“So, what, you just kick him out?”
Rafe glares. “I don’t have a choice!”
“But would his dad even have to know?”
“That’s not how it works, Colin. YA serves a lot of other youth. We can’t risk it.”
“But what if—”
“Look.” His voice is tight with anger. He’s definitely done with this conversation. “It sucks. I know it does. But that’s just how it is.”
“I guess it’s just one more year,” I offer.
“What?”
“One more year. Until Anders can move out and then his dad won’t have control over him anymore.”
Rafe looks at me sharply. “Fathers can have control over you at any age, don’t you think?”
RAFE RUNS until he nearly exhausts himself, keeping up with me for the first five miles and then only dropping back a few blocks. Even though it’s a chilly day, we’re both soaked with sweat by the time we collapse on my porch.
“Goddamn, you’re fast,” Rafe mutters, like he always does. He turns to me and his gaze is intense, his cheeks flushed. “Take a shower with me?” he asks, running a hand through my sweaty hair. We’ve never done that.
I nod and Rafe pulls me up, our legs shaky.
Rafe’s presence makes my small bathroom feel even smaller as we peel off our sweaty clothes. Rafe steps under the hot water and reaches for me, finally relaxing a little when he pulls me against him. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to this—the feel of him against me, around me. It’s overwhelming and I shut my eyes against the overstimulation and concentrate on the water.
Rafe’s hands are gentle, but I can practically feel the energy vibrating off him, and when I look up at him, he’s looking right at me. I smile, self-conscious, but Rafe uses his thumb like an eraser to scrub the smile away and kisses me as the water pounds down around us. After a minute, though, he just holds me to him, arms tight around me, clearly still upset.
Rafe sighs and washes his hair with the bar of soap. I really should get some shampoo for him.
He strokes a soapy hand up and down my spine, but his hand lingers on my lower back and I tense automatically, realizing that he’s probably seeing my tattoo in the light for the first time. Not an accident on my part.
“Can I look?”
He says it like it’s nothing, but I’m so immediately furious it makes my head spin.
Rafe kneels down behind me. He holds my hip and traces a finger over the tattoo, and I struggle to hold still.
“Have to say, you don’t really seem the butterfly type,” he says.
I spin away, my temples pulsing. I hate the fucking thing. I’ve hated it for years. I was drunk when I had it done—hell, they should never have let me get tattooed, but it was a piece of shit hole in the wall and they didn’t give a crap that I’d stumbled in off the street reeking of liquor and clearly angry and upset.
“Fuck off,” I say.
“Hey.” Rafe’s tone is sharp. “What’s the problem?”
Shit. It’s not even him I’m pissed at. It’s Daniel, who called the other day and made it clear he knew about the tattoo. It’s Ginger, Daniel’s big-mouthed friend. I went to her to try and have it covered up and she clearly told him all about it. Shouldn’t there be some kind of client confidentiality or something? I only went to her because she was the only female tattoo artist I knew of and I sure as hell wasn’t going to show some dude that I had a butterfly tattoo. Fuck her. And I’d gone because I didn’t really want Rafe to see it. It had never come up before.
I’d been under a car at work the other day when I heard Sam get on the phone and say, “Daniel?” He chatted for a minute about Liza and I tuned him out. Daniel only ever called the shop if he was about to break some news, like that he was leaving. Maybe he was calling to say his fancy job didn’t work out and he’s moving back. Or maybe he wanted to borrow money from Pop. Pop got on the phone and, after a few minutes asked Daniel what he needed, then passed the phone to me.
I raised my eyebrows at Pop, but he shrugged and tossed me the cordless, an old, paint-spattered plastic thing that was heavy enough to do damage if I didn’t catch it.
“Brian?” Daniel asked, and I was immediately irritated. Clearly he wanted to ask Brian something and Pop handed the phone to me instead. I spun around to ask Pop, but he’d gone inside.
“No, it’s me. What’s going on?”
“Hey, Colin,” he said, sounding anxious. “How’s it going?”
I hated that. Daniel always sounded nervous around me, and I didn’t do anything. It was like he was holding his breath, just waiting for me to fuck up. Prick.