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Getting It Twisted (Unforgivable Needs #1) 4. Chapter 4 22%
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4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Daniel

The cloying, greasy smell from Sidney’s Diner drifts by, mixed with the bitter detergent from the cleaning solution I’m spraying all over the wall.

The irony of removing graffiti that, six years ago, I might have been the culprit of myself never fails to amuse me.

And by “amuse,” I mean “depress.”

Nathan and I used to have a blast trying out all these different techniques and colors. We rode around like maniacs on our bikes, scouting for potential targets. Interstate tunnels. Bus stops. The back of the school. I always got way too into it, perfecting my art in ridiculous detail, while Nathan smoked a cigarette and tapped his feet, waiting impatiently for me to finish.

All that lies far behind me now. It wouldn’t be much fun to do it without him anyway.

Once I’ve polished the wall the best I can, I take my goggles off and assess my work. Only ghosts of what used to be sprawling graffiti remain. The sun and the elements will take care of the rest.

A car door slams shut behind me. I turn to the parking lot, where a familiar red Ford Mustang catches my eye. The driver emerges from the seat, dressed all in black.

No . . . No, no, no. Shit. All weekend, part of me hoped meeting Nathan on the patio was a figment of my drunken mind, but this proves otherwise.

He’s here. He’s really here.

He saunters toward me in his confident, languid gait, hands in the pockets of his unbuttoned leather jacket. Underneath is a tight, semitransparent shirt. When the sunlight hits right, I spot a glimpse of his nipples beneath the fabric.

Goddamn, he’s hot, and he knows it. Fuck him.

No, don’t fuck him. Kill him. Yeah, that’s right. I’d sooner kill him than let him kick me back into the hole I’ve just managed to crawl out of. I’m supposed to get over him, for fuck’s sake. Him being here sure puts a wrench in that plan.

“Sexy getup you’ve got there,” he says, nodding at my bright-yellow coveralls.

“Gonna stalk me at work too?”

He tilts his head and gives a lazy smile. “Who said anything about stalking? I’m just exploring the area. Reliving lost memories and all that.”

“Don’t lie.”

“Okay, fine. I was gonna see if the burgers at this place are as greasy as I remember.”

“They’re worse.”

“I’ll see about that.” He turns and walks toward the entrance of Sidney’s.

Wait, he’s leaving? And why does that feel so wrong all of a sudden?

“Hey!” I call after him. “If you think you can just show up here and pull the rug out from under me, you’re wrong. I have a life here now.”

He turns around and crosses his arms. “A life? Now, let’s be honest.”

“I have friends. Other friends.”

“Is that right?” He sways on his feet, gravel crunching under the soles of his combat boots. “Well, that’s a shame. Since I’m here and all, I thought we could reconnect.”

“Reconnect?” I scoff. “And do what exactly? Deal weed and beer to high school kids?” It’s hardly the most out-there thing we did together, but it’s the first that pops into my mind.

“Nah, man. Nothing like that.” He grins, wide and bright. “Unless you’re real strapped for cash.”

I fight to keep in a snort of laughter, and a cough comes out instead. “Well, I’m not. So I don’t need you.”

“Is that so, Daniel? You don’t need me?” Eyebrows raised, he takes a step forward and gives me a slow once-over, gaze sliding up and down my body. “Admit it—you want me. You want me back.”

Wait, what does he mean by that? You want me back . . . Does he mean as a friend, or . . .

Before I have time to recoil, he reaches out a hand and squeezes my bicep. “These are new.” He proceeds to ruffle my shortly cut hair. “This too.”

I push his hand off. “It’s been five years. You thought I wouldn’t have changed?”

“No.” A shadow passes over his face as he adds, “I’ve changed too.”

“And how exactly have you changed?”

In many ways, he seems the same as he’s always been. His gaze is just as piercing. His smell is the same, as is his small, straight nose and his delicate, pretty-boy features. How can a person so beautiful be such an asshole? But now that he mentions it, something is different. There are dark circles under his eyes I do not recall. His eyes are more guarded, his mouth more downturned. And of course . . .

“ Your hair is different too.”

He grins and pushes a hand through his sweeping black curls. “Got sick of the dye jobs. Hey,” he adds, jerking his head in the vague direction of my house, “I’m coming over later. That all right?”

My thoughts screech to a halt. “What? No. It’s not all right.”

“Why? You need some excitement in your li—”

“Shut up.” Here he goes again, thinking he knows so much about me and my life—what I think, how I feel. I guess some shit never changes. Another piece of the puzzle clicks into place: how fucking annoying he used to be.

“No wonder you’re feeling bad, babe, you were pretty drunk last night. Don’t worry, I’ll get you out of that gloomy mood.” His hand reaches out for me again, but I shove it away and grab a fistful of his shirt. Reversing our positions, I slam him into the wall.

“ Don’t . Stay the fuck away from me.”

I stand at least four inches taller than his five foot nine, and my bulkier build holds a significant advantage over his small-boned, leanly muscled frame. I could seriously hurt him if I wanted to. Smash his pretty-boy face in until he’s not so pretty anymore.

I bet he’d still look pretty with a mouth full of blood though. And I bet he’d probably like it, twisted as he is. One time in senior year, two jocks pressed him up against the school lockers with a knife to his throat. I remember his wicked smile as clear as day, and once I’d ripped the guys away from him, I didn’t fail to notice the bulge in his jeans.

“Oh,” he says, in a tone that sounds almost bored. “This again?”

“Back off, or you’ll regret it. I’m serious.”

His eyes flick to my hand, bunched up in his shirt, then to my face, and his expression darkens. “Either way you cut it, Daniel, I’m back, and you’re just gonna have to deal with it.”

“I don’t have to deal with anything. And you need to stay away from me.”

“Fine.” He pushes my hand off, and I let him, backing away from him as if his skin burned me.

What the hell did I just do? I’m working, for God’s sake. I can’t go around pushing people up against the wall I just cleaned.

Nathan walks toward Sidney’s and sends a glance over his shoulder. “Once you’ve calmed down, you know where to find me.”

I glare after him. So he’s here. He’s really back.

The boy I waited for. The boy I longed for. The boy I gave up on.

The man I hate.

He dares to come back now, after five years? It’s too late, can’t he see that? What’s broken between us can’t be fixed. He’s a fucking idiot if he thinks otherwise.

I should kill him. I should choke him out with my bare hands and torch his body until only charred bones remain, and it still wouldn’t compare to the pain he’s caused me.

He may be coming for my heart, but I’ll come for his throat.

Later that day, when I’m home sharing dinner with April and George, I say it. It just slips out of me.

“Nathan is here.”

They stop their conversation, and George turns to me. “Come again?”

“Nathan is here. In town.”

“Nathan?” George splutters, rice flying over the table. “Nathan Antler? When? Where?”

“He was here last night, at the party.”

April frowns. “I don’t remember a Nathan.”

“He came by today too at work.”

“Wait a minute, so you talked to him?” George asks. “What did he say?”

April taps her well-manicured nails against the table. “You gotta fill me in, guys. Who’s Nathan?”

“He’s my ex . . . best friend.” All of a sudden, this conversation feels like a mistake.

She raises an eyebrow. “Ex-best-friend?”

“We had a falling-out, and he moved out of town.”

“Yeah,” George says. “And you still haven’t told me what all that was about. Dude left town like a hit-and-run.” When I don’t reply, he holds up a hand. “Fine, fine. But if you want our advice, I’m just saying . . .”

I shake my head. “Why he left doesn’t matter. What matters is he’s back.”

“Sure he wasn’t more than a friend?” April asks, fluttering her eyelashes at me.

George squirms in the chair, looking deeply uncomfortable, and my silence says it all.

April gasps. “So he was! He’s your . . . ex?”

“Not . . . exactly.”

George scowls, as if the memories are just as bitter for him as they are for me. “ You were head over heels for him though.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Oh, please. You lit up like a lighthouse whenever he was around. And whenever he wasn’t, like on our family dinners . . .”

“. . . I was bored as all hell. I remember.” I roll my eyes, but I’m unable to help the curve of my lips as I recall the way Nathan used to occupy my mind. The uncomplicated, childish fun we had together. The way he used to make me laugh so hard I didn’t even have to smoke a bowl to feel high. During those precious years, it was me and him against the rest of the world. Against all those people who didn’t understand us. Who didn’t love us. Who didn’t want us. He slung his arm around my shoulders and said, “Fuck ’em, you’re with me now,” and everyone and everything else paled in comparison to what we had.

But that was a long time ago now. He might act like things haven’t changed between us, but they have. How could they not? He hurt me. He left me. Nothing can erase the last five years, no matter what he says or does.

“More than bored,” George says. “You looked as if you wanted to crawl out of your own skin. As if you wanted to leave the shell of you behind, float up into the sky, and go join souls with him instead.” He makes a wavy gesture with his hand in the air.

“It’s pretty common, you know,” April says. “I used to have a crush on my girlfriend in high school.”

George gawks at her. “You did?”

“Yeah.” She smiles and looks away for a moment, lost in memory. “Anyway, Daniel, what did he say to you?”

“He said he wants to ‘reconnect.’” I say the last word with air quotes, mimicking Nathan’s casual drawl.

“In that case, what’s the issue? If he wants to be your friend again, why not try it? You’re both older now. More mature. Maybe he made a mistake when he left. Maybe he regrets it and wants to make it up to you.”

“That’s . . . not what he said,” I mutter, recalling our conversation outside Sidney’s. The self-confidence in his tone . . . So familiar. So infuriating.

Admit it—you want me. You want me back.

Nothing about the mishaps of our past. No remorse for how he broke my heart, abandoned me, and sent me into a depressive spiral I still haven’t fucking recovered from.

“You weren’t there, honey,” George tells April. “The issue is he’s a raging, narcissistic asshole. Did I tell you he broke my nose?” He points to the bump on his nose bridge.

“Unprovoked?” April asks.

I hide a smile with the back of my hand. “No, it definitely wasn’t unprovoked.”

“Oh, come on! He was totally off base with that shit.”

“He beat you at pool, and you accused him of cheating.”

“And you stepped in to defend him as per fucking usual,” George says, rolling his eyes.

“And you said something about how he should stop ‘trying to corrupt me’ and how he ‘doesn’t own me.’”

“Then he just did it. Bam! Fist to my face. He doesn’t look like it, but the guy can pack a punch.”

“Well, you kind of had it coming, honey,” April says dryly.

“And then he had the gall to finish off with saying, ‘Back off, Daniel’s mine.’ Anyway, that’s my point, the guy’s a jerk. Remember how you couldn’t have girlfriends in high school?”

“That’s not true,” I say.

“Oh yeah? Are you saying he didn’t get all jealous and passive-aggressive? You saying he didn’t hate all the chicks you ever tried to date?”

“I’m saying you’re exaggerating.”

“You have to admit the dude’s a red flag.”

“I fucking know that, okay?”

“Do you? Then why did you ask for our advice?”

“I didn’t, but you’re giving it to me anyway.”

“Not to mention, he’s a criminal, and he made you into one.” George jabs his fork at me. “A bad seed is what he is.”

My mouth tilts in a bitter smile. “You sound like my mom. And Wayne.”

“Well, maybe my dad’s right about a thing or two. He did arrest him, remember?”

“Yeah. For shoplifting a Milky Way.”

“It was more than that.”

“I was there, and it wasn’t.” The memory of my uncle wrestling Nathan to the ground outside the local supermarket might as well be burned onto my retinas, with how easy it comes to me.

The one time Nathan and I were ever caught shoplifting, my uncle happened to stop by on patrol. He ran Nathan down, tackled him to the ground with a knee to the back, and handcuffed him. Nathan’s murderous glare and scrubbed-raw cheek still make me see red. Wayne conveniently ignored the fact that I had nicked stuff from the store too. But no, of course he couldn’t put his nephew under arrest. Nathan Antler, however, the kid from Wayward Road? Yeah, with him, he could be as rough as he liked.

When I came home that day, my father slapped me so hard my face whipped to the side. “Don’t think we’ll let that awful boy drag you down with him,” he said, and grounded me for the rest of the summer.

So I ran.

With a backpack full of clothes and fifty bucks in my pocket, I texted Nathan to meet me at the abandoned mansion on Mumphrey Hill. As soon as he saw me, he tossed his cigarette aside and cupped my face, eyes narrowing on my reddened cheek.

“Who did this to you? Your asshole dad? I’ll kill him.”

My face burned with guilt as well as the slap. I’d seen Nathan with far worse injuries, and I’d never once offered to kill his mom.

That summer, we looked out for each other when no one else did. When everyone else either beat us or ignored us. George had his jock friends and his girlfriend at the time. I had no one but Nathan, and he was all I needed.

In the daytime, we rode our bikes into the abandoned shell of an empty pool and sprayed the marble walls with graffiti. At night, we huddled up and talked until we fell asleep. We lived on a diet of candy bars and whipped cream straight from the can. Every day was an adventure, and for a golden blip of time, we were inseparable. Estranged from the world, from everything and everyone but ourselves.

“Dad told me he stole a bottle of Scotch,” George says.

“Of course he would tell you that.”

His shoulders stiffen, and his voice goes dangerously low. “Are you saying my dad’s a crooked cop?”

April waves a hand. “Come on, guys, we’re getting nowhere. How about this: We all say our opinion on the matter, but ultimately, it’s up to Daniel to decide what he wants to do.”

I shrug in agreement, and George crosses his arms.

“Fine.”

“I say at least hear him out,” April suggests. “If he hasn’t got anything of value to tell you, at least you won’t keep wondering about it.”

George shakes his head. “I say no. No way. That guy’s a jerk, Daniel. You’ll regret getting involved with him again, even if it’s just as friends. Just ignore him and let him slink back to whatever dark corners of the world he came from.”

My work schedule turns out to be packed for the next few days, and I welcome the distraction. After work, I meet up with George at the gym and work out. I come home, shower, eat dinner, and go to sleep. Rinse and repeat.

Every day, I expect Nathan to pop my bubble of monotony and follow through on his threat to visit my home. But to my surprise, he never does. I did warn him to stay away, but if my memory serves me right, he won’t let that stop him.

With every passing day, my frustration builds. What the hell is he up to? Why doesn’t he come seek me out? He sure held no qualms about visiting my house a few days ago. Has he lost interest in me already?

Even though I don’t see a single glimpse of him, I can’t focus on shit while he’s in town. I can’t draw; I can’t read. All I can do is kill myself at the gym and run until I feel sick, and even that doesn’t help for long.

The nights are the worst. When sleep refuses to come, I roll over and flick my light back on, and for the hundredth time, I shift through the photos I got from my mom’s house. And I remember my own feelings at the time.

The way my stomach flipped every time he smiled at me. The heat on my cheeks, the uncomfortable, prickly feelings of dread and hope. And I remember how he was utterly oblivious to my messed-up infatuation with him. Or, as I now suspect, he only acted oblivious. He fucked other guys with abandon, but he always came back to me. Because we were friends, and he didn’t fuck his friends; he fucked mean guys who treated him like garbage.

On more than one occasion, a guy pushed him into the lockers on the way to class, and when I sent Nathan a questioning look, he shrugged and said, “He’s just pissed I made him come harder than his boring-ass girlfriend.”

George is right; I’m better off without him, and I should ignore him until he inevitably skips town again. Should be easy enough. Given the choice, I’d rather not see him ever again, especially not unprepared.

And yet my mind keeps circling back to our recent meetings, spinning and spinning until I go nearly mad with it.

Admit it—you want me. You want me back.

Fuck him. Fuck his stupid, pretty, smug fucking face.

When I spot his car in the parking lot of Moe’s Den—a bar run by the local MC club—I don’t know if the feelings that course through me are relief, anger, or a mix of both.

I know exactly what he’s doing in there, and I should leave him to it. Let him find another big, mean guy to fuck his screwed-up little brains out.

Ignoring him is what I should do. But before I know it, I’m pushing open the door and stepping inside. At least it’s my choice to see him this time—my choice to ambush him .

As soon as I enter, dreary neon lighting assaults my eyes, and my nose fills with the pungent smell of old socks, cheap beer, and urine from the restrooms in the back.

I spot him easily by one of the pool tables. He must be the youngest in the crowd by at least a decade. There’s the clacking of pool balls as he shoots his shot, and his obscenely tight shirt with frayed edges hikes up as he bends over, exposing a slice of his smooth pale back.

A biker guy with tattoos and sideburns leans a hand on the pool table edge, speaking low into Nathan’s ear. He’s kind of hot, to be fair—he’s got that Wolverine look going on—but he’s way too old and rugged-looking.

I walk up to them. “Hey.”

Nathan turns around, and immediately I can tell he’s not sober in the least. His eyes are drooping, his movements unfocused and unrefined. The shrewd smile he had on when talking to the biker goes stiff when he sees me.

“Hello, Daniel. Didn’t pitch you for a Moe’s fan.”

“I’m not.”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “Didn’t you tell me to stay away from you?”

“Who’s he?” the biker asks.

“You can piss off now,” Nathan tells him with a dismissive wave.

The biker snorts and sets up another game of pool.

Nathan reaches for a glass of whiskey by a nearby table and downs it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“How many drinks have you had?” I ask.

“Dunno. Haven’t kept count.”

“Did you plan to drive home?”

“Well, I did have other plans.” He points his thumb in the biker’s direction. “But now I guess I have no choice but to drive.”

“You won’t. I’m taking you home, come on.” I jerk my head toward the exit.

For a moment, Nathan just looks at me blankly, suspicion behind the drunken haze of his eyes. Then he sets down the glass. “Lead the way, officer.”

We emerge out of the stuffy, sleazy atmosphere of Moe’s and into the parking lot. Nathan settles in the passenger seat of my car with his arms crossed, pissed I stole his night with that biker, no doubt. My hands clench around the steering wheel at the thought of what he would’ve let that man do to him. I shouldn’t care, but I guess this is yet another thing to throw on the pile of shit that hasn’t changed.

I witnessed it time and time again. Nathan and I would arrive together at parties, but soon enough he’d find some guy to hook up with, and he’d disappear. Thirty minutes later, he’d emerge with ruffled hair, ripped-up clothes, and a satisfied smile on his swollen red lips.

With time, it turned too painful to see him like that. Especially after the unfortunate kiss we shared during that stupid game of spin the bottle.

Senior year of high school, we attended a party at Harper’s house. We sat in a circle with maybe ten of our classmates. Among them was my then-girlfriend, Kayla. And so came Nathan’s turn to spin that godforsaken bottle, and the mouth of it pointed straight at me.

“Kiss, kiss, kiss!” everyone chanted.

Nathan shuffled over to me, completely unbothered. I, on the other hand, felt like my chest was going to explode.

It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine . . . It was just a kiss. To refuse would be even more suspect.

He leaned into me, and I closed my eyes. First a simple press of lips, more like a peck than a kiss. Then he grabbed my cheeks and went in again, deeper this time, his hot tongue probing for entry. I parted my lips and let it plunge inside. He tasted like vodka and the sweetness of the pop we’d chased it with.

My vague awareness of the crowd’s giggles and cheers drowned in the sultry motion of Nathan’s lips against mine—self-assured, indulgent, and with not a small amount of showmanship. Hand on my thigh, he ended up almost in my lap as he kissed me, and kissed me, and kissed me . . .

Too late—or too early—he pulled back. With an embarrassed jolt, I realized my crotch pulsed with heat. I recoiled and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, not quite able to muster up the disgust I knew was expected of me.

Our classmates let out a collective “Ooooh!” while Kayla stared at us with slack-jawed shock.

That kiss changed something between us. Not only between Kayla and me, who were living on borrowed time to begin with, but between me and Nathan. The looks that before had meant nothing were now tension-filled and charged with an energy I couldn’t make sense of. Attraction? On my part, maybe. But Nathan, on the other hand, seemed . . . pissed off.

Our hangouts grew further and further apart. He stopped answering his phone altogether. Stubborn as I was, I stopped contacting him too. Finals were coming up, and I took the chance to catch up on the schoolwork I’d missed, cramming several months’ worth into a few weeks.

Next thing I knew, I heard rumors he’d started hanging out at Joshua Tennyson’s place. Final term meant graduation was coming up, and I—

“Well?”

Nathan’s inquiring voice jars me back to the present. He sways his head toward me, slouching drunkenly in the car seat.

“Are you just gonna sit there, or are we going?”

I shove the key into the ignition, heart pounding and head full of memories I’ve tried hard to suppress.

Wayward Road is as quiet and eerily dark as I remember, with only a few streetlights illuminating the thick pine-tree forest on either side.

Gravel crunches under the wheels as I pull over. Now that we’re here, I should drop Nathan off and be on my way. He’s sober enough to walk on his own. But for whatever reason, I fumble with my phone to light our way through the unkept yard.

Knee-high grass brushes my ankles, and the ground underneath is uneven and muddy from the recent rainfall. The house might have been nice and quaint once upon a time, but now it’s little more than a run-down shack in the middle of nowhere.

Nathan makes no move to unlock the door, and I turn to him expectantly.

“Well?”

“Don’t have a key.”

“Then how’d you get in?”

He shoves his hands in his pockets and rounds the side of the house. “It’s not exactly Fort Knox.”

I scramble to keep up with him and light his way. My flashlight catches a glimmer of broken glass below a naked window.

“Don’t tell me that’s it.”

Before I can stop him, Nathan steps onto an old chopping block and grabs the windowsill.

“Hey!” I reach out for him, but he’s already heaving himself up and into the house. Even sober, this is hardly ideal. How hasn’t he sliced his hands up already?

“It’s fine,” he says. “Come on.”

Left with no other option, I put my phone in my pocket and take leverage on the chopping block to heave myself into the hallway. Nathan’s eyes find me in the dark. He’s grinning.

“Home sweet home.” He opens his arms out wide in an exaggerated gesture.

I fumble for the light switch, but nothing happens.

“There’s no use,” he says. “Bills are late.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You’ve been out here all week without electricity?”

“No water either. There’s a well further into the woods though.”

So he hasn’t changed at all, huh? He’d rather live like this than bother doing stuff he finds troublesome or boring. I try the front door, but there’s no lock to twist. Strange.

“It’s double keyed,” he says. “Grandpa liked to keep Mom and me inside, if you know what I mean.”

I send him a look, but he just shrugs, as if there’s nothing odd about what he said at all. In the kitchen, he flicks his lighter over an array of candles while I lean against the doorway, crossing my arms.

“So where’s the key at?”

He sends me a glance. “Cops have it.”

“And?”

“I haven’t felt like dealing with old Wayne Hastings just yet.”

I scoff. “Really? All this just because you don’t want to confront my uncle?”

“I guess.” He plops into a kitchen chair with his leg up. The chair in question looks like it’ll fall to pieces at any moment, the wood dry and splintered.

I open one of the cupboards and find nothing but a wide assortment of liquor bottles, both empty and full. There’s a weird, pent-up smell to the place, as if both time and air have stood still.

“So you live here with no light or running water and risk sepsis every time you enter the house. How do you even eat?”

“There were some cans in the cupboards when I got here. I’m almost out though.” He folds his knees into his arms, gaze downcast. The arrogant confidence from before is nowhere to be found. Instead, he looks . . . pitiful. Younger than his years. Childlike and crestfallen.

“Why don’t you get some more?”

He shrugs and gives no reply, but it’s not like I don’t already know. It’s not because he hasn’t got any money. Rather, it’s the same reason he doesn’t pay the utility bills. When we were teens, he’d go days living on nothing but candy bars, cigarettes, and the odd burger here and there. I used to sneak leftover dinner to my room just to get some nutrients into him.

He fishes a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and points to the floor, to a patch of darkened wood. “I think that’s the spot. I can almost smell the vomit.”

My stomach turns when I realize what he means. “Where is she now?”

“Burned to cinders.”

“No funeral?”

He flicks the lighter, cursing when all it gives off is sparks. “Why bother? No one gave a shit about her, except for the truckers who fucked her for cash.”

I grimace. “Don’t you think that’s a little cold, even for you? I mean, I get why , but . . .”

His eyes narrow. “ Do you get it though? You didn’t live under the same roof as her. You don’t know what it was like.”

“Yeah, I don’t because you never told me.” The last bit comes out laced with thorns, bringing up memories I’d rather leave alone.

In this house, Nathan grew up to the beat of a crooked drum, with a mother who despised him and fed him scraps. Beat him, neglected him, and God knows what. He can’t be in his right mind to want to live here alone. Not even for one night.

“How long do you plan to stay here, anyway?”

He discards his cigarette and gets up from the chair. “It depends.”

“On what?”

“You.”

My mouth goes dry. Without thinking, I back up a step. “Meaning what?”

He takes a step closer. “You tell me.”

“I thought I told you to stay away.”

“Yeah, but then you robbed me of a fuck. You owe me one.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what I said.”

“You shut your mouth, or I’ll make you shut it.”

“Foreplay. I like it.” His eyes flick to my lips.

No. Nope. No way. Either he’s drunker than I thought, or his self-destructive tendencies have reached a fucking crescendo.

I grip his shirt and push him roughly away from me. “What did I tell you?” My nostrils flare, and I feel like a bull about to charge on a red flag, which is fitting. I ought to rip him apart, slice him with my horns, and stomp him to the ground.

“Fine, fine.” He holds his hands up. “You win. But if you don’t want to fuck me, why did you bring me here?”

“Because I want you to get the hell out. Leave town and go back to where you came from.”

He gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Sure, I would do that, only . . . I have this house, you know.”

“So what are you going to do with it? Sell it?”

“Guess so.”

“No one will give it a second glance in the state it’s in. You know that, right?”

“I suppose.”

“So you’ll fix it up?”

He shrugs again.

“You gonna hire someone or do it yourself?”

“Haven’t decided yet.”

Someone who doesn’t know him might let the subject go and take what he says at face value. But I can see the truth all too clearly; it’s etched into the impassive tilt of his brows and the sullen pout of his lips.

With no one to give him a kick in the ass, he won’t do shit to fix up the house. Not for weeks. Maybe months. He’s going to linger here, smoke weed, lounge around, and do whatever the fuck else, and his presence in town will continue to be a thorn in my side.

Unless I help him.

The key is a no-brainer. If it’s truly at the police station like he says, I’ll ask George to get it from his father. The window and the run-down condition of the place are further problems, but with any luck, I’ll get the place into a sellable state within a few weeks or so. The downside? It’ll put me in close proximity to Nathan. But better a few weeks than an uncertain stretch of time in which I can run into him unprepared. At least like this, I’ll have some modicum of control. God knows I need it.

“Fine,” I say.

“Fine, what?”

“I’ll get you the key. And I’ll help you sort out the house.”

He watches me for a long moment, expression unreadable save for the suspicious crease between his brows. “I don’t remember begging for your help, Daniel. Then again . . . If it means we’ll be spending time together, I suppose I’ll take it.”

“We won’t be fucking, if that’s what you think.”

“No?” His mouth quirks at the corner. “And why not? You enjoyed yourself last time.”

Yeah, right. Last time. We were both too drunk back then, the circumstances all wrong and twisted. And the morning after, when he turned me down without mercy . . . What did you think—that we’re some lovey-dovey couple now?

On the other hand, maybe I should fuck him. Hold him down and take him rough and hard like a punishment, a hand over his mouth. Slap his ass, make him cry. Fuck you for rejecting me and leaving me here. We were supposed to leave together, you arrogant bastard.

But that would be exactly what he wants. And even though I want to hurt him—even though I want to make him hurt like he hurt me—I refuse to give him what he wants.

I straighten my back, emphasizing our height difference. “Stop that.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want you.”

For the first time, he falters, and his forehead creases with confusion. “Yeah, you do.”

“I don’t. I’ve already had you, remember? I don’t do seconds.” The cruel tilt to my voice fills me with both surprise and a strange sense of satisfaction. How about a spoonful of your own medicine? Doesn’t taste so good, does it?

“Okay, whatever.” He pouts, sullen like a child. “We’ll do it your way. No sex. Just friends, like we were.”

I point a finger at him. “Don’t get it twisted. I’m not your friend. I’m not your partner in crime or no-strings fuck buddy. I’m helping you with the house, and then I want you gone. Got it?”

He studies me for a long moment, as if he’s trying to work out a loophole in the words I said. “We’ll see.”

“No, we won’t. I’ll help you so you can leave again. That’s all this is going to be.”

He frowns and looks away, and his silence bothers me more than I like to admit.

“Are you really this pissed off just because I won’t jump into bed with you?”

“I’m not pissed off. I fucking . . . I missed you, okay?”

“What’s wrong?” I ask, letting all the bitterness I feel creep into my tone. “Didn’t enjoy your five years of freedom?” When he gives no reply, I press on, “Go ahead, tell me. What were you up to, during all this time?”

His eyes grow dark, mouth scowling. He looks like the whole world is bearing down on him.

“Nothing good.”

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