“You keep the bed. I’m gonna spend half the night working anyway.”
“Bullshit.” Reece pointed at him with his fork. “Between the midnight gym and the flying and the internal clock on East Coast time, I bet you crash the instant you lie down.”
“The Dead Man doesn’tcrash.”
“I’m sure Evan Grayson does,” said Reece. “Just like Evan’s the one who has to be a Southern gentleman and give me the bed.”
Grayson picked up his coffee. Reece couldn’t read him, but he wasn’t trying to. All he was doing was making a distracted observation while munching on pancakes that were at least two-thirds syrup. But subconsciously, Reece’s empathy was still at work, trying to solve Grayson like a riddle.
Wasn’t easy for empaths to manage the aversion to Grayson’s presence. Reece, though, seemed to be getting better at it, accustoming himself to Grayson like easing into an icy river one leg at a time because you wanted to swim. Getting to the point his empathy was trying to put together what pieces it had about the Dead Man to form a picture of a person.
The anxiety should have clued Grayson in already, but Reece’s empathy was strong.Realstrong.
Of course, Grayson wasn’t a person anymore, not really, and he wasn’t someone an empath of any strength could understand. But under no circumstances could they ever find out if Reece could get used to Grayson’s touch. If Reece did ever go all the way over to the dark side, Grayson would need every weapon he had to stop him.
Because if Grayson couldn’t stop him, Seattle might be fucked.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Big Hair, Bigger Feelings: Our Favorite Empaths of the Eighties
—FEATURED STORY FROM THE DECEMBER ISSUE OFEMPATHY MONTHLY
With Reece’s carout of commission anyway, he directed Grayson to park in his spot in the high-rise’s garage. The giant truck was such a tight fit that Reece had to get out before Grayson pulled in, because otherwise he wouldn’t have had enough room to open his door.
He stood in an empty parking space, arms folded, as he watched Grayson crack open the driver’s door and awkwardly lever his bags out of the truck and onto the concrete.
“Just one more reason I should do all the driving tomorrow,” he called, as Grayson had to contort all six feet and five inches of himself sideways to get out of the truck.
“Try all you want, sugar, but I will crawl in through the bed before I give you these keys.”
They rode up together in the elevator to the fourth floor, Grayson with a duffel on one shoulder and a messenger bag on the other. “How’s the new place?” Grayson asked.
“A lot of people around.” A few months ago, Reece would have loved it; now the pleasure of others nearby was sabotaged by anxiety, because all of them were in danger. From him.
He hesitated, his eyes going to their reflections in the elevator’s mirrored wall, to Grayson standing tall next to him, hat in one hand and unsurprisingly fixing his hair with the other.
Except the Dead Man was here. And he’d promised he was even more dangerous than Reece. So maybe tonight, Reece could listen to everyone outside the studio—and even better, someone inside it with him—and not be afraid for them.
The constant knot in his chest loosened, just a little, and he let out a quiet breath.
Grayson met his eyes in the mirror. “What?”
Reece cleared his throat. There would be absolutely no feelings, not in an elevator with a man without them. “Could I touch your hair without passing out? Hypothetically, obviously,” he quickly added. “Do you even let other people touch your hair?”
“Some people,” Grayson said dryly.
Reece clasped his hands together behind his back, casually and not at all like he was suddenly imagining running fingers through Grayson’s hair. “That only answers one of my questions.”
“Sure does,” Grayson said unapologetically. “Almost like the Dead Man’s limit against empathy is one of those national secrets you’re not supposed to be guessing.”
At the end of the hall, he unlocked the door to the studio, only for Grayson to reach over his head to hold it open for him.
“You know I’m the host,” Reece said, as he ducked under Grayson’s long arm and into the studio. “Are you ever going to let me act like it—actually, never mind, I already know the answer is no.”
“You want to be a host, you can let me borrow your shower.”
“Sure.” It came out as a high-pitched squeak. Reece quickly cleared his throat. “Sure,” he said, forcing a much more normal tone. “And before you make any cracks, yes, I do use it.”
