Page 170 of Five Brothers

“I’ll be back for dinner,” Dallas says, sticking his toothbrush in the cup. “Can you make that sandwich I like?”

“I’ll tell Mariette.” I twist off the cap of the mouthwash. “I’ll be out.”

“Where are you going?”

But I take a swig right out of the bottle before I can answer.

The shower shuts off as I swish, and the curtain flies open. Macon fastens a towel around his waist.

I glance over, only long enough for the mouthwash to dribble out of my mouth a little. The cuts of the muscles in his arms and shoulders glide in smooth lines, and his long torso, narrow waist, and tawny skin are a couple of shades darker than mine. His dark wet hair drapes to a point between his eyes and down his nose, and his eyebrows make him look amazing when he’s angry. I kind of want to piss him off right now.

I’m not sure why he’s not using his own shower, but I’m not complaining.

“Get out,” he says, stepping out of the tub.

Dallas wipes off his mouth and throws down the towel as he goes. I whip around to spit out the mouthwash and follow him, but Macon takes my arm and pulls me back before I have a chance. “Not you.”

He takes my face in his hands, inspecting the cuts and bruises as I stand there wide-eyed, my mouth ballooning with mouthwash that’s starting to burn my tongue.

He turns me side to side. “It’s healing.”

I nod.

But then he says, “You didn’t put ointment on last night.”

Like he instructed me to …

How the hell can he tell?

Spinning around, I dive down and spit out the mouthwash, wiping off my mouth. “Do you want a smoothie?” I ask him.

I see the shape of him through the steam on the mirror as he hovers at my back. “No,” he says.

I don’t move, watching him as he stands there, nearly a head taller. He doesn’t tell me to move—or leave—and I go still as he cocks his head, the heat of his body so close it warms me.

Something vibrates under my skin, and I want to feel something that’s not gentle or kind, and all of it hidden away in a dark room.

“Where’s Army?” Macon whispers.

His breath sends tingles across my neck. He knows Army is still asleep.

“Get his fucking ass up,” he tells me.

And then he leaves.

These goddamn men …

I never realized how my school skirt chafed my thighs until I left high school. I run my hands over the pleats and tuck in the black Polo shirt of my old school uniform as I hike up the driveway of Fox Hill.

Kent Sharpe, the security guard, steps out of his guardhouse.

“Hey,” I chirp.

“Hi, hon.” He pulls the toothpick out of his mouth. “All your classmates already left for the day.”

He doesn’t know I already graduated.

“Oh, I know.” I pass him, turning to maintain eye contact as I walk backward. “I forgot my phone on the patio.”

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