Page 38 of The Order of Disorder
He lays the back of his hand on my forehead, sighs, then cracks open a bottle of water, holding it out to me.
“Drink some water.”
I shake my head. I’m thirsty, butfuck him.
He sighs again, deeper this time, and stands up, putting the water bottle down on the bedside table and sliding his leather cut off, draping it over a chair. His new patch, white against black, catches my eye.
Fucking Road Captain. He doesn’t even have the excuse that he’s just out here riding for fun. He’s one of them. I can’t believe I ever thought I knew him. That I ever felt safe with him.
He crosses to the dresser and pulls open a drawer, rummaging for a moment before coming back with a small bottle of aspirin. He sets it on the table beside the water.
Then he crouches down beside me again, and looks at me—bright blue eyes crinkling with concern like I’ve seen them a million times before.
“I need to know you’re okay,” he says softly, his voice low and tender.
It’s too soft. Too familiar. Like he’s still Wyatt and notRyan. Like he has any right to care.
It makes me want to scream.
“Fuck you, Wyatt!” I shout, louder than I knew I could.
The effect is immediate.
His eyes fly wide—panic—and he lunges forward, slapping a hand over my mouth.
“It’s Ryan,” he hisses, voice ragged and sharp in my ear. “It has to be Ryan. Please, Max.”
I try to twist away, but his hand tightens, fingers digging into my cheek. I can feel the heat rushing up my face, my eyes going wide and wild. I try to scream anyway, but his palm makes a perfect seal. The sound dies in my throat.
He moves fast—straddling me fully, pinning my body down—and dread surges through me.
Is this it? Is this how it starts?
With his free hand he pulls a cheap blue blanket over us, right over our heads until we’re under it like a tent. And then he bends down, mouth against my ear, his voice barely audible.
“Please, Max. Please. Don’t say another word. I’m going to take my hand off your mouth. I’ll explain everything. Just…please. They’re listening.”
He waits.
My heart slams against my ribs, racing from the exertion of shouting and the surprise of his sudden movement, from the weight of him, from the heat of the blanket. I can feel the pressure of his thigh against mine, the rise and fall of his chest. I don’t fight him and he take his hand off my mouth.
And the second he does, I let it rip.
“FUCKYOU!”I scream it as loud as I can, straight into his face, my throat cracking with it. “FUCK YOU, WYATT! GET THE FUCK OFF ME!”
His hand is back on my mouth before I can draw another breath, harder this time, sealing my scream in my throat.
“Stop,” he breathes. “Don’t say my name. Please Max. Please.”
I thrash under him, fists pounding against his chest. I’m kicking, writhing, furious, but he doesn’t let go.
His mouth gets closer to my ear, his voice so quiet I can barely hear it beneath the sound of my thrashing. “There aremicrophones,” he whispers, voice low but urgent. “Max, there are fucking microphones. Silas monitors every room.”
That stops me. It takes a moment for the words to sink in, but when they do, my whole body goes still beneath him.
What?
Sensing the fight go out of me, he lifts his hand—tentatively at first—and then puts it down on the mattress, bracing himself over me.
