“An answer, huh? Kill me now,” he grumbles, staggering after me, his hand still wrapped around mine. “Save us both the trouble.”
“No trouble for me,” I say and keep my hold on him as I unlock the building door and let him in.
No idea why I turn into a smartass around Jesse. Few people put me at ease like that. My parents, Ev… Kayla maybe. I never thought I’d be so comfortable around a boy like him, so… wild. Covered in tats and dipped in bad history.
Handsome like a girl’s wet dream.
“Meat pie,” he mutters as we climb the stairs, and his stomach rumbles. “Shit.”
“And garlic and mushroom risotto.”
“Ev’s mom made that, too?”
“I made that.”
“Damn.” He gives a wolf whistle. “You know the way to a man’s heart.”
My pulse stutters, and I stifle nervous laughter. “Yeah, right.”
He says nothing more as we trudge up to my floor and I open the door to let him in, but he seems lost in thought, and I leave him by the couch to go and warm up the food. My question can wait ten minutes.
My mind buzzes with worry. Whatever happened back there can’t be good.
Only when I return with the pie and risotto in ceramic bowls, he’s asleep again. He’s curled on his side, an arm thrown over his eyes, the colorful ink and the scars underneath fascinating. They aren’t parallel, like the ones I once saw on a schoolmate’s arm, from self-harming. These are irregular, crosshatched, some deeper and darker, and some shallower, paler on his tanned skin.
I place the dishes on the table and softly sink to my knees in front of him, observing the way his broad chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. He works too hard, training at the tattoo shop in the mornings, at the café in the afternoons and a fast food join evenings. Ev said Rafe pays for his rent, so why did he take on an extra job?
His hand twitches, and his breathing changes. He curls in more tightly, and a tremor goes through him, tensing the muscles in his arms. Funny how in sleep a tall guy like him can tuck his long legs in, fitting into a corner of the sofa.
Okay, maybe funny isn’t the right word, especially when his breathing speeds up and a low moan escapes him. I watch as the nightmare pulls him under, hoping he’ll come awake on his own.
But he doesn’t. Sweat trickles down his face as he twists on the sofa, his lungs
laboring. He’s muttering something under his breath, over and over again, but I can’t make out the words. His arm jerks, almost hitting me in the face.
“JJ, wake up.” I wanted him to rest, not exhaust himself worse with nightmares. Jeez, he only just fell asleep. I shake him gently, my fingertips digging into his tightly coiled, hard-rock bicep. “Wake up. Come on. JJ!”
He bolts up on the sofa, his eyes wild, and cradles his inked arm to his heaving chest as if it hurts. “Stop,” he whispers. “Just fucking stop.”
I’m at a loss. Don’t know what to do. Never seen him like this before, so shaken. He’s always so confident and sure of himself. The fear in his wide eyes is unmistakable, and I don’t even know if he sees me, his gaze locked on something I can’t see—a scrap of nightmare that lingers.
I pull myself onto the couch, and his eyes snap to me.
“Embers?” he whispers.
For some strange reason, my throat is tight. He’s out of sorts today, and it’s breaking my heart.
“Hey,” I say and put my arms around him. “I’m here.”
I half expect him to push me away and stomp out of my apartment, but he remains very still, breathing harshly in my loose embrace, the arm he holds to his chest pressing into my breasts. My embrace gentle, I let him be for a while, let him breathe until his heart stops pounding and his muscles unlock. His arms drop to his sides and he slumps against me, his chin resting on my shoulder.
“Fuck,” he whispers, his voice rumbling inside his ribcage, vibrations traveling through my fingers to my arms. “I fell asleep.”
“You work too hard.”
He says nothing for a long time, then he starts to pull away, and I let him.
“Talking of work… I’ll be late. I don’t have the evening off.”