Page 8 of Laurels and Liquor

“Is that warm enough, baby girl?” he asks into my ear, nuzzling it gently with the tip of his nose.

I nod, too tired to speak. Mateo turns me so my head sits under the spray, and I catch the last trace of his frown before he wipes it away. Guilt tugs at my heart, and I look down at our feet. Water swirls down the central drain, and as I watch the vortex, I can feel the beckoning event horizon of the black void that’s appeared in my chest. I do my best to keep from falling into it, but when I’m left alone with my thoughts, it’s almost too easy to let go and drown in the pain and longing. Even now, with only the sound of the water to fill the air, the ache builds higher and higher, and tears form in my eyes.

Mateo’s fingers in my hair, massaging my scalp, catch me off guard, and I gasp before leaning back into his touch. He works the shampoo thoroughly into the strands, and for a moment, I almost feel relief. I reach out and run my hands up and down his chest, the muscles jumping under my fingers. The vibration of his purr against my palms makes me shiver. Even when he walks me back into the spray, rinsing my hair clean of the suds, I keep exploring with my touch. I follow the trail of soft hair down the middle of his stomach, then lower, but he catches my wrist just as the back of my hand brushes his half-hard length. My eyes snap open and I look up to see him staring at me with heat and concern dancing in his eyes.

“You don’t have to—”

“I’m sorry.”

We speak at the same time, and I duck my chin, looking away as my cheeks heat. He adjusts his grip and brings my hand up to his face so he can kiss my palm.

“Don’t apologize. You’ve got nothing to be sorry about,” he mutters, pressing my hand to his cheek, his much larger one covering mine.

I look up at him, confused. “If you need—”

Mateo shakes his head. “I don’t need anything like that right now. I can’t help but get hard when I’m near you, Lydia. You make me feel like a teenager again, popping boners left, right, and center.”

We both chuckle at his joke, and my chest warms a little. I look down at his cock, still impressive even though it’s not fully at attention, and sigh. I would do anything for him, even if my heart is too heavy for it. He can’t be comfortable like this. Maybe…

“No, you’re in your head again, baby girl. Look at me,” Mateo says, suddenly very firm.

I snap my wide-eyed look of surprise up to his face, swallowing hard. Mateo is an alpha, but it’s sometimes easy to forget that with his easy smiles and carefree attitude. Stern and dominant aren’t usually words I’d use to describe him, but those are the only ones that come to mind as he looks down his nose at me. This is a new development for him, and based on the way my pussy flutters, I’d be lying if I said I don’t like it.

“If you want to do something for me, then you can let me finish cleaning you up. Then you’re going to let me get you into some comfy clothes, and we’re going to go upstairs and see if we can get Lucas to decide on something to make for dinner. Can you do that for me, baby?” Mateo says, a hint of his softness sneaking back in.

The urge to address him with an honorific hits me hard, but I shove it away. Even if he is acting like such a dad right now, he made it clear he doesn’t want to play, so I nod. And his answering smile lights up the steamy little cubicle, pushing down the darkness for the moment.

Once Mateo is satisfied that I’ve been properly scrubbed, buffed, and lotioned, he puts me in one of his stolen t-shirts and a pair of my own sleep shorts, holding my hand as we make our way up to the main living floor. Letting him care for me like that wasn’t something I’d normally allow, but it was so obvious how happy it made him that I couldn’t fight him on it. Not to mention that letting go of control and following his gentle commands worked wonders on my mood. I’m almost feeling like myself when we reach the kitchen, but then my heart plummets as I see Lucas at the kitchen island.

He looks rough, to put it mildly. Normally, he keeps himself tidy out of habit, since there are health codes and safety concerns while working in a kitchen. But now, he looks downright homeless, with a deep shadow of stubble on his cheeks and jaw, and wild, even slightly matted hair sticking up in every direction from his head. I realize with a pang that Lucas is wearing one of Rhett’s shirts, even if it hangs loose on him, giving him an almost starved appearance. The dark circles under his steel-blue eyes are near purple, and he’s swaying slightly on the spot.

He doesn’t look up at us, still studying the marble like he’s trying to decode the location of a buried treasure. Mateo sighs, running a hand through his hair. My heart thuds in my throat. I want to help, but I don’t know what to do. Lucas has always been the steady constant, the unshakable one. To see him like this breaks my heart all over again, the guilt I’d managed to shove aside, coming back with full force.

“Why don’t you get cozy on the couch, baby girl? Lex’ll be home soon, I think,” Mateo suggests, but the calm confidence he’d had before is gone.

I can only nod, shuffling away meekly and wrapping myself in a cashmere blanket on the sectional. Mateo watches me until I’m settled, but then strides over to Lucas, wrapping an arm around his back and pulling the beta into a sideways embrace. Not that Lucas notices. He’s still looking without seeing. He reminds me of people I’ve seen on the news, the ones who witnessed the worst atrocities and were being forced to recount them. Shells, existing on momentum alone. How much longer can Lucas last before his runs out?

The front door banging open makes me jump, and I muffle my yelp in the blanket, ducking and covering my head. But a scent drifts toward me, not mulled wine and oranges, but something entirely unexpected. Apples. Caramel.

Gabby.

“All right, you mopey bitches, listen up. Pity party’s over and we’re getting this shit cleaned up,” she declares, striding into the room like a general taking charge.

Lucas and Mateo look up at her, too bewildered to speak. My best friend stops in the middle of the open-plan space, looking around with an assessing eye. She flicks her long, cherry red braids over her shoulder before she plants her hands on her perfectly shaped hips, setting her back straight. Her dark brown eyes scan over once, the slight softening there making me flush hot. But then she turns to examine the boys and her expression falls.

“Lukey-poo, my boy, you look like a hot pile of shit,” she says, her disappointment somehow making the insult more of a joke.

Lucas jumps at being addressed directly, and awareness seems to come back into his eyes. “Don’t call me Lukey-poo,” he snaps, but there’s not much force behind it.

“Okay, Lukey-poo,” Gabby says with her signature tact and grace. “If you’re not too busy feeling sorry for yourself, would you mind going upstairs and taking a shower? You’re in my way.”

I blink at the almost unnecessary level of dismissal in her words. Can’t she see how badly he’s hurting? But her expression stays calm, even when Lucas starts sputtering with indignation.

“Feeling sorry for myself? Who gave you the right to come in here and—”

“I did.”

Lex’s stern voice comes from the doorway to the foyer, and we all turn to find her standing imperiously, arms crossed over her chest and expression unreadable. Her hazel eyes are fixed on Lucas, who’s gone beet-red, mouth agape.

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