Page 70 of Forever We Fall

His dark eyes flash wide. The muscles in his jaw flex. He rips his shirt off with one hand at his nape and gestures to the scars all over his stacked torso. “Can’t they?”

“You know the only thing that proves...” I can’t help my snarl.

“Yeah, that I had motive.”

I stand and walk to the edge of the bed. I press my hands into the mattress and get my face so close, I can feel his rapid breaths on my cheek.

“No,” I growl. “It proves that I had motive. I love you, Arlo. It’s my grandfather’s sword. It’s my searches on the computer: distances to his house, the location of the well, the top sites for our soiled clothes.”

“I thought you wiped all that.” Arlo chokes.

“I did, but I can also get it back if I need to.”

His mouth falls open. I want to kiss it. Instead, I narrow my gaze on his.

“Neither of us are going away for it. They’ll never find him. If they do, they won’t connect the dots. If by some chance they do, you will not go away for it. I will."

“You’re insane. Why would you…” His stunned gaze flits about my face.

“I told you, I’m your guy.” I shove from the bed, close my laptop, and head for the bathroom. “Now get back to that titillating book of yours and stop worrying.”

“Hota?”

I grip the doorframe and turn. “Yeah?”

“I’m your guy too.” He fiddles with the balled-up shirt in his lap, but he looks me directly in the eyes.

My smile is immediate. His words warm my chest and make my arms tingle. “Yeah, you are.”

His gaze lowers to my stupid tenting pants.

The longer this thing goes between us, the harder it is to hide my morning wood, my evening wood, or my midday wood. But I dutifully ignore it out of respect.

I wonder, as I have for a while now, what will happen when I can’t ignore it any longer.

“I wish I could help you out,” he whispers.

Fuck! Me too.

“Hey?” I bark, drawing his gaze up again. “Nothing a cold shower won’t cure and nothing that changes things between us.” I narrow my gaze. “You hear me?”

“I hear you.” He nods.

“Now, back to it.” I point at his book. “When you’re finished with that boring thing, I want a full debrief on how you’ll rule the world.”

“Sure thing.” He gives me a small smile, and it’s all I need. His happiness. His comfort. Fuck my dumb dick.

I load weights onto the bar while glaring at the clock on the wall. Maybe if I look at it sternly enough, it’ll skitter back fifteen minutes. Maybe then Hota will stride into the locker room, strip out of his school uniform—which is always the most glorious torture—and get dressed in shorts and a tight-ass T-shirt, and we’d work out together like we had for the last month and a half. Like he was supposed to. Like he should have. But he didn’t, the clock didn’t, and he’s not here.

“Need a spot?”

When I drag my gaze away from the uncooperative clock, Miles Reymon slides a clip onto the far side of my bar. The guy is a year or two older and taking A levels, I think. They’re classes taken in year twelve and the other in year thirteen to assess your aptitude for university.

He’s big and wide. The blond guy looks like Apollo came down from Olympus. He has approximately two percent body fat, thanks to the performance-enhancing drugs he takes. No way a person gets the size of a small military tank with pure muscle stacked on top of muscle without a little help.

He peddles them too.

Our suspicions were confirmed when we saw him exchanging with a few guys in the gym months back. And now those guys are quickly catching up in armored-vehicle size.

---