It’s my turn to grab Aron’s chin, if only to hold him steady while I wipe his face with a fresh washcloth. I take extra care with his busted lip, assessing the damage. Yep. He’s going to need stitches if he wants to keep that gorgeous smile.
“Well, that plan backfired spectacularly. Why would I bother with someone else in any situation? There’s no such thing as ‘better than you’ in my eyes, Aron. You’re top tier. Aces.”
“Nobody says ‘aces’ these days, you goofball.”
“Anyway—” while still holding his chin, I artfully change the subject as I reach for a suture kit and open it one handed “—I’m going to stitch this cut, and then I think you’ll be as good as I can get you. Anything internal in pain? Stomach, lungs, ribs?”
“Nope.”
“Would you tell me if anything else hurt?”
“Nope.”
“Aron …”
He shrugs, then winces. “I’m trying to be honest with you, but I don’t want you worrying. So no, I won’t tell you if something else hurts.”
“You’re trying to be honest by admitting you might be lying?”
Aron cocks his head as if contemplating my question. “Exactly.”
“Well, your lip is done. Try not to yawn too hard in the next week or so.” I sit back and look at the mess we’ve made of the living room. “There’s, like, half a dozen bedrooms in this place. Seven if you count the panic room. You have a preference for where you sleep?”
“Where do you plan to sleep?”
“Me? I’ll probably take the master. I don’t think we were followed here, so there’s not really any need to use the panic room just yet.”
Wobbling slightly, Aron stands and rolls his injured shoulder to test it. “Knowing Tito, that master bedroom has at least two couches and its own adjoining guest suite. Am I right? Yeah. So, I guess I’ll take one of the couches. Oh, don’t give me that look; I’m not leaving you alone when you and Tito just got attacked.”
I don’t know if Aron’s self-deprecating attitude is from shock or sheer stubbornness, but it’s starting to get irritating. “There are entire bedrooms you can have; even a whole wing or two. Why are you insisting on taking a fucking couch to sleep on?”
He turns away from me. “Gotta sleep light just in case.”
I put a hand on his shoulder and turn him back. “You are not my bodyguard right now, Aron. You’re injured and grieving. Right now, you’re my best friend first and a guard last. In fact, fuck it—You’re fired as my guard. Aron the Guard is no more. You’re just Aron, and you’re sleeping in a fucking proper bed if I have to drug you and drag you into one.”
Aron’s hand covers mine, and fresh tears glisten in his eyes. “Matt, please … I need this. I need a job, a task,somethingto keep my mind off—to keep me focused.”
“Your task, Mr. Martinez, your job, is to stay alive. You don’t need to guard me for that.”
“I can’t be alone, Matt. Don’t make me spend the night alone tonight.”
If it was anyone else, anyone living or dead, I would have forced them to suck it up and go sleep in one of the many guest rooms. It’s not anyone else, though; it’s Aron. He’s giving me no choice, and it kills me to do this when I’ve just admitted my deepest secret to him.
“Fine. But we’re sharing the bed. You’re not sleeping on a couch.”
Chapter 9
Aron
Since both of us are filthy, Matt and I take showers after he patches me up. He gets me set up in the master shower first, and when I get out, there’s a pile of fresh clothing on the counter. Sweatpants, socks, a t-shirt, and even a new, unopened package of boxers, all in my size, all with the tags still on.
After getting dressed, I venture out in search of Matt, who disappeared while I was showering. The house is practically a labyrinth, but I finally find him in the kitchen. His hair’s wet, slicked back and still dripping, and he’s wearing a similar outfit to mine. The white tee is damp, plastered to his toned muscles, and his glutes in those sweats … I’ve watched him work out, seen him naked, but I’ve never noticed how tight they are.
One thing that shocks me is the existence of loungewear in the house to begin with. I guess Tito figured comfort was allowed if the Syndicate came under attack, though I find it surprising. I never saw the don in anything but impeccably tailored suits. I didn’t even realize he knew sweatpants existed.
I lean against the door frame and watch Matt for a few minutes before alerting him to my presence. There’s somethingoddly peaceful about the scene, despite the chaos of the night. Just Matt making pasta, like his whole world hadn’t just ended in a series of devastating explosions.
“What’s the sauce tonight?”
