Page 57 of The Contract

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’tworryabout it? You look like you got in a …”

A fight. Like he’s been in enough times to leave a bunch of scars on his body. What does hedo?

Some kind of underground fighting?

I don’t like that he’s hurt. I don’t like that I feel like I don’t belong here. Rafael clearly knows what’s going on, but I don’t. Rafael must have helped him, but I feel like I’m not even allowed to touch him if he doesn’t initiate it. I don’t even know if that’s true; it’s just how it feels.

He’s so fucking confusing.

Dante says, “Rafael, take Tristan downstairs and make sure he eats. I’m going to bed.”

He gets up and walks toward the door like he feels like shit. I hurry ahead of him to pull down the covers of the bed. When he sits on the edge of it, I crouch to take off his boots and socks.

I freeze when his fingers start playing with my hair. I relax a little. I finish my work. He lies down. I don’t know if he wants help with his pants. Before I can decide, Rafael says, “Come on, Tristan.”

It’s weird as hell to follow my boss down the stairs of the apartment of my … whatever Dante is.

Rafael was obviously just giving Dante shit when he referred to me as his boyfriend.

Rafael leads the way into the kitchen like he’s plenty familiar with it. For some reason, that bothers me. He rummages around in the fridge and pulls out some leftover curry. While it’s heating in the microwave, he puts his back to the counter, crosses his arms, and says, “He won’t tell you, so don’t try to make him.”

“What—”

“I won’t tell you either.”

“Is he really okay? Is it safe for him to sleep with a concussion?”

“He’s coherent. He should be fine. If he’s not coherent in the morning, call me. You have my number.”

“Why you?”

It’s bugging me more and more that Rafael is here. He’s so outrageously sexy. It never bothered me at Lush. It fits there. He’s my boss there, and I actually like my job. He’s easy to work for because he’s rarely in the nightclub portion of Lush. When he is, he’s kinda doing his own thing, like playing the piano.

Here, I don’t like it. He looks a little too sexy and comfortable in Dante’s kitchen. And Dante obviously called him when he needed help.

Rafael says, “We’re old friends. Sort of.”

My skin prickles. “What does that mean?”

For a second, he looks almost amused. Then his playboy expression hardens into something colder and more serious than I’ve ever seen on his face.

“A word of advice. Don’t try to figure him out. Don’t try to figure me out either, or what we are to each other. It’s too fucking complicated. If you want to be in his life, accept thelimits of what he is and what he can be for you. He’s got a lot of hard lines.”

Fortunately, the microwave dings and Rafael turns around to deal with the food. It gives me a second to clamp down on the unexpected mess of emotions that boiled up with his words. I don’t even know what all is in that mess; I just know it’s there.

Rafael slides the curry across the island toward me. He’s apparently done talking because he doesn’t say another word as I eat. I don’t want the food. I only eat it so Rafael will leave. When I’m done, he does. Without a word. Without looking at me. It’s almost like he’s forgotten I’m there.

Fuck, he’s almost as weird as Dante.

What we are to each other.

What the hell does that mean? And what the hell could be so complicated about it that he couldn’t just tell me? They’re old friends,sort of?

I’m pretty fixated on that until I go back upstairs. Where Dante is. Part of me—yeah, a cowardly part of me—wants to avoid him.

When he’s aggressive, which is almost always, I don’t have to think. I don’t have to decide. He’s a force of nature, and all I can to is react.

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