Mark leans back, spinning the pen around his fingers. Our sheets for round four have just been collected, and we’re waiting for the next round to begin.
“This isn’t trivia, Kyle. This is a blood-thirsty competition that we’ve stumbled into. Look. Every other table has dictionaries.” Mark nods across the room. I’m glad he’s taking our failure in good humour.
“Oh they do,” I say. “We should bring one next time.”
“Do you own a dictionary? Because I don’t.”
“I’ll buy one.”
“Something tells me we’ll still come last.” Mark sets the pen down, swapping it with his drink. He squeezes my thigh as he does. I twist away, doing my utmost not to squirm. I haven’t cursed at Mark onceall evening despite my arousal.
“Can I massage your leg later?” Mark asks.
“You’ve been massaging it since we sat down.”
“A proper one. Where you melt into the cushions and groan.”
He could easily have that same response out of me now.…if not for the witnesses. I turn back to him. “I’ll think about it.”
Mark grins. “Really?”
The next round is tragic. Mark takes up piano lessons to compensate. Or at least I assume that’s what he’s doing, because it explains the way his fingers drum incessantly against my thigh.
I cover his hand with mine, flattening it to stop the torture. “Mark,” I complain. “That tickles.”
Mark hums but slips his hand to rest on the top of my knee. A dark splatter on the back of his hand catches my eye.
“Your hand, Mark.” I frown and grasp it to draw it above the table into the yellow glow of the pub lights. The back of Mark’s hand, where there are fine bones and numerous vital ligaments, is bruising to a greenish purple and is swollen.
My thoughts drift to Mark and Tommy rough-housing. Bethany had been disgusted, but I genuinely hadn’t thought much of it. Compared to my brothers, it had been very tame. Certainly nothing close to what Chris would consider needing intervention. But seeing the bruise, I wish I’d interfered. “It looks sore,” I say, unhappy.
“A small bruise is all.” Mark shrugs.
I look at the healing bruise around his eye, and the discomfort inside me balloons larger. “I’m sorry. I should have stepped in.”
Mark’s eyebrows lift. “No, you shouldn’t have. It’s between me and Tommy to work out.”
“You were fighting about me,” I say. Apparently, my unease with Mark’s bruised body is enough to overcome my inherent shyness.
“We were fighting because Tommy was being a dick.”
“Tommy’s overcompensating because he feels bad. He’s not being a dick.” He definitely is, but I’m not dragging Tommy.
“You told him about your leg?” Mark catches on immediately.
“Yeah. And he didn’t mind you before, but I think he’s just worried that you’ll—” I wince, not liking how it makes me sound vulnerable, but I carry on regardless, “—hurt me. Physically.”
Anger sparks in Mark’s eyes before it sinks away into another emotion I’m unable to identify. “Kyle, I wouldn’t ever—”
“I know.”
Mark withdraws his bruised hand from mine to rub the back of his neck. Despite his embarrassed posture, his gaze doesn’t waver from mine. “I did grab you at the party. It wasn’t to hurtyou—I have never intentionally tried to hurt you, ever, no matter how much we competed. And you said yourself that I can be bossy, which I generally can be, yes. But if I ever do something you don’t like, you can tell me to stop, and I will.”
I let that sink in, even though no part of me harboured doubts about my safety regarding Mark.
He must mistake my silence as doubt because he continues, “The exception being when I think your ankle is broken and you tell me to fuck off. In that situation or any like it, I’ll not be fucking off anywhere.”
I meet his worried, earnest gaze, and soften at how serious Mark is being to reassure me. I believe every word. “I’m pretty sure there’s a bigger chance of a toddler hurting me than you, Mark. I’ll talk to Tommy tomorrow.”
