"Why are you so prickly, man?" He actually folds those massive arms over his chest and plants his feet apart. "I wanna help."
"With what? I don't need your help. What I want is to head back to my room, and you're in the fucking way."
"Hey now." He takes a step toward me, and I let go of my plate to better defend myself, bending my knees and raising my fists.
He makes a wild grab at my plate and rescues it, along with the food.
"Damn." He huffs and shakes his head, staring at the dish and then me with eyes round as saucers. "Fuck, dude. What the hell's wrong with you?"
A whole lot is wrong with me. Where to start? "Fuck off."
He places the dish on the counter and steps away, hands raised. "Okay. Fine. If you wanna talk, you know where to find me."
My pulse is so loud in my ears I can barely hear him, and my chest is so tight I can't breathe. I grab my plate, put an arm around it protectively, even though consciously I know Gage won't try to take it from me-but you never know, right?-and walk out of the kitchen on shaky legs.
Appetite gone, I carry my sandwich into my room, close and lock the door and lean back against it.
Fucking hell. I need … something. Probably painkillers, a mug of extra-strong coffee and a run around the block-but that's not it.
Embers. That's who I need.
No, dammit. I thump my fist back against the door. I don't need a person. Not that. I'm okay on my own.
The images from the nightmare rush back as the stench of my sour sweat clinging to my sheets hits me. They stink of fear, just like my skin.
Staggering to my bed, I sink on the mattress, plonk the plate down by my side and struggle to push down the fucked up mess that's inside my head-the ugly jagged tangle of emotions, the sharp sting of memories I'd hoped I buried, the ever-present restlessness and tension.
Who is the guy in my dream? My uncle, a faint memory insists, but I don't trust it. Can't remember living with an uncle. Can't remember much from my childhood.
The past can't touch me. I'm fine. I don't need anyone.
But even as I force myself to eat, as I pull on my sweats and go out for a jog, as I pound the sidewalk with my running shoes and see the run rise, all I can see is her face, and all I feel is the desperate urge to touch her. Smell her. Hear her voice. I don't know how to battle against this need.
I don't know if I can.
Chapter Seven
Amber
It's early morning. No idea what woke me other than another string of dreams that turned up the heat until I had to throw the covers off me.
Morning porn, brought to you by a certain sexy hunk called Jesse Lee. Stay tuned for the next episode.
Good God.
After I woke up to find my hand between my legs for the third time in a row, a pulse deep inside my belly and a pair of green-blue eyes haunting me, I decided enough was enough.
I'm not in lust with Jesse. No way. The boy's trouble. For chrissakes, he's a manwhore who has no problem flaunting it. No regrets there, obviously, and no thoughts of ever stopping.
And that shouldn't be my problem, in any case. With his tattoos and attitude, he's exactly the kind of guy who smoked pot and bullied kids at school. In other words, exactly the kind of guy I should be running away from.
A shudder goes through me.
The apartment is quiet as I pad into the kitchen and start the coffee maker going. Kayla is probably still snoring in her bed, as any sensible person would do on a summer morning. She's a college student, and college students are like vampires when on vacation. They are dead in the early morning hours, and their curtains are drawn shut to stop the sun from disturbing them, while they spend their nights partying and dancing.
Not that it's any different the rest of the year. I should know. Jeez, I'm a college student, too. I tend to forget that.
Only now I don't know what to do with my life. Which way to choose. What future I want.
Maybe coffee will help with the brain waves. Has to.
I'm pouring myself a steaming mug when the doorbell rings. A glance at the clock mounted on the wall lets me know it's seven thirty. Who on earth can that be?
A thought hits me as I cross the living room, but that's crazy. Nah. Can't be. I mean, why would he come? Lured by my dreams of him?
Get a grip, Amber.
Then I look through the peephole, and it's déjà vu all over again. Reality lurches as my dreams merge with the image of the tall, muscled guy waiting outside, bright eyes shifting between the door and the world beyond. He's dressed in jogging gear, in a washed-out black hoodie and stretchy jogging pants that mold to the thick muscles of his thighs and calves.
My whole body flushes, my nipples harden and the ache between my legs returns.
God. If looking at him through the peephole does this to me, what would it be like to touch his strong chest, his face, kiss those lush lips, taste his smoky, masculine flavor?
And there I go again, wanting a guy I shouldn't. I may not be a good judge of people, but this case is clear-cut: Jesse isn't who I need.
For a moment I consider pretending I'm not here. I could walk away quietly. No harm, no foul.
Before I step away, though, he turns his gaze to me, as if he's looking straight at me. As if he knows I'm there. His gaze is sad, his pretty mouth downturned. He seems so miserable I don't have the heart to go through with my plan.
Cursing myself six ways to Sunday for being an idiot, I open the door and face him.
"Good morning," I say, repeating to myself that I should avoid pet names and anything ambiguous he could use to tease me. "Is everything okay?"
The long slide of his eyes over my neck and breasts quickens my breath and leaves a trail of heat on my skin.
"Good morning, sweets," he drawls and braces one arm on the doorframe, leaning in. "Well, now it is a good morning indeed."
Looks like it doesn't matter what I say. With this man everything is an innuendo waiting to happen.
Then again, no wonder he's staring at my breasts. My nipples are stiff and aching, standing to attention, poking through the thin fabric of my T-shirt.
Hurriedly I fold my arms over my chest to hide them. "It was a good morning until you showed up," I grumble.
"You wound me to the heart." He presses a hand to his chest and flashes me a lopsided grin, so sexy my brain short-circuits.
"Do I?" I whisper, breathless. Why the heck am I breathless?
His gaze is dark and hot, the length of his muscular body within touching distance, and his scent snags me and draws me in-musk and cinnamon and sweaty boy. He's so close I can see the ring of blue around the green starburst surrounding the pupils of his eyes, the fine lines at their corners deepening with his grin, and a thin, jagged scar, white with time, running from one dark brow to his hairline.
When did he get so close? Or was it me?
Maybe that's why I can't breathe properly anymore. I force myself to take a step back and look away.
"So what are you doing here today?" I clear my throat, my voice somehow thick. "Anything else you lost during the party?"
"Just the one." Out of the corner of my eye I see him lean on the doorjamb, his grin fading. "I don't suppose you found it?"
"The leather band?" I shake my head. "I looked. Maybe it wasn't here you lost it. Maybe at another girl's apartment? I know. How about that blonde's house?"
"What the … " He huffs, a breath of a sound, and rubs his forehead. "I've never been to her place. I don't know her. Can't even recall her name."
"Veronica, I believe it was."
"Then you know more than me."
"You're a," I swallow, looking for a non-ambiguous word, "a douche."
He doesn't deny it, only snorts softly. "May I come in?"
"What for?"
"To look for my leather band."
"No way. I'll let you know if I find it, but honestly, I don't think it's here."
A pause, and despite myself I glance his way. His eyes are strangely blank. "You won't let me in?"
"Nope." In fact, I'm going to grab my coffee and go hide in my room. "Got stuff to do."
"Really? I could help you."
"You can't."
"Boy." He chuckles. "How do you know? What will you be doing, playing with yourself? 'Cuz if I can't help you, then at least I wouldn't mind watching."
I choke on my spit. "Screw you."
He shrugs. "If it gets you off … "
"You're unbearable."
"Yeah." There's a note of regret in his voice, a bright, golden chime of sorrow, then he taps a rhythm on the doorframe with his fingers while picking with his other hand at a hole in his hoodie. "I'd better get going then."
Those remarkable eyes shift, and the regret I heard in his voice echoes in their depths, a flash of bleakness.
Crap. I shouldn't. Not with the way he makes my body react and my heart sting. Not with the way he teases me. He's like salt in my wounds, the last thing I need.
I really shouldn't.
"I have fresh coffee," I say. "Get in."