Page 10 of Twisted Trails
Is this what life feels like when your body isn’t a walking disaster?
Because, damn, sign me up.
Okay, maybe I feel a little too groggy for this to be normal. My thoughts are slippery, catching a train of thought feels like trying to hold Jell-O with chopsticks, but I’d still take this over pain any day.
When I woke up earlier, I was in a helicopter for the second time in my life, which feels like way too many times for someone who doesn’t even like flying.
Finn was there, crouched beside me, hand on my shoulder, his face a mess of mud and tears, mutteringI’m sorry,baby girl,like it was the only sentence he remembered how to say. He looked like hell, beautiful, tragic hell, and he was stroking me in comfort.
But I couldn’t deal with any of it.
My fingers were screaming, my hip was howling, and my head felt like it had been launched into a brick wall and left there to marinate.
Now though?
Now everything is quiet.Floaty.My body feels like a cloud, and I’ve got nothing but time to think about how Finn gave me everything I ever wanted, every word I’d ever dreamed of hearing from him, and then yanked it all out from under me like a magician pulling a tablecloth. Except, instead of leaving the plates standing, he smashed them and thentap-dancedon the shards.
Now that I’m thinking about it, my chest aches, just a little twist beneath the floaty fog. My fingers don’t hurt, my hip doesn’t hurt, my head feels like a balloon tied to a string, but my heart? Yeah, that traitor is still ticking.
Nope.Not doing this then, not thinking about Finn. Not when I feel this good and the medication has turned my bones into cotton candy. This high is too perfect to waste on that mean, beautiful, emotionally constipated man.
No crying, no spiraling, just floating. My thoughts are clouds, and I’m lying face-down on them, kicking my feet in the air.
But then the door slams open, and in stormsLuc-fucking-Delacroix.
Theotherbeautiful man who makes my heart tick in weird, complicated rhythms.
God, even angry, he looks unfair. Wet curls are pushed back from his forehead like a French shampoo commercial, his hoodie clings to his shoulders, and his racing pants are still streaked with mud.
Why does rage lookgoodon him?
That’s not a normal thing.
That’s not ahealthything.
And my brain, which is floating on prescription cotton candy, decides to remind meexactlyhow good his mouth feels on mine.
Jesus.
I amnotequipped for this level of sexy right now. If he says one nice thing to me, I might take off my top. Not because I mean to. It’s just a reflex. Instinct.Whatever.
Mason walks in right after him, wearingpink.It’s Luc’s hoodie. The sleeves are too long on him, but it still works. Why does thatwork?
I swear, he could wear a garbage bag, and my hormones would still throw a party.
Two beautiful disasters in one room, one that I’ve kissed, and the other I’d like to kiss very much.
Wait, what if they kissed?
Each other.
What if Luc grabbed Mason by the front of that pink hoodie and yanked him close, all angry and growly, that stupid sexy mullet flopping just right, and Mason justsmirked, all cocky, and leaned in like he’s beenwaitingfor it?
And then they kissed like they hated each other and wanted each other in the same breath.
Oh my God, I think my boxers just got wet.
Wait, am I still wearing boxers? Did they undress me and find my socks?
