Brighton stares at me, his icy glare rolling down my back as my temperature rises. “Go to the hospital before I call Kaia and make you go by ambulance.”
“Fine,” I groan, cradling the hand and leaving the bar, wondering why he didn’t argue back.And why I missed his skin on my skin.“Shit,” I holler as soon as the Bronco door slams shut.
“What the hell was that earlier?” Boone asks, dropping two plates at a booth and spinning to catch up with me.
“What?” I ask, already avoiding the question he wants answered.
“Reaper looked upset.” He moves around me so that he can see my face when I lie to him the second time.
“She got injured during the game. I was just helping her out so she could drive herself to the hospital.” I slam the till closed and start stripping empty glasses from the bar.
“You made her drive herself?” Boone laughs, and I glare at him. “Something else is going on. It’s making you… bristly.”
“I’m not bristly.” I roll my eyes and keep cleaning.
“You are, more so than usual, and I want to know why,” he laughs, following me as I go. Sometimes having a twin who runs at the same frequency is a curse—it’s like he feels the emotional wave before I do. He picks up on things faster when it comes to social cues and matters outside logic. Boone runs on emotion. It gets him in trouble, but it balances us. I’ve never known how to listen to my own heart.
“What’s going on between the two of you?” Boone stops me as I try to take the tray to the kitchen.
“She’s my roommate.” I brush him off and keep moving to the door.
“No, no, no!” He slips in front of me again, hands locking around the tray. “It’s something else.”
“You’re bored and making issues that don’t exist,” I explain to him, but he shakes that ruffled head of hair at me. His eyes light up at the deflection, and I know I’ve fucked it up because he smiles like an idiot.
“The crush on Reaper? It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” He swings around me as I force the tray from his grip and move the rest of the way into the kitchen. I slide the dirty dishes to the counter and lift the door to the dishwasher to start loading things. “Come on, Bri…”
“I do not have a crush on her,” I say, but my shoulders clench—like my body knows the lie before my brain does.
“She got back ten minutes ago,” Boone says, and I turn my head to look at him. Mistake two. “Went upstairs crying,” he adds.
“She’s probably sore,” I grind my teeth together. “Her fingers were dislocated. She’ll sleep it off,” I say, too fast.
“Sure, but willyou?” Boone questions, his eyes searching my face and finding everything he needs to win the argument without saying another word.
I turn back to the dishwasher, and he takes the hint that I’m done discussing it. It takes everything in me not to go upstairs and check on her. I busy myself with every stupid task I can think of. Cleaning the counters. The traps. The ice buckets. Checking cups for chips, pulling out menus that need replacing, and even fixing the felt on the pool table.
It’s supposed to keep me busy, but I can’t stop looking at the stairs, and halfway through the night, I break, climbing them two at a time to the apartment.
“Hellcat?” I nudge the door open gently with my foot, and before I even look around for her, I hear her crying in frustration from the bedroom.How long has she been crying like this?I inhale slowly, composing myself before knocking on her door. The crying dies down to a sniffle, and I hear her shift around on the bed before she answers me.
“What’s up?” She tries to act casual. I pop open the door, and her sadness consumes me like a tidal wave. She wipes her cheek on the back of her uninjured hand and waves the splinted one in my face. “I went to the doctor. You can save your scolding for someone who deserves it.”
“I know you aren’t crying because of the pain,” I say to her.
“Now he’s a psychic and doctor,” she groans.
“You didn’t even cry when I popped them back in so what’s wrong?” I ask her, not stepping into her room.You’re in here twice a week to get her laundry, why are you being a coward now?
“I feel…” She trails off, chewing on her lip. “It’s stupid. Go back to work.”
“What’s wrong?” I repeat myself a little more sternly.
“I feel gross, the hospital makes me feelgross. I got overwhelmed. I tried to relax, but because they wrapped it so I couldn’t shower, and I snapped my headphones pulling them out of my backpack…” she points sadly to the headphones on the bedspread and almost starts crying harder. “I broke down, flipped out, and I took a shower anyway, managed to get my hair brushed, but it’s damp, and I can’t braid it or pull it back because…” she holds up her hand as she rambles faster.
“Move over.” I walk into her room, careful not to disturb her calculated mess, and stand next to her bed. “Turn,” I say, and help her balance on the bed with her back to me. “Brush,” I say, holding out my hand.
“Brighton.” She hesitates with a grumble.
