Page 22 of Hemlock

I also can't recall the last time I woke up with my cock aching so badly I have no other recourse than to grip the fucking thing in my fist.

I've never struggled to keep my body under control.

Sex has never been a factor that drives my needs. My control over other aspects of my mind has always made that part of me one of the easier things to manage.

Being around Zara is proving to have the ability to change shit, and I don't fucking like it.

I mean, last night was beyond fucking spectacular, and it pisses me off. She fucking pisses me off.

The quiet around her pisses me off despite every other cell in my body begging for the silence. I know what to do with the struggle. The absence of it at this point in my life is cause for concern. There's no alternate reality where I can just exist. Normal isn't something I've ever hoped for. Hope is for people who don't know any better. Hope is for people who believe in shit that isn't real. It's how people explain all the good and all the bad, taking away free choice and leaving it all to chance.

Hope is absolute bullshit.

Needing to find my restraint, I release my aching cock and manage a shower without touching the fucking thing. My jeans abrade my skin when I pull them on, my length only subsiding a fraction.

As I walk down the hall and take the stairs to the main floor, my irritation grows.

It's too fucking early for death metal, but that hasn't stopped Jericho from blasting the shit through the house.

I bark out a command for the fucking smart device to lower the volume as I cross the kitchen and set to making a fucking cup of coffee.

"You seem more on edge than normal this morning."

I lift my right hand, K-Cup in my grip, and throw up a middle finger.

He doesn't chuckle like I know the men back in New Mexico would. We aren't exactly known for laughing around here.

He doesn't speak again until I turn around, a smoldering hot cup of coffee in my hand.

"Late night?"

I narrow my eyes at him. Is the man keeping tabs on me or some shit?

As if he can read my mind, he holds his hands up. "I got in at two, and your bike was gone."

I know he doesn't owe me an explanation, but there's a part of me that's glad he's giving me one.

"What's with the twenty fucking questions?" I growl, leaning against the counter and taking too large of a sip of coffee.

I fight the urge to wince as the nearly boiling-hot liquid scorches my throat.

He shrugs. "My next job is a bartender position down the mountain. Just trying to get into character."

"Practice on someone else," I growl.

He waves his arm around him, indicating the lack of people.

I continue to glare at him. The man looks like he should be pushing the buttons for the administration of lethal injections for the state rather than pouring drinks and chatting up folks getting drunk.

On the other hand, there's a new wave of women who want to be manhandled because of shit they've either read in books or seen on television.

And there my body goes, responding to what happened last night with Zara.

"When are we getting some more new people?" I ask, needing the information because I have to make the decision either to call an end to this farce of a job or make a plan for when I'll need to have my shit together enough that I don't look like a complete failure when new people arrive.

"Won't be long," Jericho says, his eyes roaming toward the upstairs balcony as if he's not looking forward to there being more people in the house.

I know I'm not really interested in there being more people here, but I knew coming in that nearly every room in this place would have an occupant. Although, I doubt there will be many times when all the team members will be here at the same time. This is more of a landing place between jobs more than anything else. The more we work, the further those jobs will take us from this place. It only makes sense to have other temporary housing in order for us to respond quickly to a situation when we need to.

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