again, reminding me how I ended up on the floor after cracking my head against the corner of my coffee table.
Climbing off the floor, I glance at the clock hanging above the television. Three in the morning? The banging starts up again, spurring me into action and out of the zoned-out, half-asleep state I had been trapped in.
It doesn't take me long to throw all the locks and yank open the door. "What?" I grumble to the chest right in front of my eyes. I peer up, and the rest of the sleep that had been fogging my head clears.
Shane.
Here.
Oh, boy.
"Why are you bleeding?" he questions with concern lacing his words.
"Huh?"
"Your head, Nikki. It's bleeding."
"It is?"
His eyes narrow a split second before pushing his way gently around me. Taking my hand, he urges me to follow. Beyond over everything at this point, I slam the door shut and follow. He stops in the kitchen, moving around like he's been here a million times. Correctly opening the drawer where my towels are, he moves to the laundry closet to grab my first-aid kit before dipping the towel he grabbed under the faucet. Then he walks back to where I'm standing and places his hand against my stomach, pushing me backward with a tender touch. I sit, mutely, while he dabs my head with the towel. My eyes never leaving his face as he continues to care for me. I never would have imagined he was capable of such gentleness.
"You don't need stitches. The butterfly bandage should be enough."
"Uh, okay?"
He studies me for a beat before opening his mouth. "How hard did you hit your head?"
"I'm okay."
He doesn't look convinced.
"I'm fine, Shane."
"You might think you are," he mutters under his breath.
"What are you doing here?"
Again, his expression gets a little wonky before it visibly washes clean, void of any emotion. "You texted me earlier."
"Oh, yeah. That."
"Yeah, Nikki, that."
"That, Shane, was hours ago."
He shrugs. "We were short staffed tonight at Dirty. I just walked out the door ten minutes ago, cherie, and I'm fucking beat. You texted, I came when I could, so what's up?"
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
"Oh."
"Nikki," he groans. "What's up?"
"I figured you would just text me back."
"Not a big fan of wasting my time. Your place is on the way to mine, figured I would stop by and see what you wanted."
"At three in the morning?"
Silence. His handsome eyes a murky brown, watching and waiting. However, it's the absence of golds and greens in those eyes that tell me more than his silence will.
"You're angry," I whisper with a frown. "Why?"
"It's been three fucking weeks, Nikki. I don't hear a peep from you until today, and after your text, I had to hear from Ember about some bullshit with your ex stalking you, showing up at your work scaring you, and then I get some short, curt message in a text and nothing else. You didn't tell me all that shit when we were together last, so yeah, color me fucking shocked. I couldn't leave Dirty if I wanted to, didn't have time to text you back, but my mind had plenty of time to imagine a million things you might need and not all of them were good. How do you want me to feel?"
"You were worried?" I don't call him on the fact we're actually a few days past three weeks even if I just want to be a smart-aleck. I have a feeling he's not going to handle my lame jokes very well.
He throws his hands up, making me flinch. His eyes get even darker. I'm having a hard time following him, but I can't imagine what I did to piss him and those damn mood ring eyes of his off.
"Yeah, I fucking was, and I don't like it."
"I'm sorry?"
With his hands on his trim hips, he glares at me. "Don't be fucking cute right now."
"I'm just being me, Shane."
"And that's the fucking problem!"
Needing a minute to wrap my head around his confusing behavior, I stand from my seat at the two-person kitchen table and walk to the couch. Clicking off the television, I toss the remote down and look at the man in my apartment. His head bowed, tension radiating off him, and his breathing coming in shallow pants. The silence around us uncomfortable, but I'm at a loss of how to break it.
"I left here three weeks ago thinking that you might have been serious, but then nothing. I figured if we were going to do this fake bullshit, you would at least reach out. I was game. But fuck, Nikki, you completely ghosted me. All I've thought about was what changed. Millions of shit-filled reasons going through my head, but it always ended with me fucking worried that something happened with that asshole ex of yours, and he was keeping you from reaching out. Then you finally do text, and I show up with you bleeding, and still, I fucking worry."
I open my mouth when he stops talking, but he holds his hand up.
"I don't like how this feels," he finally says. "I don't like surprises. I don't like to worry."
"I'm sorry I worried you," I offer, but he just narrows his eyes.
"I've never fucked a woman once and had her burrow under my skin as you have."
"Well, aren't you romantic."
"Tell me what made you text me tonight. Don't bullshit me either, cherie. You've been silent, made it clear you were done, yet here I am. So, tell me, what's up."
"I'm not done."
"You've got a bad way of showing it."
"I've had a long past few weeks at work, Shane."
"Yeah? So have I, Nikki, but it didn't stop me from thinking about you."
The flutters in my stomach pick up at his mention of thinking about me. "I didn't know what to say," I finally whisper. "I didn't know ... I'm not used to this, Shane."
"That makes two of us."
"I'm sorry I didn't call you, but you could have called me too."
"Yeah, I could've."
"Uh, okay."
"Nikki ... cherie, I'm begging you to just tell me what you need so I can get home and crash. It was just Nate and me on the main bar tonight; we had seven people call out or get sent home sick. I'm dead on my feet, but I knew I wouldn't be able to turn my mind off without seeing that you're okay with my own eyes."
"You're acting like a real boyfriend and not a fake one, you know."
"Nikki," he fumes, dragging those two syllables out.
I hold my hands up. "I wanted to revisit our talk from that night."
"You want to revisit our talk?"
"Yes. This time without our hormones muddling things."
He laughs. "You want me?"
My cheeks heat. "I think you know the answer to that." I cross my arms over my chest, hiding my stiff nipples from his view. The shirt covering them offers
no help in masking how much it turns me on for him to talk in that low rumble of his.
My eyes follow his movements as he moves to drop his bulk down on my worn couch. A rush of air coming out as he drops his head back against the couch, looking at the ceiling. The silence continues as he blinks up at nothing. Now that he isn't scowling, I can see just how exhausted he is. His eyes have a shadow under each of them, his normal larger than life hard-as-nails persona isn't joining us. He's just Shane; stripped down and raw Shane.
"How about you crash here, and tomorrow morning, I'll cook you breakfast and we can talk. No sex, no touching, just sleeping and talking in the morning. If, when we wake up, you aren't interested in what I have to say, that's okay. But until then, we both get some sleep and table this conversation for after we've gotten some rest."
His head rolls on the back of the couch until his eyes clash with mine. There seems to be so much working behind his gaze, but it's moving too fast for me to decipher it. He silently stands and walks over to me, grabbing my head gently and pressing his lips to mine in a hard, closed-mouth kiss. Then he releases me and walks to my room. I lock up, turn off the lights, and creep down the hallway, my breath catching when I step into my room and see every rock-hard inch of Shane Kingston face down and passed out, completely naked with not a single tan line on his glorious body.
I walk back out to the linen closet and grab the huge quilt my grandmother made me years ago. Shane doesn't even stir when I settle on the bed and drape the quilt over both of us. In fact, he doesn't move once ... until I curl on my side, facing the wall with my back to him, and fall asleep. Unfortunately for me--since I fell asleep--I missed him turning and pulling me into his strong arms.
And I also missed his whispered words.
"Not sure I can be your fake anything, mon colibri."
"How do you like your eggs?"
Shane looks up, his sleepy eyes hitting mine. "When did you wake up?"
"Uh, not too long ago," I answer, looking at the clock. I hide my wince when I see that it's not even nine yet. No way I'm going to tell him just how long I've been up. I woke up three hours ago, and I've been going insane since. I've never been one to sleep the day away, but the second my mind woke up and I felt Shane against me--holding me tightly in his arms with every inch of his body touching me from head to toe--I wouldn't have ever been able to get back to sleep even if leaving his arms was the last thing my still exhausted mind wanted to do. It took me longer to get out of his hold than I care to admit, but he looked so peaceful, so not like he did last night, that I wanted him to get as much sleep as he needed. I don't even allow myself to analyze why I was so drawn to stay in his arms.
God, I'm getting in so far over my head, and we haven't even started whatever this is.
"Right," he says gruffly. "You're a shit liar."
"I'm not lying!" I wave the spatula at him and narrow my eyes, heat hitting my cheeks.
He steps up behind me, his solid body hitting all my soft curves, and I sway, unable to hide my reaction from his touch. His lips ghost over my neck and up to my ear, warm breath bathing my skin as goose bumps chill my body.
"When you lie, your nose wrinkles. Just one side, cute as hell, but a dead giveaway."
"It does not," I retort breathily.
"It does. You also blush, right here," he whispers, his hand coming around me and his fingers swirling around the skin exposed between the open buttons of the shirt I'm wearing. "I bet, if I could see them, your tits would be the same light pink as your chest."
I click the burner off, move the pan of scrambled eggs to the back burner, and exhale loudly. "I'm not a liar."
"You aren't." His response instant and without doubt. "But that doesn't mean you won't stretch the truth when you don't want to give me everything." His touch burns when he grabs my hips and pulls me away from the stove. His body fits against mine more firmly now; his erection a heavy reminder against the small of my back. "Make a note, mon colibri; I don't give a shit about much, but when I ask you a question, I want the whole truth. No matter what."
I nod, not trusting my voice.
"Your ex, he didn't like it if you didn't say what he wanted to hear, did he?"
I'm beyond grateful that he can't see my face. The shame I feel knowing that I let Seth's short temper affect my life in such a negative way for years isn't something I will ever be able to get over. I can grow from it, but I will always remember how much I let a man dictate how I lived just because he was a big fat jerk. How to think. What to say. Who to be. Pure. Shame.
"Like you, he likes to be in control."
Shane's hands get tight, their hold on my hips pinching slightly. Before I can say anything or adjust my body, his touch eases.
"I'm nothing like him, Nikki. Don't ever lump me in the same likeness as a man who resorts to scare tactics to get a woman he didn't deserve in the first place."
"I ... that's not what I meant."
"I know," Shane interjects, stopping me before I can say anything more. "I want to make it clear, though, that the man I am, the control I need, isn't the same as what he used on you to make himself feel like a bigger man."
"Do you think we could have this chat with food and maybe less ... erection? It's distracting."
Shane laughs, a short burst of gravelly noise that sounds rusty and unused. "Yeah, Nik. I think that's a good idea." His hands leave at the same time he steps back, and I instantly regret saying anything. "You look good in my shirt," he says with a smile to his voice, plucking at the collar, dragging one finger down my neck, and then hooking it around the top button. "I was wondering where this ended up."
"Sc-" I clear my throat, swallowing thickly. "Scrambled okay?"
"Yeah, scrambled is good."
I don't look at him while I move around the kitchen. I give him the majority of what I had cooked, piling the eggs and bacon on his plate before grabbing some toast and setting it to the side to grab a much smaller portion for myself. He takes both plates from me and walks them over to the table. I watch his back, the thick muscles flexing as he moves, and when I feel myself get wet between my legs, I shake the desire from my head. He shouldn't be allowed to be shirtless.
"Juice, coffee, or water?"
He turns, looking back at me. "Juice is good, Nik."
I nod, trying not to get sucked into just how handsome he looks sleep rumpled and half naked in my apartment. "Juice, got it. Two orange juices coming right up."
He smirks, and I narrow my eyes. Clearly, I'm not hiding my emotions as well as he can. I might as well have a big neon sign above my head that says 'hot, wet, and needy' at this point.
I grab the orange juice and make quick work of getting the cups down. I see him out of the corner of my eye sit and relax against the chair while he waits. The tiniest of things, him not starting to eat, makes me stop mid pour. My head turns, drinks forgotten, as I blink at him, unmoving, while I process his manners.
"What?" he asks, one brow arched, his one heavily tattooed arm resting in his lap while his ink-free one toys with the edges of the lesson plans I had dropped on the table yesterday.
"You can eat." My frown deepening when he shakes his head. "Really."
"I'll eat when you sit."
"But it will get cold."
I can still hear Seth screaming at me when I would get upset that he would be halfway finished with any meal before I even had a chance to fix my plate, let alone sit. The nasty words he would say. His lack of compassion for the woman who waited on him hand and foot, always wanting to make him happy even at my own expense. One thing he always spewed in my direction was that he couldn't stomach eating cold food. I heard it so much over the years when we were together that I'm not surprised a little anxiety over upsetting Shane with a cold meal is popping up. Boy, did Seth screw me up. Apparently, worse than I realized if he's invading my thoughts right now.
I'm not sure how long I silently freaked over the past, but when I look back up at Shane, he's as calm as alwa
ys. His steady gaze seemingly too knowing.
"Then I'll eat it cold," he finally says, not looking away or hiding that he's taking notes on my reactions.
"But," I stutter. My eyes grow wide when Shane pushes his chair back and walks over to me, taking over pouring the rest of the juice before putting the container back in the fridge. I watch as he picks up both glasses, dips his head, and presses a featherlight kiss to my temple.
"We'll discuss why you look so scared about my food being cold later, but for now, let's eat, okay?"
I don't answer, but I do take a deep breath, grab some silverware, and walk to the table, pulling my chair out and dropping down in it. His scent fills my nostrils when his arm reaches around me to place my drink down, easing some of my nerves instantly. I pick up my fork and start eating, not once looking at him but seeing his hand move to do the same. We eat in silence--not uncomfortable but not exactly without a little strain. He wants to ask; I can feel it hanging in the air around us. The unspoken questions about why I would freak out over something so stupid. As embarrassing as it is, he deserves to know about my weird hang-ups. Fake relationship or not, we're a team until we beat our competition--meaning the exes.
"Seth wasn't a nice guy," I begin, but stop when Shane grumbles. When I look up, he waves me on and stuffs a huge fork full of eggs into his mouth. "Save the sarcasm, starboy, I doubt your ex was without faults."
"You've got that right, cherie; she had more than a few."
"Right, well, as I was saying," I reply, keeping my gaze locked with his even though I want to look away. "Let's just put it this way; Seth liked to have things done a certain way, and when they weren't, he didn't shy away from using his words to let me know what I was doing wrong."