Page 19 of Sypher

Narrowing my eyes, a sneer tugged at the corners of my mouth, the muscles in my face tightening. “Now who’s keeping secrets, asshole?”

“Fuck you, Danny,” he clipped, stepping up to me. “You don’t know what I’ve had to do to get into this club. I can’t have you fucking it up.”

With a frown etched upon my face, I tilted my head to one side and scrutinized his features intently, taking in every detail.

“What the fuck do you mean by that?”

“Never mind,” he grumbled, turning away from me again. He was hiding something from me. Something he didn’t want me to know.

I stopped him, my fingers tightening on his arm, a jolt of adrenaline running through me. I forced him to meet my gaze, the intensity of my stare making him uncomfortable, and then I asked, “Why are you really here, Dante?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

He yanked his arm free, a furious flush rising on his face, and moved away, agitated. He was hiding something; his eyes darted nervously, and his hands clasped tightly behind his back. Something big, and whatever it was, it had him worried. Thesilence hung heavy, and with a tightening of my chest, I crossed my arms and leveled a threat at him. “You know I can easily find out—I have my ways—so why don’t you just tell me?”

Hanging his head, he sighed. “Danny. Please leave it alone.”

“Not a chance in hell,” I stubbornly replied. “You’ve been on my ass since day one about owning who I am and shit. Well, the same goes for you. You either tell me or I will find out myself.”

“I was sent here to size up Montana and the club.”

“Who sent you?”

Shaking his head, he looked at me. “That I can’t tell you. I’ve already told you too much. Can we please just forget this conversation and leave?”

“Yeah,” I muttered, my eyes never leaving his. “Yeah, we can leave, but this isn’t over.”

Dante proceeded to gather his keys and jacket in a swift movement while he made his way toward the door. He remained silent throughout our departure from the clubhouse and the entire drive to his apartment, offering no words or comments whatsoever. Despite the slight click of the lock and the quiet swoosh of the door opening as he stepped aside, his silence was deafening.

From the moment I first met Dante during my freshman year of college, he was consistently talkative and engaging, never exhibiting even a moment of quietude. The man always had an opinion, a witty remark or a story to tell.

He was never at a loss for words.

His movements through his apartment were jerky and anxious, almost like a silent film playing out before my eyes. He moved with a sluggish, jerky gait, his every movement hesitant and stiff, as if my presence made him deeply uncomfortable.

When he headed into his bedroom, I quietly followed, watching him silently remove his jacket and shirt. The only sound was the soft rustle of fabric. With a sigh, he kicked off hisshoes, the sound echoing softly in the quiet room, and emptied his pockets, carefully placing each item in a bright green glass bowl on his dresser. Walking into his bathroom, I heard the shower start, the sound of rushing water filling the room. When he didn’t come back out, I walked over to the bathroom door, the faint scent of his soap drifting out, and leaned against it, quietly watching as he shed his clothes before stepping into the cloud of hot steam.

Stripping out of my own clothes, I joined him. The steam filled the small space, the scent of his leather and pine soap mingled with the hot water as he rested his arm on the slightly damp tiles, his head hanging heavy. His chest rose and fell rhythmically while he stood there.

I reached for his washcloth and soap. With a thick lather of soap on the cloth, I stepped quietly up behind him and washed his back, feeling the gentle warmth of his skin beneath my touch.

“I’m sorry I hit you.”

“Don’t worry about it. I deserved it,” I said, rubbing the cloth between his shoulder blades.

He turned toward me and said again, “I’m sorry.”

With a nod, I observed him tilt his head back while the glistening droplets highlighted the tautness of his muscles, which gradually eased as the tension melted away. The sound of the water now a calming roar.

When I wiped my face and opened my eyes, I saw Dante looking at me with curious intensity.

When he just stared at me, I questioned, “Problem?”

Shaking his head, he replied, “Just can’t believe you’re here.”

“Where else would I be? Montana told you to babysit me, remember?”

---