Page 18 of Wreckin' Amethyst

Rousingfromafitfulsleep, I become vaguely aware my head is moving. Rising and falling in time with the deep breaths rattling through a solid chest. Remaining in place, my thigh slung across a solid groin, I recount the events of last night. There was the gala, the waltz…oh fuck, surely not even I could have convinced Sebby to ride the other bus for a night? Blinking my eyes open, thick blackout blinds conceal the time of day. Light colored hair lays upon strong shoulders and instantly, I know I’m not draped across Sebby.

“Don’t freak out,” a deep baritone rolls through the chest beneath my ear. I stiffen further. “Nothing happened.” Yet the memories of last night slam into me with the force of a freight train and I propel myself across to the other side of the bed.

“The guy…the, the convict,” I stutter. My arm jerks, feeling the weight of him slumping onto the pole in my grasp. Lifting my hands, I expect to see blood. Thick, crusted layers of dark red, but there’s nothing. My eyes drag across the fresh white t-shirt, inhaling the manly scent enveloping me. An expensive mix of vanilla and lemon, colliding in peaceful harmony. Myles slowly sits upright in a matching one, too alert to have just woken.

“Everything has been taken care of. You have nothing to worry about.” Standing with the bed between us, his morning glory tents against black boxers, and he makes no move to conceal it. My throat bobs, drawing my attention to the dull ache in the side of my neck.

“You handled my shit?” I raise my voice, rubbing the tender spot. Myles gives a half-shrug.

“You’re welcome,” he replies nonchalantly but I can sense the smugness brimming just beneath the surface.

“No, no. I’m not thanking you. I don’t need you to swoop in and handle my mess.” It’s as I continuously rub my neck, I remember the outline of the needle in my peripheral vision. A hint of disbelief leaks through Myles cocky smirk, as if to say ‘yeah right’. Unfortunately for him, he’s never met someone as tenacious as me. Not stubborn – just tenacious. “A quick nap and I would have been all over it. Now you’ve got the leverage to trap me here, to do your bidding and stay in your bed?!” I gesture to the bed with two hands of splayed fingers, my voice escalating in pitch. Myles gawks.

“What do you think I am, some fairytale villain?” An uncomfortable silence ensues, ended by my nodding.

“Yeah, pretty much. You’re both the spoiled prince and unruly beast in this scenario.” My mind drifts into the books I used to have stacked beside my bed as a young teen. Sebby is no doubt LeFou, the trusty and too eager sidekick, and Carter is Frollo, the scornful judge. I’ve yet to pin down Owen’s distinctive traits.

When I return to the male across the room, Myles’ arms have gone slack, his jaw loose. Shadows chase the movement of his eyes, as if reconsidering his entire persona based on my opinion. I don’t see why it would matter to him so much.

“I apologize for goingslightlycaveman and forcing you here, but you are free to come and go at your leisure. I just hope you’ll decide something here is worth sticking around for.” Too much effort is put into controlling Myles’ breathing, his chest rising and sagging with the deepness of his contemplation.

“Then…what’s the whole point of using the Thirsty Kirsty as blackmail? Of all this?!” I wave my arms around like a lunatic. It’s safe to say, I’m still drugged and slightly loopy.

“I just…I just wanted to spend some time with you, okay?!” Myles fists his hair, desperation leaking across the room to taint my nose. His amber eyes plead for…something. Misery swarms their speckled depths before he drops onto the edge of the mattress, back hunched. “I’m intrigued by you, and I thought with all your deceptiveness, you might just find something intriguing about me too.” I drop my head back. This is too much tension first thing in the morning. Especially with the trickle of a headache seeping into the space behind my left eye.

“I’m putting a pin in your midlife crisis until at least after breakfast. People who can be rational before coffee terrify me.”

“I don’t drink coffee.” Myles mutters and I throw a hand to my chest. Holy Satan. No wonder he’s so confused by himself. It’s likely Myles has never had a true moment of caffeinated clarity to look in the mirror and think, ‘Well, I have all the money in the world at my disposal and I’m still miserable. Something isn’t right here’.

I dive bomb across the bed, almost becoming tangled in the sheets as I skid off the other side and slip my arm into his.

“Come on big guy, we have a travesty to fix.” It isn’t until I’m heaving Myles upright, that I feel the slice of pain in my ribs. Hissing, I lurch forward, and find myself at the mercy of gentle yet prying hands.

“Fuck,” Myles growls, easing the t-shirt up. I don’t fight him, the air knocked from my lungs taking too long to replace. As the cotton skates over my side, I catch sight of my body in the huge two-way mirror spanning the nearest wall, and wince. Purple and black smudges are blossoming over my ribcage, deepening with the promise of a slow recovery. That convict landed more hits than I realized last night. More than I should have allowed.

Tender fingers lightly brush across my skin, as Myles tells me to take a deep breath. I aid his request, just as he pushes hard between each one of my ribs. To his credit, my sudden string of verbal abuse and the yank on his golden hair doesn’t deter his examination, until the shirt is allowed to fall back into place.

“I don’t think anything is broken. Will you let me call a doctor for you?” His amber eyes study my face, hands still lingering by the hem of the shirt. If I were to shift, even the smallest amount, his knuckles would drag across my hip bone and we’d both be treading dangerous waters.

“You’re asking me?” I cock a brow. Myles steps half an inch closer, forcing me to tilt my head upwards to maintain his gaze. Yet he doesn’t touch me any further.

“I’m not the unruly beast you think I am.” We stand in the wake of a fresh understanding. Myles doesn’t need my torment any further. Not when I suspect I’m only voicing the opinions he already has about himself. And in turn, he is reeling back his forceful nature, providing me the option to accept or decline his help. In this instance, it will firmly be the latter.

“No doctors necessary,” I shake my head. Where there’s medical forms, there’s the need for identification and that’s a deep dive I’m not willing to take. “You can call a barista though. Tell him to bring every syrup flavor and bean blend he has. We have a mission of a morning to get through before I can even contemplate asking about what happened after I passed out last night.” With a shared, small smile, we mutually walk towards the door, Myles’ phone already placed against his ear.

Chapter 13

Simon,thebarista,isjust packing up as the front door slams open. If I turn, bend back on the bar stool and angle my head right, I could see directly through the center of the manor. But with a stomach filled with more coffee than sustenance and the realm of hyperawareness I’ve entered, I can't be bothered. I just wait for Storm Carter to whip into the kitchen, his green eyes filled with outrage.

“If you want coffee, you’re shit out of luck. We used the last of the milk,” I eye his flustered cheeks. His gaze swings across the mess of discarded mugs and sugar packets across the breakfast bar, many full and untouched as Myles couldn’t settle on a taste he liked. It’s the sight of Myles himself, slumped over on his forearms and trying to come down from a caffeine spike which really sets Carter’s temple throbbing.

“Myles! Your therapy session started forty minutes ago?!” Carter slams a leatherbound notepad down on the counter. Myles doesn’t jolt, barely reacts as he withdraws from the stool and slinks away. Lifting an ice latte, the straw just touches my lips as Carter swipes his hand through the air. The plastic cup files across the kitchen, splattering against the oven. That’ll be a bitch to clean.

“I don’t like you,” Carter seethes, bracing his fists on the bar to lean into me. Pressing a hand to my heart, I force my bottom lip to wobble.

“Oh, my fragile little heart. How can I go on?!” The back of my hand on my forehead seals my award-winning performance, just as Owen appears. Nuzzling Pig’s scruff, he places kisses upon her head and regretfully passes her over to me.

“Take care of her for me, Pauper. I’ve got business to take care off,” Owen talks to the pup rather than me. “Be good Princess Piggy. I’ll be back soon. Oh yes I will.” My brow raises the longer he consoles her droopy face. I was rather enjoying the show, but Carter grows impatient, dragging Owen up by the back of his t-shirt.

---