He doesn’t say anything about the scratch, and I hesitate to ask again. He looks tired, really tired, like he hasn’t slept in days.
Without thinking, I reach for him, drag my hand down his bare arm. “Are you okay?”
He stills. Everything about him stills. His gaze drops to my hand. “Pax.”
“What?”
“You’re touching me. And I haven’t even asked you to.” I lift my hand and he makes a grab for it. “No. Leave it. I like it.”
My heart is pounding again, but not out of fear. Excitement. I’m happy that he likes it. That he came to my rescue. That I’m seeing him, sitting close to him.
Didn’t know a heart can pound in different ways.
“So.” I have to clear my throat, my voice gone scratchy. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve had a rough week.”
“I did, sorta.” His skin is warm under my palm and fingers, and his pulse beats where my thumb is pressing, strong and steady. Reassuring. “Yesterday was a shitty day.”
“Why?”
He shrugs and makes a face, as if he’s bitten into something sour. “Not all clients play nice.”
What? “A woman did that?”
He nods, and crap, my worry fades into jealous anger.
I pull my hand away. How screwed up is that, that the first time in years that I want a guy it has to be an escort half of Chicago has slept with?
He doesn’t try to stop me this time. He swallows the rest of his whisky in a long gulp and signals for the bartender to bring him another.
“And you?” he asks. “How have you been?”
“Okay. You know.”
“I don’t know. You seem upset every time you leave me. I was worried about you. I couldn’t sleep.”
My anger melts away. How could it not when he’s looking at me like that, saying such things?
“You barely know me.”
“I know you were hurt. I wanted to help but I’m not sure I made things better or worse.”
“Better,” I say, because it’s true. “I just need more time to work through everything.”
I have his attention. Those gray eyes are fixed on me. “Really? Fuck, that’s great. You have no idea…” He shoves a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face. “I thought I’d pushed you too far.”
Crap, I’m drawn back to him, the need to touch him overwhelming. I lift my hand to his cheek, trace the scar. He flinches, clearly not expecting that.
/> “You didn’t,” I tell him. “Not your fault, any of this.”
He leans into my hand and God, this boy. I want to kiss his mouth again, cup his face and press my body to his, fear be damned. Taste him. Somehow I feel that underneath the surface, there’s more he isn’t showing.
“Will you tell me what happened to you?” he asks quietly.
His scruff tickles my fingertips. I trail them down to his mouth, trace it. So soft. He groans softly, his breath warm on my skin. His lashes lower.
“I had a friend called Ethel,” I whisper, and wonder if he can hear me over the din of the bar. It doesn’t matter. “We were friends since we were little. She was the wild one, the crazy one. Always dressing up, chasing after boys. Bad boys.”
He draws air to speak, and I cover his mouth with my hand.