Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 80643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
“Whatever you’re going to say, you can just say it,” I tell him gently, trying to act as calm as possible.
He nods, his brow furrowing. “How safe is Onyx House?”
I blink at him.
Not what I was expecting.
“Pretty safe,” I tell him. “Especially after last fall, Hunter demanded that we upgrade some of our locks on the doors and stuff. But I honestly don’t know much about it.”
“Maybe I can talk with Hunter,” Torin says.
He strides through my room and swings open the door to the hallway, stepping across the hall completely naked.
He comes back a minute later cleaned off from the bathroom. He grabs his sweatpants, tugging them on, still lost in thought.
“Is everything all right?” I ask.
“We need to talk to Roman again, too,” Torin says.
He’s pacing back and forth in my room now.
It feels like I’m witnessing some sort of rare, exotic bird that just happens to be in my room.
In the glow of my nightstand lamp, his abs are highlighted in shifting light and shadow as he paces, and I’m able to stare at him longer than I usually would let myself.
“Roman’s taking care of it. I promise,” I tell Torin. “I know he doesn’t really tend to share details about what he’s doing, but you can stop stressing about it, okay?”
“Not happening,” Torin says, his eyes finally landing on mine. “Your life is on the line. I’m not leaving it in the hands of anybody fucking else.”
“Bro, it’s Friday night. Everybody’s still out on the back porch, probably still playing poker. You can chill for one night.”
“Not everyone is out there,” he corrects me. “Remember? Where the fuck was Roman going, alone, past midnight?”
I exhale, leaning back on the mattress. “Roman goes places at night all of the time.”
“I don’t trust him.”
“Well I fucking do,” I say, raising my eyebrows.
Torin’s eyes are intense as he holds my gaze, pausing for a beat.
“Okay. I’m not leaving this room tonight.”
“Torin,” I protest. “I need sleep.”
“So sleep. Never said you couldn’t.”
He grabs the chair in front of my desk and pulls it out, sitting down and leaning back, cradling the back of his head in his hands.
We’re silent for a while.
The more time that passes, Torin seems to relax minute by minute, like he’s finally accepting the fact that we’re not in imminent danger right now, at least.
He eventually swings the chair around and idly starts messing with the stuff on top of my desk, grabbing objects and picking them up like he’s inspecting things at a museum.
He picks up one of my old collector Polaroid cameras, turning it around in his hands.
“Does this have film in it?”
“Always.”
He picks it up and looks through the viewfinder at me.
A moment later, he pushes the button and the flash goes off, a picture sliding out of the front of the camera.
He grabs it out and starts shaking it in the air.
“Don’t do that,” I tell him.
He looks at me like I’m causing him physical pain. “You’re supposed to shake them while they develop.”
“That’s a myth, asshole.”
“No fucking shot.”
“Give me that.” I reach over and try to grab it from his fingers and he pulls it back just enough that I can’t. I exhale and give up.
He shakes the picture even more.
“What’s going to happen?” he says, a teasing tone in his voice. “You think I’m going to hand you this picture and it’s going to be completely wrecked because I shook it?”
“Hate you,” I tell him, but I just shake my head.
He sets it down and starts pulling out various books from the shelves above my desk in the meantime.
“The Barista’s Bible,” he says, leafing through the pages. “This is, like, 400 pages about coffee?”
“I thought it was too short.”
“Have you ever even been a barista?”
“No. I’ve never worked a regular job. I just like coffee.”
“Never? Not even an ice cream shop summer gig, or shelving books at a library, or a lemonade stand as a kid?”
“When I was seven, Dad said kids’ lemonade stands aren’t profitable enough, and turned it into a lesson on margins.”
Torin nods. “Sounds like your father.”
I brace myself for the onslaught of laughter or judgement or even just an eye roll, but it doesn’t come.
Instead he just looks at a few more books, and then a couple of minutes later he gets up and hands me the Polaroid.
“Here. Shaken, not stirred.”
I look over the photo and I barely recognize the person I see. I’m shirtless in my navy blue pants, looking up at the camera with…
Affection.
Unmistakably.
I hadn’t even realized I’d been smiling when he took it, but it’s there, written all over my face. My hair’s still all messy from when he fucked me, which I can’t believe is a thing that actually happened.
I put the picture down on the nightstand.
“Talk to me,” he says softly.
“I’m…”
“What are you thinking?”