“You and McCrae, huh?”
I roll my eyes at him, not interested in discussing my pathetic need to make McCrae want me. “Mind your own business.”
He grins, unperturbed, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Sure thing,boss.”
Exhaustion rings at my bones, calling me to bed with a sultry voice and the promise of oblivion. I’d be wise to walk straight to my room, forgo the shower or the joint, and crawl into bed and sleep.
My body practically begs for it.
Still, my feet carry me in the opposite direction, leading me down the far hallway to the closed door of McCrae’s bedroom. There’s light and the sound of distant water running filters beneath the enormous wooden frame.
I raise a hand—should I knock? Barge in? Turn around and leave, giving him the same indifferent treatment he always gives me?
McCrae’s a mystery to me—he’s vowed to always protect me, taken a fucking bullet for me—but remains as distant as ever. It’s only the sight of Santos that seems to be finally stirring anything within him.
When I offered to show Santos the bunk house? McCrae acted like I was the one who put that bullet in his shoulder. Atfirst, I was glad for the fire in his gaze, but the longer I dwell on it, the more I fear it.
I want him to be jealous, but what if I read him all wrong? What if I’m truly upsetting him?What if I’m driving him away, and he wants to leave me?
With shaky fingers, I rap on the door lightly. Straining, I hear no sounds on the other side, and fear quickly wraps her familiar hands around my heart. What if something happened to him? What if he left?
Blinded by thirty-five years of insecurity, I open the door, stepping into a dark room—the familiar smell of cigarette smoke and mint quickly coating my nostrils, I breathe in deep, greedy gulps of McCrae. His scent is a comfort to me, a safety blanket, and I need him.
I’ll always need him.
My eyes catalog the contents of his room, quickly noticing the things that are exactly as they were the last time I snuck in here, just to make sure he’d unpacked and wasn’t going to leave like a thief in the night. His leather jacket draped over the gaudy white and pearlescent formal chair in the corner. His cowboy boots—covered in a thick layer of dust—propped near the bathroom door. An open pack of cigarettes—a fresh butt still smoking in the gold plated ash tray on his nightstand.
His items don’t belong here—a reminder some part of him,even though I’d be lost without him,doesn’t belong here. He’s a black scar across the perfect,and fake,exterior of my image; the parts of me I keep so hidden, he wears like a badge of honor.
A loud clanging pulls me from my thoughts, and I race toward the bathroom door, pushing it open slightly to peek inside.
McCrae’s facing away from me, the water pelting his front as he leans on his good arm above his head on the white marbletile. I watch his shoulders rise and fall slowly—signs of life—and I relax, but only a fraction.
Realizing he’s still here, still alive and upright, I back away from the door, and then my fucking eyes wander. It’s like I can’t help myself—if curiosity killed the cat, I’m long dead.
He’s here, right in front of me,naked.
Even though I know it’s wrong, I can’t help but stare. He might make it clear every chance he gets that ‘us’ is off limits, a rule he intends to follow to the letter.
But I’m a villain.And I love breaking the rules.
As silent as possible, I push open the door farther, allowing myself an unobstructed view of his backside. I always knew he was covered in tattoos, but the vast ink covering his back is still breathtaking. He’s made up of more ink than he is skin at this point, and from this distance, I can’t tell where one dark image separates from the other—they all bleed together, like a massacre of the man he once was, overtaken by the dark angel he’s become. It’s beautiful and devastatingand terrifying.
“Fuck.” He hisses the word, and I look around the room for a place to hide. He doesn’t turn around, his head still hanging limply between his shoulders, and I sag with relief.
His unmarked skin is quickly turning a deep red where the water hits him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Steam curls in thick tendrils up the walls of the bathroom, pouring out the door around me. Water sluices down his back, between the deep valley of his tense shoulder blades, the bandage over his wound tinged pink.
Do I warn him? Demand he let me fix it for him? What will he think of me watching him shower?
Too afraid to break the spell of silence, I do nothing, my usual go to in a time of uncertainty. Not because I don’t care, but because I’m afraid of doing the wrong thing.
It’s better to be indifferent than wrong.
He straightens, and again, I wonder if he’ll turn around and catch me. Part of me hopes so, just to see if he’ll kick me out or finally let me in.
Instead, he drops his good arm, his hand falling right at his waist. I watch it go, my eyes landing on the firm curve of his ass. Water runs in little rivulets between his cheeks, the dark hair peppering his skin curling in the steam. He’s all man—no apologies.He doesn’t do unnecessary trimming, doesn’t forgo any bad habits, never apologizes or gives up the things he wants. He’s simply McCrae—take it or leave it.
And I want to take it, if only to feel his safety and keep him all to myself.
