Page 29 of Wrath

He grins, looking looser than I’ve ever seen him. Almost like a normal person. "Hit me when it won't hurt, DG. Pour it on. It'll quit stinging. Then it's over."

"You’re gonna piss yourself," I mutter.

"That what you'd do?" He smirk-smiles again.

"Always gotta be a dick."

"I'm not a dick." His eyes have almost shut. Those soft lips—his whole damn, weird, avenging angel face—is gorgeous, even pale and drunk and sweaty.

We’re at the open mouth of the garage. I wave him in. “Be my guest. I know Dad’s got alcohol up in there.”

When he walks into the garage—a lion in a coffee shop—he holds the finger up, reminding me it’s bleeding.

“Ah.” I grab aShrekbeach towel from a basket on one of the shelves and hand it to him. “Blood doesn’t matter on the towel. That one’s mine.”

I can’t look at him as I open the door from garage to laundry room. Somehow, something’s thrown off—like a record with a scratch, things keep on skipping. I fill my lungs with the first deep breath I’ve taken in the last half hour. When I glance over my shoulder, I find him looking slightly dreamy.

“What does DG mean?” I ask on a whim. If he’s going to stand in Dad’s laundry room obviously drunk, I should take advantage.

His lips twitch upward at the corners. “It means Do Gooder.”

“Why am I a do gooder?”

His smile fades. “You know why.” I see him swallow. He looks down at his hand, and I say, “Take off your shoes. Please.”

They’re black Nikes—the running kind. He toes them off and looks at me, his face unreadable. Maybe a little thoughtful.

“Whatcha thinking about, AA?” I say.

His brows draw together, the look skeptical—but still drunk. “You thinkyouwouldn’t be drunk off that twenty-ounce flask?” he asks with a huff of a laugh.

That makes me laugh, because it really was a huge flask.

“That’s not what AA means.” I lead him through the dining room and living room and to the stairs, which lead to my loft. “Wait a second.”

Ezra blinks, and I leave him standing there while I hurry into the kitchen for some first aid stuff.

I return to find him leaning one of his shoulders against the wall, looking tired and blond and faintly badass, with the blood and his black shirt, his ball cap tucked into the waistband of his shorts. His arms are tanned more darkly now. So is his throat, and those cheekbones.

“You’re staring.” It sounds husky.

“You’re being an AA.”

“Lemme guess,” he says as I lead the way up. “Second word or maybe the first word is asshole.”

I’m pleased to tell him, “Nope.”

I step up into the loft, holding his gaze as he follows. I watch him frown around the space, his eyes zeroing in on the twin bed. “Is this a bedroom?”

“Study-bedroom.”

“You come here to study?”

“No, dude. It’s my dad’s study. When I’m here, I use it as a bedroom.”

“That’d be what we call a study.” His dark brows pinch. “Is your dad an asshole?”

“What? No.”

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