Page 41 of Sass

“Pffft.” Spittle flew from his mouth. “As if. I’m hung like course—” He frowned. “Like...ahorse.” He grabbed the vanity to steady himself. “It’ll reach right inside.”

I barked out a laugh and Chris must’ve thought I was mocking him, because he looked down at himself, frowned, and slammed the door shut. A few seconds later there was a loud thud and a pained “Fuck!” followed by “M’fine. Fuckin’ seat bit me.”

“Jesus Christ.” I sent a pleading look to the ceiling and shook my head. Then I set about making Chris a bed on Hunter and Alec’s couch while protecting it as best I could. That done, I put a large glass of water and a couple of ibuprofen on the coffee table, and when Chris finally emerged, naked, and trailing his blanket, I made a point of deliberately shielding my eyes, as much to protect myself, as to afford Chris some privacy. But rather than hear the couch settle under his weight, a wash of hot breath bathed the back of my fingers instead.

“That’s very gently... gentleleymanly of you.” He pressed a kiss to the back of my fingers, which were still covering my eyes. Then he pried two apart so he could peer between them. “There you are.” He grinned like a happy kid, and something warm flopped dangerously in my chest.

I sighed and dropped my hands, returning his smile. “Come on. Sit yourself down.”

He slumped onto the couch, and I draped a blanket over him. Then he looked up and whispered conspiratorially, “You wanna fuck?”

I snorted. “No.”

“Okay.” His eyes fluttered closed. “I’m gonna sleep.” And just like that, he was out.

I went to rearrange the blanket, but Chris turned and dragged it from my hands, revealing three parallel thin, white scars running across the inside of his left thigh. Shit.My heart slammed against my ribs because I knew exactly what they were. Hell, I’d done enough tattoos in my time designed to cover similar ones.But the scars were old and it was none of my business.

I freed the blanket and pulled it over Chris’s shoulders, adding another two until I was satisfied he’d be warm enough. Then I brushed his hair back from his face, startled to find him watching me with sad, sleepy eyes.

“Hey there.” I managed a smile as I lifted a lock of burnt sienna-tipped hair off his lashes. “Time to sleep. I’m in the next room if you need me.”

He blinked slowly, then hooked a finger around one of mine and sighed. “’S okay.” He glanced down to his leg. “Life fucks ya up sometimes, right?” He held my gaze.

I nodded, my heart breaking for this man I barely knew. “Yeah, it sure can.” I ran the back of my knuckles softly down his cheek and smiled. “We all do shit, sweetheart.” I thought of the worst couple of years of my life after Caitlyn had died. That my liver had survived all the booze was a fucking miracle.

Chris smiled at the endearment but said nothing. His eyelids fluttered closed and his breathing slowed, and when I was sure he was out for the count, I lowered the lights and took a seat in one of the armchairs and watched him sleep.

How long I stayed, I didn’t have a clue, the neon sign above Flare painting Chris’s pretty face in a dim wash of reds and blues as he travelled his dreams. For whatever reason, it simply seemed important that someone,me, watched over this complicated man just for a little while. Someone or something had hurt Chris. It answered some questions and raised a whole lot more, and I was so fucking angry on his behalf.

He looked so young it broke my heart—squirrelled away under a mound of blankets, more relaxed than I’d ever seen him, his sharp tongue quiet, his body strangely at ease. Everything he wasn’t when he was awake. I wanted nothing more than to crawl in behind and hold him tight, let him know I’d keep watch for a while. That he could let go and trust me to keep him safe.

And with that singular realisation, a groan escaped my lips. I didn’t justwantChris. I was damn well falling for him, head over fucking heels.

I was so screwed.

CHAPTERTEN

Kip

“There’s water,a fresh coffee, and two ibuprofen on the coffee table when you’re ready.”

The alarmingly familiar voice filtered into the hell that was my head and fired a fresh round of poisoned needles into my skull. “Do you have to be so loud?” I groaned and rolled onto my back, instantly wishing I hadn’t when a slurry of bile filled my mouth.

Jesus fucking Christ.I swallowed it down with a shudder and made a failed attempt to sit before flopping back onto the pillow. Also, a mistake, as some fucker must’ve squeezed my skull hard enough to fire my brain down my throat and out my arse, which accounted for the rank smell storming my nostrils and sending more bile up my throat.

Fucking hell.I had more success on the second attempt to sit, and when I was finally upright, I peeled open an eyelid and discovered the source of the odour. “Good god, what in the hell did I drink? Jet fuel?” I winced at the contents of the bin on the floor.

A snort of laughter accompanied the arm that crossed in front of my face, and the bin was removed. “Just as well I left it there. Better the bin than Alec and Hunter’s furniture.”

I tracked Leon’s loping stride as he disappeared into the bathroom to flush half my innards down the loo.

What the fuck was I doing on Leon’s couch?

Then it all started to come back to me. Calling it memory would be putting too fine a point on a process which more resembled throwing a dart at a range of mortifying static images with alarmingly large fucking gaps between them.

The first part was pretty clear. Getting the office organised to paint. Going home to get ready for my night out—a bath, a face mask, a douche—you never knew your luck, right? And then staring at the mirror, half-dressed and deciding, for some unfathomable reason, that I couldn’t fucking be bothered anymore, followed by being furious with myself for said decision.

All of which landed me back at Flare and painting my office. I was pretty sure I’d begun a first coat, but how far I got, I had no idea. There was, however, one thing which was crystal fucking clear and etched in technicolour detail into my brain. My mother’s voice—when I’d made the mistake of finally answering one of her calls—encouraging me to visit her brother, and to stop being “difficult,” and that “surely we can move past all that nonsense,”and that“it’s a chance to do something important, Christopher.”

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