Page 84 of Hellbent
His fingers curl around the chipped ceramic, and he brings it to his lips like it’s something sacred. Closes his eyes. Breathes it in.
“Where you been?” I ask lightly, half-smiling at my own stubbornness as I slide into the chair across from him.
I always ask. And like always, he just gives me that wry, bemused look—like I should know better by now.
“Had some business to take care of,” he says, the words as stale as the coffee.
Right. Business.
He glances around the room, like he’s re-learning the space. “So what’d I miss?”
I lean back, stretching my legs under the table until my foot nudges his boot. “Well…Jake and Damian finally moved into their house. Still needs a bunch of finishing touches, but the walls are up, plumbing works, power’s running. They got beds in there, and that was enough for them to call it move-in ready.”
That gets a smile out of him. “Good. They’ve been itching for that place to be done.”
“There’s a party tonight,” I add. “Housewarming-slash-welcome-to-our-unfinished-cave. Will you come? They’ll want you there.”
He gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Yeah, of course. Will be nice to see the place.”
I glance over at him. “Good. Wouldn’t be the same without you.”
His gaze flicks down—over my bare legs, my tank clinging to damp skin, my untied shoes. For half a second, it almost looks like heat flickering in his eyes.
But then it’s gone. Swallowed up by that unreadable calm mask he always wears.
He nods at my clothes. “That what passes for workwear now?”
I snort. “You disappear for a month and that’s your first critique?”
“Safety first,” he says, deadpan. “And dignity’s a close second.”
By the time we roll up on Wyatt’s bike, the sun’s dipping low, streaking the sky with pink and gold. The day’s heat is still clinging to everything. I swing off the back, my legs warm from the ride, the thrum of the engine still buzzing in my bones. Music’s already spilling out from inside, thumping through the porch steps as we climb them. A crowd’s gathered out front, red plastic cups in hand, laughter rising in the air like sparks from a bonfire.
Inside, the house is louder—music pulsing, voices overlapping, laughter bouncing off raw drywall and unfinished trim. The air smells like fresh paint and sawdust, sharp beneath layers of sweat, cologne, and cheap beer. It’s stripped-down, but solid. A real house. Built by their hands.
People are already crowding the living room—propped against windowsills, slouched on the arms of the couch, gathered around the kitchen island with half-finished drinks. I didn’t expect this many people. I’m surprised they evenknowthis many.
Damian’s behind the kitchen island, sleeves rolled up, forearms flexing as he pours drinks. Jake appears from the crowd, grinning—eyes lit up, dark hair a mess, red cup already in hand.
“Well, look who finally showed,” he says, clapping Wyatt on the back.
Wyatt gives him a warm half-smile. “Wanted to see for myself if this thing was structurally sound.”
Jake laughs and then his gaze lands on me. “You look good, baby.”
My heart does a stupid little skip. “You sound surprised.”
“Definitely not surprised,” he says, eyes running over me in a way that makes it hard to breathe.
“Jesus Christ,” Damian mutters, materializing with a drink in each hand. He passes one to Wyatt, the other to me. “Do you two ever get tired of this mating dance?”
Jake winks at me. “Never.”
Damian slings an arm over my shoulder as I take a sip—fruit punch and vodka, dangerously sweet. “You do clean up pretty damn good,” he says, eyes running over me. “Especially for someone who spent the afternoon elbow-deep in bolts.”
I snort. “And hijacking your playlist.”
He grins. “Don’t remind me. You’ve got terrible taste.”
