Page 65 of Snitches and Serpents

And it is warm.

I can practically smell the asphalt and see the heat rising up from it in translucent ripples that make the air vibrate. Sweat slides down my spine, and I’m not even out in the sunlight. I’m hiding in the shade next to the building. But the warm air still presses against my skin and makes me want to drag a hand through my hair to push it out of my face.

Tristan must have had a similar urge, because he reaches up and does just that.

The move makes his t-shirt ride up his stomach a little.

A jolt shoots through me.

And I’m suddenly bombarded with the memory of how it felt to draw my fingers over his naked skin right in that spot. How it felt to slide my hands into his hair. How it felt to kiss those wicked lips. To feel his hands on my body. Around my throat. And to have his cock inside me.

Heat, that has nothing to do with the weather, sears through me.

Forcing in a deep breath, I press the back of my head against the rough bricks behind me for a few seconds in order to clear my head. I can’t be thinking about that right now. It was an impulsive thing that was stupid and dangerous and wrong… and so fucking hot.

I startle.

What am I doing? And when did I start swearing so much?

Shaking my head at my own idiocy, I shift my weight and glance around the corner again.

Tristan has reached the front door now. The muscles in his forearm flex as he pulls the metal door open and then disappears inside.

I heave a deep sigh.

This is all he does. Goes to class. Sits at his desk and studies. Goes to parties but only stands by the wall and watches. And goes to the gym.

Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing worth reporting.

But I still fish my phone out of my pocket and send a text.

Me: He’s at the gym again.

After about two minutes, a reply comes in.

John Smith: Which one?

Me: Fighter’s World. Same as always.

Another two minutes pass. It’s often like this. I reply straight away, but John usually takes several minutes between texts. And I can’t figure out if that’s because he’s just really slow at typing or if it takes him that long to decide what to say.

At last, a text appears.

John Smith: Can you get inside?

Surprise and worry flicker through me. He has never asked me to go inside before. Still holding my phone, I glance towards the front door.

It’s made of solid metal. No window for me to look through. And the windows around the building have been covered from the inside as well. It’s like a shiny reflective film that I’m pretty sure works the same way as a one-way mirror. Which I assume is because the people who train here want to be able to see out through the windows but don’t want others to stand outside and gawk while they spar or fight or do whatever it is that people do in a place called Fighter’s World.

And that makes it very difficult for people like me to spy on them too.

After checking to make sure that the parking lot is deserted, I draw in a bracing breath and then sneak around the corner and towards the front door. The only way to know if I can get inside is to actually open the door and look inside.

My heart patters in my chest as I close the final distance.

This is probably a really bad idea. What if someone is about to walk out the door right as I open it?

But John wants me to check inside, and since I have nothing else of value to give him, I have to at least try.

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