Page 8 of The Trust
We’re still so new.
Not out in public.
I’m still his first relationship with a guy.
Would he freak out and run?
Is six months enough time to come to terms with all that?
Not to mention, despite us being together, it’s not like we’ve really … dated. My band and I went straight into recording our next album after the accident and when I’m not in this studio, I’m getting my arcade ready to open. And then Jordan has his gym that he runs, fixes, keeps alive mostly by himself.
We’re … busy.
My stomach churns.
The last time we tried for a date …
“Seconded,” my twin’s voice filters through, and I have to blink away the moisture collecting on my lashes at the reminder of the crash.
But then the halo of curls blocks out some of the light filtering in through the glass and my brother stands proud on the other side. Thick arms crossed over his thick chest. A knowing look lifting his brow.
Knowing because he was the first one I ever told about Jordan. The first one to hate on my bodyguard for not seeing it. The one to break Jordan’s nose.
Seven years ago.
“Bro,” I say but it cracks.
“You know that I know.”
He rubs at the center of his chest, though it’s mine that aches.
I choke my sticks and set them down across the hoop on the snare. I haven’t even been playing the right shit anyway.
“Know what?” I whisper and lick my drying lips.
“What it’s like to love someone so wholly, you can’t bear the moments without them.”
My heart thumps its agreement but there’s still something sticking in the back of my head. Something holding back my heart.
What if…he said no?
Mac
When I finally stumbleback into the apartment above the gym, my bones aching with the exhaustion of a sixteen-hour day filled with wailing on sets and enough emotional turmoil simmering, I plan to fall into bed. Or the couch.
Hell, the floor will do.
Wherever I find Jordan, next to him is where I want to be as long as I get to be horizontal and passed out.
“Tyro?”
When I don’t get an answer, I leave the lights off and step out of my Chucks. Wander over the plush rug that feels like I’m walking on a cloud. Make my way to the bed, stripping as I go, and climb beneath the covers. Cookie skitters away from her spot on my pillow and takes off to hide in her house next to the tv stand.
Passed out and warm, my boyfriend’s hard body leans back into me when I drape myself over his back, my arm curling around his ribs.
“Sorry I’m so late,” I whisper into his hair, kissing the strands.
He hums, a deep rumble that vibrates in my chest, and arches back into me. “Make it up to me.”
