Page 31 of Wrath

He blinks, his face expressionless, and I roll my eyes. “Whatever.”

He inhales deeply again, and I say, “Okay,” and squirt some alcohol on the wound. His whole body jerks, and his eyes shut. He sucks air in through his nose, but he doesn’t moan, just like he said he wouldn’t.

A second later, he opens his eyes and says, “Finish it up, DG. I’m good.”

He’s breathing a little too fast as I put the ointment on and wrap it up. I wrap the whole finger with gauze, and then around the width of his palm, hoping that’ll keep it in place. When I glance back up, he looks drained.

I wonder how relaxed he is with Bren and Marcel. How much he still feels like the new guy. I think about his ears going red when Dad talked to him. It doesn’t seem like him to be uncomfortable with praise, but I guess I don’t know him.

“I’ve gotta go downstairs and grab a few things,” I say. “Lie down, Grammar Lord, so I won’t worry that you’re snooping through my shit. Also—” I just remembered I’ve got a little bottle of scotch that Dad and Kaye bought me when they went to Scotland. Never figured I would open it—more like a keepsake—but I grab it off a bookshelf and hand it to him.

“Lie down and try some of this Scottish glacier water shit.”

I don’t look behind me till I’m almost to the loft stairs. When I do, he’s scooting toward the headboard. I find him in that same place almost ten minutes later—leaning back against the pillows with his eyes barely open.

I smile—because that’s who I am. It’s my default. He gives me a sort-of glare.

“Did you drink my scotch?”

He holds up the bottle: full. I wait for him to tell me why, but when he doesn’t, I just take the thing and set it back on the shelf.

“Ready to go?” I ask as I do. By the time I turn around, he’s already on his feet. He looks unhappy.

“Sorry I left you up here for a second.”

“You sorry for fixing my hand, too?”

I quirk a brow up at him. “I don’t get it.”

He gives me an eyeroll and waves at the stairs, like he’s telling me to go down. We leave the house quietly, and I don’t realize till we’re both in my car that I didn’t offer him water or Advil.

“Hang on.” I hop out of the car to grab a water from the garage fridge, while calling dad on my cell phone to let him know we’re leaving.

I hand AA the water, admitting to myself as I put the car in reverse that he’s not weird looking like I thought when I first sawhim. Not really. He’s not even just striking. He’s the most beautiful guy I’ve ever seen in real life, and I hate it.

I hate that I feel uncomfortable around him. How my heart pounds and my hands sweat. And I hate it all the more because he’shim. Because he’s a rude, irreverent prick who’s probably a homophobe. Because he seems to think I’m lame. Because he lives at my house. I can never get away from this. What I hate the most is that I care. I don’t even know why.

It feels like forever that I’m driving back toward Mom’s house with his bloodstained left knee in the blur of my periphery. Trying to keep my damn eyes on the road and off ofhim. I’m not sure if he moves or how he breathes or anything, because it doesn’t matter. I don’t have to worry over him. He’s not my brother.

Finally, we’re almost home, and his low, rough voice breaks the silence. “Ever get called Millsy?”

“What?”

He’s smirking, looking loose and somewhat leery, somehow even drunker than before.

“Why would I?”

“Miller is wrong.” He leans his head against his headrest, shutting his eyes. He’s frowning thoughtfully, and then he peeks one eye open to look at me. “Millsy is more a fit.”

“Am I supposed to take this as an insult?”

His lips curl before he reverts to his smug and smirky standard. “No.” Then he adds, “Maybe.”

Now he’s definitely smirking. Fuck—why do I hate it so much? I feel like he’s mocking me.

“No one’s gonna call me Millsy,” I say.

I pull into the driveway, and he opens his eyes. His smirk blooms into a grin, and he sits up in his seat. “I am.”

---