Almost as good as sex.
Almost.
I splash some water on my face and walk out and into nobody else than the backstabbing baboon.
“Asshole!” His eyes look hurt and there’s a strange expression on his face. He looks tired with black rings under his eyes, stubble on his chin, and hair more messy than usual. There are cuts and bruises on his face. His knuckles are also covered with fresh wounds. Clearly he was in a fight.
Then I continue out of nervousness, “And you look like shit.” But also extremely fuckable. He gets a faint smile on his face.
“Well, Merry Christmas to you too, angel. And you don’t look much better.” I snort hard.
“Thanks to you. I caught a bug.” He moves closer, stretching out his hand to push my hair back, but I turn my head away.
“Mel, we need to …” Before he can finish his sentence I turn around and run to the toilet and heave out the last bites of pasta.
“How long have you been feeling like this?” he asks; worry notes in his voice.
“Since the night …” I can’t continue that sentence. “It’s the flu.” I get up and wash my hands.
“Come with me.” He takes my arm and leads me to the kitchen. He kicks a chair out and lowers me into it. “This helps for nausea if I have a hangover.” He pours some ginger ale into a glass and hands it to me.
“Are you okay?” He seems concerned enough but I’m still thoroughly pissed at him. And hurt. I have this urge to hurt him back.
“Don’t you dare care now all of a sudden!” I jump up.
“I fucking do care!” His eyes get hazy, and then he gives me that look, the hurtful look and it breaks my heart even more, if possible.
My head spins and my tummy complains as it twirls like a little hurricane, pushing up my esophagus. I swallow hard. Damn, this bug.
“You wanted to talk,” I say, “So talk.” I lick my lips.
I catch those green orbs observing me, ferocity and desire mingle in the depths of them. I become hot and bothered as the sexual tension mounts – the chemistry between us is undeniable.
And what’s worse, the virus seems to make me horny as shit. I have a permanent itch in my lower regions – and itch only he can scratch.
My eyes dart to his crotch. Maybe I can let him help me out – like a goodbye quickie. It is his fault that I’m sick after all, because he’s a lying cheating dick. Or maybe it’s his dick’s fault. Shit. What if it’s some kind of STD and not flu?
“I like where your head is at, but we need to talk first.” Dammit. He and his mind-reading senses.
Date = 25 December
Place = San Francisco (Uncle John’s house)
POV Damion
My brother smacks me on the back. “Go get her, man. I mean, look at you-what have you got to lose?”
He’s right. Without her I’ve got nothing left. When you’ve got nothing, you’ve got nothing left to lose.
“I hope she listens.”
“Yeah, good luck with that. It’s my bullheaded sister you’re talking about.” Jackson gives me encouragement. He’s right.
She is stubborn, but I can be too. If she doesn’t listen, I’ll make her. Because she’s worth it.
“She’s in there,” Enrique nods his head in the direction of the little bathroom beneath the stairs. I stand in front of the door and hear the water running, nervous as a cat in a dog-pound. The door opens and she slams straight into me.
“Asshole!” she hisses, but her blue eyes scanning over me is not filled with hate. I can swear I see some lust in them. She looks nervous. “And you look like shit.” I smile faintly – has she looked in the mirror lately?
“Well, Merry Christmas to you too, angel. And you don’t look much better,” I snort hard.
It’s torture to be mere inches from the only person who you love anomalously, desire despairingly, want perpetually, but also make you hurt immensely, all in the same breath.
“Thanks to you. I caught a bug.” Talk about irony. I’ve hurt the one person I want more than anything in this world, because of a jealous rage I never thought I would feel on a personal level and a deranged bitch with a sick crush.
I step forward and stretch out my hand to push back a strand of hair, but she turns her head away. It almost destroys me as I watch her sour expression.
“Mel, we need to -” She runs and falls to her knees, vomiting into the toilet. I watch her body contract into spasms as she hurls out her stomach contents. What’s wrong with her?
“How long have you been feeling like this?” I’m so fucking worried I can barely think.
“Since the night …” she breaks up … but I can finish the sentence – the night I broke her into pieces. “It’s the flu.” The guilt makes me numb and dazed. I really need to try and make this right.
“Come with me.” I lead her to the kitchen, catatonic with my tail between my legs, and lower her into a chair. I don’t want her to pass out on me until I’ve cleared my shit with her. I grab some ginger ale from the fridge – a little trick mom taught me – said it helps with any queasiness from hangovers to morning sickness. My gut pulls at the thought that gets stuck in my brain. But first things first.
“This helps for nausea if I have a hangover.” I wish it was so easy to cure rueful regret.
“Are you okay?” She smashes me with just one look.
“Don’t you dare care now all of a sudden!” She jumps up. I deserve that. I deserve everything she throws at me. But her words and hurtful broken expression still rip through me like a sharp blade. I blink to dispose the unshed tears in my eyes.
“I fucking do care!” I shout with defensive anger. But I need her to see it. To understand. To listen. To feel.
“You wanted to talk,” she drones. “So talk.”
Talk. Right. But what does one say to fix what I did? Will it make a difference?
I watched the footage from the security cameras I installed after the whole naked-drugged-girl-in-my-house setup.