“I’m not worried that you’ll break. Not even close.”
“Then why are you biting your damn tongue?”
I’m quiet when I ask, and quieter when I wrap my calloused hands around his wrists. A second later, Darren pulls back or I push him away, and while nothing is wrong, neither of us is more comfortable with the distance between us. I still ache and know without a doubt that I’ll fall asleep ignoring it, and I think I’m close to taunting him with as much when he shakes his head.
“Go to bed, Jake.”
I leave him there because I don’t have a reason to stay, nor the energy to fight. Each step toward my bedroom has my filthy jeans rubbing me in a few wrong ways, and I fall back against my door as soon as I’ve closed it behind me. There’s no reason for it to happen tonight—I know itwon’thappen—but I can’t remember the last time I cried, and I wonder whether I’ll be alone the next time I do.
The odds are overwhelmingly in favor of it, but my sudden doubt is sharp enough to make me yearn for something indescribable.
Reaching for my belt gives me something better to do, butonce it’s unbuckled, I don’t bother with it more than that. I take care of the button and zipper next, but when I start to push my jeans down, I wince at the reminder that my body was under a motorcycle tonight. I’ve still got the door behind me for support, and I rely on it to get me through my next few breaths. None of what I’m feeling is all that bad, but everything is awful as soon as I try to bend forward again. I push at my jeans one more time, but my head hurts and my torso is tender and my leg is screaming until I realize I didn’t take anything for the pain. I don’t want to move, but I think I have to.
And then there’s a knock at my door.
I roll out of the way as much as I do anything, landing clear of the door so I can invite Darren into my bedroom for the second time tonight. His eyes drop to where my jeans are bunched around the wound on my thigh, my boxers visible just above that. My focus is drawn to the shorts he’s wearing and the shirt he isn’t.
“Tylenol,” he whispers.
It’s just a coincidence that he remembered at the same time I did, but it feels a little divine, and I slump against the doorframe. “Kitchen. Upper cabinet by the sink. A glass, too. Water in the refrigerator door.”
Darren leaves without a word, and I shuffle to the chair already holding my torn jacket and drop into it too carelessly, shifting until ripples of pain settle. I roll my eyes when I see my sleep shorts in the middle of my bed, far out of my reach. I’ll have to get these horrible jeans off me before I can care about changinginto them anyway, so I fumble for a good grip while also keeping the material away from my bandaged thigh. My coordination is shot—a victim of the ridiculous hour more than anything that would concern me—and it’s only my stubborn ass that keeps trying until a cool glass of water is pressed to the side of my arm.
I take it with one hand, the other open for the capsules Darren drops into my palm. He turns away as I swallow them and returns with my shorts, and before I can thank him for that, he kneels between my legs.
Again.
He’s careful when he eases the ruined denim over my thighs, but he stops being careful withme, and it leaves me unable to speak. His touch extends further than necessary as he pulls my jeans the rest of the way down my legs, Darren’s fingertips trailing against my skin from my knees to my ankles, and I don’t think I’m surprised when he removes my socks, too. Once he's set everything aside, folded almost too neatly on my floor, he only needs to help me with my shorts, but he never looks in their direction.
Instead, he wraps his hands around my bare calves, and he looks up at me. “I like being here.”
I have no idea whetherhereis about my house or my bedroom or the position that would allow him to take me apart if he were so inclined, but I’m not sure it matters. I like him being here, too.
Darren moves, my continued silence taken for the acquiescence it is, his grip sure when he uses it to widen the space I hadn’t known he’d claim as his own. His fingers are light againstme after that, teasing except for the way they’d do as I’d ask if I had the voice for that sort of thing, and neither of us seems to blink.
Neither of us is a coward.
“If you don’t want me to bite my tongue, I won’t,” he says. “I’ll tell you everything.”
“Okay.”
A raised eyebrow suggests he wasn’t expecting that, and he studies me all over again. “Is it?”
“I have a really good life. I’m happy.”
“And you’re not lonely,” Darren adds. “We covered that a couple of weeks ago.”
“Mmmm, yeah,” I rasp, my voice as worn as the rest of me. “But it feels like I’ve been repeating it a lot lately.”
“Is it becoming any less true?”
“No. I haven’t gone nine years without this because I have some perverse need to become a martyr.”
He nods and makes a sound I barely hear before one of his hands slides higher, toward the wound he bandaged. He doesn’t even pretend to care about it now, bending forward to drag the tip of his nose against my other leg, his breath warm along the inside of my thigh when he goes on.
“Tell me more about your perverse needs.”
“Pretty sure you were going to tell me.”