His lips part, open with the force of his words and just inches away from mine. It’s the closest we’ve been since before. It’s definitely the closest we’ve been, and every single inch of my body is reminding me of that very quickly. Those lips; Jesus, would those be easy to kiss. That mouth would be so easy to melt into, and this whole thing would be so easy to slip back into.
Except we can’t; I know that, and I know he knows that.
I drag my eyes away from his, staring at the wall over his shoulder. I’m putting my cold front back up and hoping to God that it covers the quiver in my voice or the thundering of my pulse; “Whatever, we're wasting time.”
I can hear him sigh as he backs away from me, the heat of the moment drifting away like smoke as he takes a step back from me; “Fine, agreed; which is why I’m going after him.”
I shake my head; “Jesus, you are so fucking arrogant. Do you not listen at all, or just choose not to?”
Our eyes meet across the smoking wreckage of whatever was lying between us as silence descends on the hallway.
“They're going to look for us soon,” He says quietly, his voice edged and his eyes never leaving mine as he nods towards the hospital room.
“So get back in there.”
“Don’t do anything stupid, Peyton.”
“Too late.” It’s a cheap, low shot, but I don’t care. I just need him away from me, and now.
Bryce mutters under his breath, shaking his head and looking back towards the room where his other brother lies recovering; where our family is struggling to hold on to one another even as I walk away from it all.
“Look, tonight, at my place. We'll all be there and we'll plan this thing.” He looks back at me; “Come to that.”
“Oh, nice olive branch.”
“Nice fucking attitude.”
I glare at him; “Fine, I’ll come.”
He turns and starts to walk towards the room before he stops and turns back over his shoulder; “You know, this doesn’t have to be like this; this whole thing between you and m-”
“There is no ‘you and me’, Bryce. I think I made that-” I stop and snort out a humorless laugh; “I think that’s been made perfectly clear by now.”
4
Bryce
“Jesus, how about some furniture, Bryce.” Reagan arches her brow as she steps out of the elevator into my penthouse. My very bare, very totally empty luxury New York City penthouse apartment.
“Yeah, seriously.” Peyton says, avoiding my eyes as she steps out after Reagan. I glare at her, even if she’s avoiding looking at me. She didn't have a problem with the lack of furniture before.
I bought the place for the view of Central Park; for trees. Honestly, with what we suddenly became worth after taking over William’s company, cost wasn’t really a concern at all. I’d have paid triple for it just for that view of something that resembled nature. Living here in this city is just…fuck, it’s a trapping feeling. It’s a cage of metal and stone and glass that I’m constantly stuck inside of, and for a guy who grew up with the open road, the wind in his face and the feel of a motor purring under his seat, it can be a Goddamn nightmare. The view and the trees remind me of home; the good parts at least.
So what, I've got a bed, a few stools, a table full of tools, and a partially rebuilt 69' Indian motorcycle sitting on a grease cloth in the corner I’ve been messing with for a few months. What the fuck else do I need?
Peyton breezes right past me after her little comment, and I can feel my temper flare inside. I’m still bristling after running into her; still buzzing like I’ve just gotten a shock of something through me. It’s like this every fucking time after talking to her. For a fucking year. Every single Goddamn day working with her, seeing her, and knowing it’s done.
It’s like a static charge; a lingering, nagging, tingling feeling. It’s an itch you can’t scratch, a cut inside your mouth you can’t stop tonguing; a hunger you can’t satiate. It was there, once. However fucking stupid it was, however illicit and wrong the whole thing was, it was there, briefly.
And then it was gone, right along with her; sayonara and adios.
The others are already here, standing mostly but also sitting on the three stools around the cluttered table in my living room-turned-bike shop; Javier, Chelsea, Major Lawson, and Quinn.
“Can I get anyone anything?” I mutter as I walk into the room.
Chelsea looks up at me; “What do you have?”
I can’t help but smirk despite the heaviness of our being here; “Water?”
“Uh, sure.”
“I’ll get it.” Peyton immediately starts to make a beeline for the third cabinet to the left of the kitchen sink where I keep my three or four glasses before I watch her forcibly stop herself short; “Um, where are your glasses?” She says hastily.