Page 51 of Breaking the Sinner

COBRA: Night, Red.

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Cobra couldn’t stop replaying the girly gasps from when Gen had unraveled in his arms. It kept him up all night, along with a thousand other things. Once three a.m. rolled around, all his anxieties spiked. And he couldn’t even say what the hell worried him. It was everything. It was nothing. It was every stressful moment that had ever come before. Every stressful moment that had yet to come.

Jacking off helped marginally. It was the first thing he’d done once he got home, damn near midnight. He’d had to tear himself away from her, the definition of peaceful perfection. He hung around longer than necessary though, longer than he usually let himself. He’d bided his time sketching shit that popped into his head, then took a stab at sketching her sleeping figure.

And they weren’t even fucking yet.

Which meant that staying over could never happen. Not in a million years. Gen stirred something inside him that needed to stay dormant. If she woke up that part of him, then he might as well bail now. There was no way he could get close to her. To anyone. But least of all her.

As if on cue, his chest tightened, inviting an onslaught of memory fragments from the night he discovered his stepdad. His mutilated legs; cigarette burns all over his thighs. The police had called it a crime of passion.

Whatever it was, Cobra had it inside him.

Saturday morning, he stayed in bed until almost one p.m. By the time he roused, bass music thumped in the living room. He groaned, burying his face in his pillow. His skin itched with the urge to escape. Already. Before Gen—before Holt Body, really—he could at least tolerate his home space. Now, he dreaded being here.

So it looked like laundry day. He tossed himself onto his back, studying the grungy ceiling. A little weed, a little coffee, a little laundry. What a fucking Saturday.

You should invite Gen.

He frowned at the ceiling. Domestic tasks were the last thing he should do with her. He needed space, not a personal invitation to look at his crusty underwear. He rubbed at his face, taking stock of his body. Pecs were a little sore from the extra push-ups he’d done at the end of his shift. Biceps still ached—he’d recently gone up ten pounds in the bench press.

And his cock. He grunted, pushing his palm down over the hard ridge beneath his boxers. The tip of his cock peeked out under the waist band, asking,What about me? What about Gen?

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Enough of that girl.

Enough of all this shit.

He pushed out of bed, stumbling to standing. Felt like he had a hangover, but it was impossible. They hadn’t even drunk last night. He blinked at his reflection in the round mirror above his dresser. The jagged crack down the center cut through the middle of his face. One night of roughhousing with his roommates had turned into an all-out brawl a couple years ago. There might have been a lot of coke involved too.

He tugged on black workout shorts that hung down to his knees, followed by the least-offensively sweat-stained white tee. He gathered up his laundry and cinched it inside a bag. As soon as he pushed open the bedroom door even an inch, Klay’s sarcastic warble reached him.

“Coooooby,” Klay said, his face puffy and red. The years of straight drug abuse were catching up to him. “Wake and bake, brutha!”

Cobra wordlessly headed toward the bong being offered to him, took a huge hit, and while he held it, popped a baseball cap on his head backwards. Once the rush of smoke gusted out of his lungs, he clapped Klay on the shoulder.

“Thanks, brother.”

The lighter flicked repeatedly as Klay’s gaze danced up and down Cobra’s body. “Where you going?”

“Laundry.”

“Damn.” Something dour shivered over Klay, and he leaned back into the couch, propping his feet up on the busted ottoman. “Always go, go, go these days.”

“Yeah, well, got shit to do.” He slung the laundry bag over his shoulder. Tension spiked in the air, but he didn’t know why. He paused, like maybe Klay had reached out to grab him by the arm. But Klay was already flipping through the apps on the smart TV.

Cobra scratched at the back of his neck. It never used to be awkward with the three of them. Now, he couldn’t think of a single fucking thing to say. “Where’s Ty?”

“Paying the rent.”

“Jesus, Klay. It was due three weeks ago.”

He shrugged, reaching for the bong again. “And your point?”

“I paid you the day before it was due. You trying to tell me you sat on that eight hundred for the past three weeks?”

Klay sent him a dark look. “What the fuck’s it matter?”

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