“Always.”
She kisses me then, sweet and deep, her tongue curling over mine like poured honey. When she breaks away, Gale is there, green eyes gleaming, and she moves from my arms to his like a dancing nymph. She tilts her face up, and he slides a handinto her hair without taking his eyes from mine. Then she tugs his mouth down to hers for a primal, claiming kiss that has my breath coming fast and my dick twitching in my shorts by the time it’s over.
“I’m going to bed,” she tells us, shedding her zip up and sweats as she sashays through the door to the bedroom. The pale-pink tank top and white cotton panties underneath are an innocent mockery of her lithe curves and the devious look she throws over her shoulder as she climbs onto the bed. She’s removed the little crystals and the red lipstick, but her smudged eye makeup and the tangled ruin of her hair scream of debauched virtue.
Gale and I stand transfixed, two planets aligned in her incandescent orbit, helpless against the tidal pull of her gravity.
Jamie coughs on the couch, breaking the spell, and I grab my bundle of dirty gym clothes off the floor.
“I’m glad everything worked out tonight,” I say, not quite looking at him. “I’ll wash your shorts and return them tomorrow.”
Gale hesitates for a second, then jerks his head toward the bathroom door.
“C’mon, I need a favor.” He doesn’t wait for a response, but I drop my clothes on the chair and follow.
“You’re running out of favors,” I say dryly.
“This is an easy one, pretty boy.” He flashes me a wink and starts rummaging in the mirrored cabinet mounted above the sink. Pulling out a set of electric clippers, he hands them to me before stripping off his hoodie and straddling the toilet seat, facing the wall. “Celeste made me a hair appointment with her stylist for tomorrow.” He’s trying for nonchalance, but his underlying frustration bleeds into the explanation. “I need a reason not to go.”
“You want me to shave your head?” I don’t say that it’s something he could easily do on his own.
“Think you can handle it?”
I flick the switch on the clippers, and they buzz to life. When I rest my fingers on the back of his neck and nudge his head forward, he makes a soft sound, low in his throat, and my breath catches. Without thinking, I run my fingers up the back of his skull, twining the thick waves in my grip and tugging lightly.
“Are you sure?” I ask when I can breathe again. He drops his head back to look up at me.
“You gonna miss my rakish curls?”
“I might.” I watch his Adam’s apple bob in the exposed line of his throat.
“Just do it.” He pulls out of my grip and tips his chin down, resting his elbows on the top of the porcelain tank.
When it’s done, he leans over the sink, studying himself in the mirror.
“Is she gonna hate it?” he asks, meeting my eyes in the reflection.Gia. I wonder how many times she’s tangled her fingers in the locks now strewn across the tiled floor. The short fuzz remaining is darker, hugging the shape of his skull like a shadow. His winged brows and thick, curled lashes seem darker too, and the fine lines of his bone structure are sharper, more masculine.
“No,” I say, and mean it.
He’s fucking beautiful, exposed.
“Celeste will.” He gives me a wry, painful smile and pushes past me, flicking off the light as he goes. I stand in the dark, unsure, watching as he kicks off his shoes and heads for the bedroom. In the doorway, he stops, looking back at me over his shoulder.
“You coming?”
28
Gale
Iwake up in the bare light of dawn, swimming up from a dream of searching a dark, endless warehouse for someone my brain wants to call Jamie, while a low tug in my gut whispers Gia’s name. One arm is tucked up over my head, making space for Gia’s tousled one on the pillow, and the other is hanging off into space, my body pushed to the mattress’s edge to make room for the third person in the bed.
Lyot.
I’ll never forget the look on his face last night when I asked if he was coming.
Gia was already dead to the world by the time we slipped in on either side of her, and I think we were both a little relieved. Something is happening that I’m not sure any of us are fucking ready for. Lyot’s still as wary as a skittish colt, even after threading his hand in my hair like he meant it. I’m full of half-formed cravings and conflicting need, and still tethered to fucking Celeste on top of it all. Gia thinks she knows what she wants, andgod,am I dying to test the limits of those desires, but who knows what her demons will do if she’s ever actually happy.
Currently, our little monster lies peacefully between us, rendered harmless by sleep. She’s tucked against the curve of Lyot’s body, facing me, and she looks like a ravaged Aphrodite, pale and perfect, her stage makeup from last night a smoky ruin around her eyes.
