Seth (Damage Control #3) Read online

  “Shit, you don’t look so hot,” she whispers. “Let me bring you some water—”

  I reach out blindly, find her arm and grip it. “Gimme a sec. I’ll be okay.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she says, her voice choked, “for all of this. If I’d been more careful—”

  “Not your fault.” I crack an eye open. It’s safe. The ceiling has stopped moving. “It’s been a shitty couple of months, that’s all.”

  “Why?” She doesn’t shake off my hold on her, instead bending and grabbing with her other hand something from the floor.

  A first-aid kid.

  I release her anyway—because what the hell are you doing, Seffers? Don’t be an asshole by taking advantage—and realize I’ve smeared blood on her arm.

  “Fuck.”

  She looks up, dark brows arching in question, and I gesture vaguely at her bloodied arm. She smiles. “It’s okay.”

  The fuck it is.

  “So what do I call you, if I don’t call you Manon?” Man, her eyes are the prettiest forest green with golden flecks and long lashes, and… damn, I shouldn’t be staring into them.

  “Oh, I don’t mind it. You can call me that, if you like.”

  I fucking love her name. Of course I wouldn’t admit it even if she tortured me with a Disney movie.

  She takes my hand, and I flinch a little. Not even sure why. She’s gentle as she dabs ointment on the scrapes. “How’s your leg?”

  I grunt.

  “We should ice it. Let me finish with your hands, and you should undress.”

  “What?” There I go again. Caveman. Not that I’d mind undressing with her.

  “You’re wet, you’ll catch a cold. I’ll give you something dry to wear.”

  Ah… right. “Your boyfriend’s clothes?”

  She narrows those pretty eyes at me. “Okay, you know my name, and you know I have a boyfriend. How?”

  “You’re Cassie’s friend.”

  “Yeah, I am.” Her mouth twists. “And you are?”

  “You don’t remember me? I’m crushed.” I put a hand to my chest melodramatically. “I’m Seth. Told you, I’m a friend of Jesse and Micah. Jesse is…”

  “… the guy Cassie kissed against his will at Asher’s wedding. Almost caused a nasty break up between Jesse and his girlfriend.”

  “Yeah.” I look down as she cleans my other palm. Her hands are small and fine, her skin so much paler than mine and flawless. Smooth like silk.

  She puts everything back in the first-aid kit and puts it down on the carpet, her lashes throwing long shadows on her cheeks. She smells of rain and vanilla.

  “I’m going to change.” She stands up. “I’ll bring you a towel and clothes.”

  I nod and wipe a hand over my mouth as she walks out. Fuck, the thought of her undressing in the next room is driving me crazy. I’m pretty sure what I’ll be dreaming of tonight. It wouldn’t be the first time I wake up with my hand on my dick and images of her naked body flashing in front of my eyes.

  But now I have her scent, the feel of her soft skin, the color of her eyes lodged in my mind. It’s gonna be a mega-porn production.

  Goddamn.

  Chapter Two

  Manon

  Honestly, I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m still in shock. I almost ran over a man. Sure, the visibility was bad, and my mind was on other things.

  Like my meeting with my academic advisor. Like what to do with my life now that my dream has been shattered for one last, final time. What I always wanted to do, to be… It won’t happen.

  Plus, I got a text from Fred letting me know he can’t meet me tonight because he has music practice.

  It just about killed me, for so many reasons. I mean, I should have practice, too—dance practice, which won’t happen, oh God… And at the very least, when I told him I needed to see him he should ask why, right?

  If he really was interested in me. Like he says he is.

  Like I am in him.

  I stumble into my bedroom, kick off my shoes and pull off my wet clothes with angry motions. I needed to talk to him tonight, ask his opinion. Be comforted.

  Irrational, I know. He has to work. And we’re not together. Not really. Not yet. I mean, he asked me out, but we’ve barely started dating. So instead, I’m here with…

  Seth.

  I pull on yoga leggings and a long T-shirt, thinking about what happened. How scared I was when I got out of the car and found him lying there, in the rain. How worried I was when he could barely walk.

  How different he is from Fred. Rugged, where Fred is cute. Bulky where Fred is slender. Dark where Fred is pale and blond. Seth’s all dark hair, dark brows, dark stubble, dark eyes. Black studs and silver bars in his ears. Tanned skin. Big shoulders, huge biceps.

  Frowning, I rummage through my closet for men’s clothes. Not Fred’s, of course. We haven’t even kissed yet, let alone leave clothes at each other’s place. But my dad left some old clothes here when he helped me move in and paint the apartment, and I think…

  Ah, there. Grabbing the old draw-string pants and T-shirt with paint stains on it, and a towel from the bathroom, I hurry back to the living room.

  I stop. He’s sprawled on the sofa, head propped on the backrest, eyes closed. With his broad cheekbones and that strong jaw, the full, soft mouth, he’s sort of… handsome.

  …Nah. Stop the crazy thinking, Manon. He’s just a stranger on your couch, a stranger you almost hit with your car.

  Not handsome. Not at all. Nope.

  No way.

  Shaking my head at myself, I drop the clothes on the sofa, startling him. He jerks away from me and knocks his elbow into the back of the sofa.

  Ow.

  Crap, he really was asleep. He looks tired, and this is all my fault. Guilt is eating away at me. Poor guy.

  “Found some clothes,” I say when he blinks blearily at me and rubs both hands over his eyes. “I hope they fit. They’re my dad’s. He won’t mind.”

  He takes the towel and starts rubbing his hair. I lay out the clothes meanwhile, trying not to look at the way his dark hair is getting all messy and spiky, and…

  “Your dad living around here?”

  “No. Not that far, though. Davenport.” I sense the weight of his questioning gaze, and I force a smile as I look up from straightening the T-shirt as best I can. “My mom is French. She lives in France.”

  Both his dark brows shoot up, and he opens his mouth to say something, but I beat him to it.

  “Let me help you get out of those clothes.”

  His mouth flaps. He snaps it closed, but his eyes go round. “Help me?”

  “So that you don’t have to get up.”

  “I’m…okay. I got this. Really.”

  Wait, is he blushing? Is that color in his cheekbones?

  It’s…cute.

  Oh God.

  “I’ll leave you to it, then, and start some dinner.” Turning around, I head to the kitchen and open the fridge to check what I could cook up. At least, that’s where my thoughts should be at.

  Not on the guy in the other room. Not wondering what his bare chest looks like, what he looks like naked.

  Because the one I want is Fred, and that’s all there is to it.

  ***

  When I walk back inside fifteen minutes later, water for the pasta heating on the stove and the sauce simmering, I fully expect to find him asleep again.

  He’s not.

  He’s fumbling with the belt of his jeans, his sodden T-shirt already off. He’s bare-chested, yes, and that stops me in my tracks—not because his chest, shoulders and arms are thick with muscle and sculpted like a work of art, no, that’d be crazy—but because of the ink covering them.

  A lot of ink. Dark, twisted, tangled—faces and demons and beasts on his chest and shoulders. And a snake, I realize. A snake on one shoulder, fangs dripping, forked tongue lolling.

  The men I’ve known in my life were never covered in tattoos like him – and such scary
ones, too. It’s a little disturbing.

  And fascinating.

  Maybe that’s why it takes me a while to realize he’s struggling to push down his pants and not quite managing. His teeth are gritted, and his face is white.

  Crap, he’s in pain.

  That snaps me out of my slight daze—a daze I have no job being in—and I hurry over to help him.

  “Here.” I kneel on the carpet and start on the ankles. “Let me.”

  He hasn’t even taken off his boots, and really, Manon, if his leg hurts so much, how is he going to do this on his own? I shouldn’t have listened to him when he said he could handle it.

  I take the boots and wet socks off. He’s still trying to push down his jeans, hands shaking. I really don’t like how pale he is.

  “Stop pushing them down like that,” I mutter. “The fabric bunches up and makes it harder to get them off. Let me do it, it will be easier from this end.”

  “Okay.” He lets his hands drop at his sides and puffs out a long breath. I work the sodden fabric over his feet and gently pull. He lifts his pelvis slightly to allow the pants to come off. He’s wearing black boxer briefs underneath, and for some reason my face gets hot at the sight of them.

  And the bulge between his legs. Yeah, not looking at that. At all.

  His legs. Safer place to look. Nicely muscled thighs, which are revealed as the jeans come off, really thick and cut, and…

  A knee brace, the black material digging into the flesh.

  “You said your leg was broken. When did it happen?”

  “Two months ago. Right after Asher’s wedding. Had the cast taken off two weeks ago.”

  Shit. No wonder he has trouble walking. “And the knee brace?”

  He hesitates. “Long story.”

  Huh.

  “Well, broken bones can affect joints, and your knee is swollen. Need to ice it.” I pull his jeans all the way off. “I think I have one in the freezer.”

  He’s hunched over, hands braced on the sofa. Silent.

  Without waiting for an answer, I jump to my feet and rush back to the kitchen. To check the pot, I tell myself. That’s the only reason.

  The water is boiling, so I throw the pasta in, and I turn off the heat under the sauce pan. I take out dishes, silverware, paper napkins and glasses. Can’t remember the last time I had dinner here with someone.

  Have I ever done it? I doubt it. I’ve never been here much, always at practice and rehearsals and—

  I put everything down on the counter and bite my lip, my eyes stinging. Looks like I’ll have much more time to enjoy my apartment. To think about my future. Find something else to busy myself with.

  But how can I? When this is what I wanted all my life to do?

  Clenching my teeth, I grab everything again and march back into the living room, to the dining table, and slam the things down.

  And oh crap, I forgot the compress.

  Back to the kitchen. I find the compress in the depths of the freezer from a time a few months back when I sprained my ankle. Wrapping it up in a clean kitchen towel, I head back, then remember I must have codeine pills in my cupboard, too, and I made a detour at the bathroom to get them.

  Seth is still where I left him, although he’s meanwhile pulled the old T-shirt on, covering his ink.

  He gives me a quizzical look. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. Perfectly fine.” I force a smile and realize he probably shouldn’t wear the pants yet if he’s going to use the cold compress—and that sitting at the dining table probably isn’t the best idea right now. “Here, use this.” I put the wrapped-up compress on top of his knee, and he hisses softly. “I’ll be right back.”

  I drain the pasta, throw it in a bowl, serve the sauce in another and return. He watches me, supporting the compress on his knee with one hand, as I place the food on the low coffee table in front of him, then go grab the rest of the things from the dining table.

  “You didn’t have to cook,” he says quietly, and I can’t read his expression.

  “It’s nothing much. I hope you like pasta with cheese and mushroom sauce.”

  “Oh sure.” His stomach rumbles loudly as I serve the spaghetti onto the plates and ladle the sauce over them. That hint of color rises to his cheeks again, and I catch myself staring.

  Again.

  “Let’s eat, then,” I tell him, and he flashes me a bright smile. “I’m famished.”

  And to be honest, a little bit confused.

  ***

  After a while, I notice he’s not eating all that much. One of the few things I know about guys is that they are like black holes, inhaling every scrap of food on the table, including that on other people’s dishes, so this can’t be normal.

  “Not hungry after all?” I ask when he puts down his fork and leans back.

  “Nah.” He shifts his leg and grimaces. “Not really.”

  “The compress not helping?”

  He shakes his head. “I was on my way to get some ibuprofen when we, uh.” He waves a hand. “Met.”

  Of course, where’s my head? If he’s still in pain, it’s no wonder he has no appetite.

  “Let me get you some painkillers.” I get up to get the pills from the dining table where I left them. “Codeine will help. Ibuprofen won’t do much.”

  “I know,” he bites out.

  “They must have prescribed something stronger for you at the hospital.”

  He shrugs and looks unhappy, that generous mouth turning down at the corners. “I don’t need stronger stuff. No addictive shit. No way.”

  Still, he accepts the pills when I put them in his hand and swallows them down, chasing them with a sip of water. I take away his half-full plate and put it in the fridge. Easy to reheat later on, if he wants it.

  He’s glaring down at his knee when I return. I sit down beside him and put my hand on it.

  He flinches and scoots back, pressing into the sofa. “What?”

  “That brace has to come off. It’s useful when you walk, but when you rest, better remove it.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  “I had some basic first aid training.” And seen a lot of injuries—part and parcel of a dancer’s training. You learn a few things over the years.

  I reach for the brace again, and he says nothing as I undo the straps and ease it down, though he can’t help a grimace. The skin is hot to the touch. I pull the brace off, trying to decide whether it needs a second compress.

  “Listen, Manon…” He shifts on the sofa, not looking at me, and reaches for the dry pants I laid out for him. “I should head back.”

  “You serious? In this rain, with your knee like this?”

  “Then what?”

  “Stay,” I say. I swallow hard, because in my mind it didn’t sound so weird. “I mean, the couch is long enough.”

  “Not sure this is a good idea,” he whispers and rakes a hand through his hair. It’s almost dry now and falls in his eyes, soft and shiny black. He reaches for the brace. “Need to put that back on.”

  No idea why I feel so disappointed. No, it’s just worry. Has to be. I help him put the brace back on and pull on the pants.

  “Need to use the bathroom,” he mumbles, and he ignores my outstretched hand, bracing himself on the back of the sofa instead to get up. “Dammit, I…”

  All the blood drains from his face. His knees go out from under him, and I barely manage to catch him in time and pull him back down on the couch. He lands half on top of me, and ow, he’s heavy.

  “Fuck.” He pushes off me, arms shaking, his face ashen. “Shit.”

  “Codeine can make you lightheaded.” I frown. “You were dizzy before you took it, though. When we arrived.” A thought hits me. “Did you eat well today?”

  “I think I…” He shakes his head and gives me a sheepish smile. “I, uh. I forgot?”

  “Forgot to eat? Come on. You’re a guy. Guys don’t forget about food.”

  “Okay. The truth?” He wince
s. “I ran out of chow and couldn’t bring myself to call the guys to come over. So I ate a bar of chocolate Micah left yesterday.”

  “That’s all?” Jeez. “But normally they visit and bring you food? Your friends?”

  “Yeah. They’ve been great. But I’ve been in and out of hospital far too often in the past months. They work and need their own fucking free time. They have girlfriends, wives, families. I hate being a burden. Besides, Jesse is down with a bad cold and is stressed about working as a fully-fledged inker now, and what with expanding the tattoo shop and all… Everyone is in full stress mode.”

  He rubs his face and sighs. He looks… defeated somehow, and I want to know more. Want to know why he’s been in and out of hospital so often, why he went out in the rain alone, why he has those tattoos and why his nose is slightly crooked, as if it was broken sometime in his past.

  Where is his family? Does he have a girlfriend? Is he in college? Is he into sports—is that why he’s so strong?

  “I think I’ll take your offer,” he says, startling me.

  “What?”

  He leans back, his face still too pale for my liking. He looks ready to pass out where he’s sitting. “The couch.”

  “Yeah.” I shake myself a little. “I think that would be best.”

  “If you’re sure.” His eyes grow heavy-lidded. “It’s warm here. Comforle. Comfort’le.”

  I snicker, because he’s cute like that, half-asleep, hair in his eyes. “Comfo-what?”

  “Christ, I’m so out…” He yawns and chuckles. “Out of it.”

  The codeine is hitting him hard. A bit too hard and too fast. Then again, on an almost empty stomach it makes sense. “Sleep it off. How’s the leg?”

  “Better.”

  And his smile is so bright it makes my chest tight. Who is this guy, who can make me feel so much even if I barely know him?

  Chapter Three

  Seth

  God, these pills make me loopy. I’m laughing when she returns with a blanket to cover me on the sofa. Or maybe it’s the absence of pain. Can’t remember the last time I felt so good.