Page 16 of Worth the Fight

This room isn’t going to build itself.

CHAPTER SIX

DYLAN

Lord, have mercy.

To think I’ve been in my room this whole time, struggling with lyrics when all of this has been sitting outside my window.

Three stunningly handsome men. All with brown hair. All with the same build. All with the same mannerisms. Grady mentioned he had a brother who was a cop, but he didn’t tell me there was a third.

Who would turn down a Malone sandwich like that?

I feel like I’ve just walked in on a Diet Coke commercial. Three shirtless men with carpenter belts on, a sheen of sweat on their skin, and grins on their faces.

If that isn’t one of the best distractions from writer’s block, I’m not sure what is. Or to keep tucked away for a memory during ménage à moi time. But now the problem is how in the hell do I pull my eyes away from the visual and back to lyrics about anger and heartbreak?

Get back to work, Dyl. Finish writing the song and strike one more off the list of twenty tracks. One more link broken in the chain tying me to Jett.

Their laughter floats in the open window above the cadence of the hammer and pulls my eyes to admire the sight one more time.

And that’s when I see them. The angry red lines marring Grady’s back. He’s too far away for me to make out how bad they are, but they’re enough to give me pause, to make me wonder if they have anything to do with the nightmares I heard him fighting off.

I stare longer than I should, curious and jealous of the ease between the three of them. Even when they seem like they are razzing each other, there is a light-hearted nature that bespeaks of affection.

Back to work.

After one more look.

It’s when I pull my guitar onto my lap that I realize I was so blinded by the sexiness outside, I forgot the one reason I had gotten up, to get sustenance. A soda. Licorice. And some grapes to add to my other two essential food groups: carbonation and sugar.

Preoccupied with a text on my phone from my agent, I walk into the kitchen and suck in a breath when I come face to back with Grady. He’s standing with his hand on the refrigerator door, head leaned inside, and his back fully exposed to me. It’s broad and strong and scarred immeasurably.

I stare.

I can’t help it. The marks are a dizzying array of dark and light and ridged and smooth. Horrific burns. Goosebumps chase over my skin as I imagine the pain he must have endured when he got those. I think of his habit of wearing unbuttoned shirts but never going shirtless and the hint of scars just visible above his collar that I never could have imagined led to this roadmap to hell on his back.

A part of me instinctively wants to reach out to touch them, bring some kind of comfort. It sounds ridiculous, even to me, but that doesn’t abate the urge.

“Not pretty, huh? Get a good look while you can.” His voice is gruff as his spine stiffens and body stills, emotion woven through the words.

“Thank God not all of you is pretty. I was beginning to feel majorly insecure having to live with perfection like you,” I say off the cuff, trying to make this situation less awkward. My attempt to settle the sudden tension sparking in the air around us.

“Perfection?” he asks as he turns to face me with a smile that masks the emotion swirling in his eyes.

“Yeah. You have scars. I have mermaid thighs.”

“Mermaid thighs?” He laughs. “What in the world are you talking about?”

“Thighs that touch from the top all the way to my knees.” I shrug as if it doesn’t bug me, as if I’m not highlighting one of the insults Tara threw at me. It’s a whole lot easier to make fun of myself so long as it puts him at ease.

“Do you ever give yourself a break?”

“Do you?” I ask the question, sparking a silent battle of wills as we stare at each other and wonder what to say next about the other’s insecurities. Coming up empty, I shift gears. “I think there is some type of rule about how many abs are fair for a guy to have when the rest of us are just struggling to find one of them.”

His smile rings more genuine as he steps toward me, and I step back, my hips leaning against the counter now.

“Is that so?” His voice lowers as his eyes flick to my lips and then back up. “I’m sure you have some under your shirt there.”