Page 133 of Remy

“The lines are baby powder,” he continues. “It was Flynn’s latest test to see if I’d kick him out. His parents did a number on him. They must’ve blown their lid at the slightest inconvenience, and he couldn’t understand why I wasn’t the same. He kept pushing to see when I’d kick him out.”

I pinch, staple, wither toward heartbreak.

“It started with stupid things. He short-sheeted my bed. Poured pickle juice into the milk. Squeezed hair dye into my shampoo. I never told him, but I enjoyed it for the most part. He made it feel like I was back living with my brothers.”

Pinch, staple, wither. “Back when you were playing sibling stabbing games?”

He huffs a strained laugh. “No, the stabbing was far more recent.”

“It sounds like Flynn could’ve given me some lessons on how to rile you.” I pull the trigger on the final staple, my fingertips lingering on his taut muscles for unnecessary seconds.

“Not a lot riles me these days, Pyro.” He reaches under my chin and raises my face to his. “But rest assured you always will.”

I stare into his sorrow, become consumed by it. “You seem okay to me.”

“Look closer.”

My pulse stutters.

My cheeks flush.

“You’d think losing Flynn, being punctured with a million fucking staples, and attempting to drown any ounce of emotion in liquor would’ve lessened your effect.” His voice brushes over me in tempting strokes. “But I’m still fucking hard.”

I pull back, my gaze instinctively snapping to the massive bulge of his crotch.

I suck in a breath and glance away as the flush takes over the rest of my body.

“It’s sick, right?” he taunts.

I nod. Because it is. It’s vile and shameless and so sickeningly problematic. But here I stand, guilty of the same lust.

I clear my throat. “You need to dress your wounds.”

“You can do it for me.”

No, I can’t. I can’t touch him knowing we both crave the same thing.

“Come on, Pyro. I like when you play nurse.”

I glare at him. Glare so hard it hurts. It morphs. It transforms into a choking, needy ache in my throat.

He grabs the sterile bandages and holds them out. “You can’t half finish the job.”

I snatch the bandages and drop one back to the vanity before tearing open the other. “Too bad the cartel didn’t have the same code of conduct.”

His lips kick in a half-smile. “Don’t pretend you wouldn’t mourn my loss.”

“Are you sure about that?” I remove the plastic from the adhesive edges then clap the bandage over the entry wound harder than necessary.

He jolts with a chuckle. “I like when you’re fired up.”

I grab the second bandage. “Do you want to do this yourself?”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Then I suggest you start keeping your thoughts private.” I rip open the packet, prepare the bandage, then place it over the exit wound, gentler this time, not daring to give him more angst. “If you’re not going to see a doctor you should get a topical antibiotic to reduce the risk of infection.”

“I’ll get right on it,” he drawls in a tone that implies he’ll do the exact opposite.

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