I ask the question no one ever seems to have the answer to. “Do you feel like you’ll ever stop missing him so much? I mean, do you think it’ll stop hurting at some point?”
17
Everett
Oof, that’s the question, isn’t it?
I let out a long breath and go with the truth. “It never stops hurting, no.”
Rafi’s expression is so dejected, but there’s more than one truth. “For me, the hurt has transformed from the sharp pain to a gentler ache. I miss him all the time, especially when I hear a raunchy joke he would’ve liked. I’m able to imagine what he’d say and the silly joke he’d crack, and having those memories feels like I still have a part of him with me.”
I usually don’t talk about Daniels, to anyone, and the emotional whiplash nearly has my head spinning. I’d nearly swallowed my own tongue a few minutes ago when Rafi walked into the shop. His bushy, overgrown hair had always seemed chaotically adorable, but now it’s short on the sides with a slightly wavy flop that is sexy as hell. He’s wearing cowboy boots and a pearl-snap shirt that shouldn’t work, but damn…it really kinda does. And now, even his tears seem beautiful, making his whiskey eyes shine and sparkle.
Did I really just…think that?
Ugh.Soembarrassing.
I’m hosting poker night tonight at the shop, and if the guys hear about this, they’ll take my murder card, I just know it.
Which reminds me—it’s Omar’s first poker night-slash-team-meeting. He’d picked up what Anders and I were putting down, and the more we learned about this guy, the more we knew he was exactly what we needed.
If Rafi runs into him tonight, there’ll be too many questions with not enough answers. Why the hell did I agree to tattoo him?
I am so gone over this guy.
As I spiral into a pit of, dare I say,emotions, he slides his hand to my chest, absentmindedly sweeping broad strokes over my chest and belly as the tears continue to fall, unaware he’s glancing my pierced, sensitive nipples with each pass. I bite back a whine as he once again glues himself to my side.
Seriously, I’m in hell. I’ve lost a bet, I’ve pissed off the Big Guy somehow, and I am in hell. There’s no other explanation, and I’m fighting a losing battle trying to hide what his soft touches are doing to me.
Maybe that’s why it takes me a moment to realize that the intention of his touch has changed. I’m so lost in my own attempts to pour metaphorical ice water over my crotch that I’m slow on the uptake. The unexpected hardness against my hip brings reality back into sharp focus.
Is he?
What the hell is going on?
Rafi’s making slightly—no, that’s wrong—fully eroticnoises as he pushes his groin against my hip, reaching his thin arms around my neck, pulling me in for a kiss.
I pull back as his lips ghost mine. “Baby boy, we need to stop.”
He whines in protest, and oh god, that sexy little sound scorches me. He doesn’t leave my side, continuing instead to brush his hand across my sensitive body while not-so-subtly moving it lower. When his pinky touches the top of my waistband, I put both hands on his shoulders and push him away from me.
Looking into Rafi’s red-rimmed eyes, I almost give in. For six months I’ve been icing my balls, and now that he wants to take them out and play with them, I can’t pull the trigger. Six months ago, I would’ve been fine with some casual-style fun, but now? Not a snowball’s chance in hell.
I think about Daniels and wonder if maybe I never could do casual.
But there isn’t an element of my life that isn’t at least partially illegal, save for my friendship with Rafi. Not only do I commit premeditated murder, but I have also conspired with others to commit and support premeditated murder. My business is a sham entirely. The tattoos are real, but the charges aren’t. I’ve never once accepted money for a tattoo; I only ever work pro bono on service members. All of my taxes come through falsified invoices. I even lie about paying rent because I killed the guy who owned this building and had Jake redirect all of the rental income from the other tenants into a fund for the asshole’s children.
I refocus on the man in front of me, whose furrowed brow says I’ve been quiet for too long. My reasoning thus fortified, I remember my resolve. “I know you feel like you want this, but I’m the last thing you need.”
He goes slack against my hands, imploring me with his eyes. “That’s not true. If anything, it’s the opposite. Please, Everett, I need this. I need you. Please.”
No.
No.
No.
These are words I have dreamed about, words I have jacked off to, words I have come to, and I still didn’t know how much I wanted—needed—to hear those words from his pouty, sad mouth.
