Page 52 of Bear
Fortunately, she’s on my left, so I roll, too, putting us close together. I lift my injured arm—don’t fucking care at the moment—and brush a few tendrils of hair from her face, tucking them behind her ear. “Does Mase freak me the hell out where you’re concerned?Yes.Absolutely. Was I thrown off to see that heat between you and Duke? Again,yes.But that’s because the two of you have been at each other’s throats off and on since you got here. So, if yesterday was you figuring shit out, then so be it.”
“It doesn’t bother you that I’ve kinda been with all three of you in some way?”
“It really doesn’t.”
“Promise?”
“Fuck, here I go again making promises to you.”
She bites her sexy-as-hell lip, her eyes scanning my face. To my surprise, a moment later, her smile turns upside down and her face falls. “He made it pretty clear right before you walked in that we shouldn’t have let it go as far as we did.”
“Duke is all caught up in his head. It sure as hell didn’t look like he doesn’t want you to me.”
“But what if he won’t let himself? I wasn’t certain if he was just helping Mason or if he wanted—” Her cheeks pick up the rosiest blush I’ve ever seen. “If he wanted me, too. You have to admit, it’s fucking awkward as hell.”
She’s not wrong. The stepsibling thing is a bit of a gray area, that’s for fuckin’ sure. I reach out and rest my hand on her hip, giving her a squeeze. “If there’s one thing I know about Duke, it’s that his actions absolutely speak louder than his words.”
“You really think?”
“I know. Fucking think about it, Lennon. Think back to every single thing he’s done and said since you’ve gotten here, and you fucking tell me which you think is real. You have to decide if the way you feel about him outweighs the strain it’ll put on you both if you decide to move forward. Only you and Duke can decide that.” I lean forward and kiss the tip of her nose. “Good job today, little brawler.” And with that, I get up and leave the gym, because I have a feeling she needs time alone with her thoughts.
The secondary reason I take off is that the pain in my shoulder is excruciating, and I need to do something to remedy it. On my way upstairs, I stop in the kitchen, rifling through the cabinet where I’d found the oxy mixed in with the ibuprofen. They look nothing like the anti-inflammatories, and if anyone had looked closely enough, two kinds of pills came out of that bottle. Little orange ibuprofen pills and tiny white oxycodone as well—two of them, to be exact. They seemed more concerned with the quantity of pills I’d taken, which, I suppose taking large amounts of anything isn’t a good idea. My head knows this. But I can’t stop myself. Yesterday, I’d taken two 10mg tablets. It’d helped some.
I bite back a strangled string of curse words as my eyes crash shut. I give the ibuprofen bottle a shake, but there’s simply no more of the white pills hiding in there. In the bottle in my nightstand drawer, there’d only been two more.Fuck.That’s not gonna fucking do it. How am I going to get through Saturday’s game—and worse, Sunday’s fight night—if I don’t have more?
Heaving out one breath after another, I grimace. I have no fucking choice. I pull my phone from my pocket and put the call through to the only person who can help me, no matter that I fucking hate the thought of him at the moment.
“Son? What can I do for you? I wasn’t expecting your call.” My father’s tone is off-putting, and for a second, I think about ending the call.
Ashamed, I bow my head. “I need more.”
TWENTY-FOUR
MASON
I’ve beenin the attic for almost three days. I thought I was doing pretty well, but then I wasn’t. So I came up here and threw myself into my charcoals, producing a fury of images so messed up, so dirty and dark, I doubt I’ll ever show them to anyone.
There have been a few knocks on the attic door, then when I didn’t respond, a few texts to check up on me. I finally gave in, sending the same message to all three of them.I need to be alone.They know me well enough at this point—Lennon included—that sometimes it’s best to let me expel my demons by myself.
I never know what’s going to set me off either, so that’s fun. Admitting I’m unsure if I can ever believe my mother’s death wasn’t my fault had thrown me right off the edge of the abyss.
One thing about being a moody asshole no one wants to bother is it gave me plenty of time to sort through the dumpster fire in my head. There’s been a lot to sift through since Monday’s nightmare episode.
Lennon hadn’t flinched in the face of my chaotic storm, and the way Duke had looked beyond the shit we’d been putting each other through to help me had caught me by surprise. Neither of them had to treat me with the kindness they did. It weighs on my heart like a heavy stone that maybe I haven’t done enough to be deserving of either one of them. Hell, how will Lennon ever be able to trust me with all I put her through? Duke, too—because I can’t really think of anything that requires more trust than what we’re doing. I may be comfortable admitting I’m bisexual, but he isn’t. I have to respect that if I expect to maintain any sort of relationship—friends, lovers, or something more—with him.
And Bear—fuck. There’s something off there, so he’s been on my mind, too. We don’t see him out of control and unreasonably angry very often, injury or not. It makes me nervous when the caretaker of our group is so clearly troubled. He’s the one who makes sure everyone else is okay, so seeing him struggle throws me for a loop. I don’t know what to do for him that will help, because he’s not the sort to come to us with his problems. Still, there’s got to be something I can do. If I ever crawl out of this dark place I’ve been in, I’ll make a point to talk to him.
I let out a heavy sigh as I smudge a stroke of charcoal with my finger to soften it. I haven’t bothered with any of my more expensive art paper lately, when I came up here Monday night, I’d unrolled butcher block paper across the length of the attic floor and have been whipping off one sketch after another, drawing on my hands and knees.
Eventually, I’ll land on one that feels right, and I’ll do a more in-depth study. Right now, I can’t seem to findthe one.I experience a mania about my art that hits every once in a while—and when it does, it overtakes my entire life. When I can’t handle being around people, I prefer the company of my charcoals and the quiet solitude of the dark attic.
I haven’t been going to my classes, instead choosing to email my professors photos of what I’m working on in the attic, with the request that I be allowed to continue on here at home. They’ve been more than willing, seeing as how I’m churning out sketch after sketch like some inhuman art fiend. My fingers have practically turned into sticks of charcoal.
I sit back on my heels, looking around. I like the quiet. But I miss Lennon’s voice. I like to be alone. But I need the way Lennon looks at me even more. Pushing to my feet, I head down the stairs, fling open the door, and find her bedroom door standing open. Lying sideways across the bed on her stomach, with both a book and a notebook in front of her, she’s got that ever-present red lollipop in her mouth.
My lungs practically burst as I hold my breath, watching her. I shift slightly, and the board below my foot creaks. I prepare to have her catch me watching her any second, but she doesn’t flinch. Earbuds. She doesn’t even know I’m here. Her mouth moves to the words of whatever song she’s listening to as she kicks her legs in time to the beat. Just the sight of her has me breathing easier.
“Lennon.” I wet my lips, take a quick inhale, then try again, only louder this time.“Lennon.”
