Page 72 of Tormented
TWENTY-ONE
Abbey
His huge shoulders curl inward, restricted by the walls as he sleeps sitting upright in the corner still. I don’t know exactly what time it was when I came in last night; maybe it was early this morning? But either way, it’s far too long to be sleeping like that on a hard-as-fuck floor.
I started out in Tap’s room like he wanted me to, but as soon as the big guy fell asleep I slipped out to appease my curiosity. I’ve watched Sawyer since I arrived here, seen how he interacts, his habits, and his body language. The cockiness he’s known for, the level of self-righteousness he usually presents to the world . . . it’s gone.
Something’s been eating at my pretty boy, and I want to know what it is. Maybe he isn’t as infallible as I’ve always assumed? Maybe he really is a lot more like me than I gave him credit for.
Maybe deep down he resents who he is too, despite what he says about being comfortable with his “gift.”
Sawyer’s hands are tucked between his thick thighs, his dark lashes lying soft and delicate over his sharp cheekbones. The man really is a thing of beauty, and so carefully guarded. I can see why Ramona fell hard and fast, sucked into the idea that she could find that scared boy inside and set him free.
Thing is, I don’t think he wants to be out here in the big bad world. I bet the child within Sawyer likes it where he is, wrapped up in the protection of this monster that keeps people at bay, friendly or otherwise.
I slip off the bed and crawl across the floor, slow and careful in my movements so as not to wake him. His breaths come slow and heavy, a deep resonance straight from his chest. If it were possible for breathing to sound masculine, I’d think he nailed it.
He has to be cold, surely. The sun’s already heated the day outside, the room warm from its rays. But even so, he’s slept here all night on the floor without a blanket and wearing only his boxers. I reach out, my hand hovering over his leg. Do I touch him? Do I disturb the beast as it rests? A slim red line pokes out from under the hem of his boxer leg.
I retract my hand and sit back on my heels, studying the fresh injury as he slumbers. It’s clean and sharp, not as though he’s scratched himself by accident. Could it be? Were my suspicions back in Lincoln correct?
My left thumb absently rubs over the healing lines on my opposite wrist. He’s full of surprises, and it makes me wonder if I was premature to apologize? Should I push harder? Do everything I can to force him to answer me?
Not now, Abbey.
King wants Sawyer back east to have his chance at finishing things with Carlos. I can’t get in the way of that. How petty would it be if I distracted him from something as important to our club as taking out the biggest threat to our future? I only know a little about what’s going on in the club right now, and it involves Carlos and a whole lot of vengeful agendas that needing sorting out. Seems everybody has something against Sawyer’s old man.
I reach out again, drawn to pretty boy in his restful state. He’s so at peace, and yet, I get the sense that it’s anything but calm inside that ravaged mind of his. My fingers brush against his leg, and his eyes snap open, his hand wrapped around my wrist before I can let out a gasp.
“What you doin’, Abbey-girl?” His husky morning voice drapes its dulcet tones around me.
“You looked cold.”
“Anything but.” He pulls me forward by the grip on my wrist and lays my hand against his hard stomach.
My skin sears from the heat he radiates. “I guess you’re not, then, huh?” The fires of hell clearly rage within, even when he’s unconscious.
“How did you sleep?” He lets go of my hand with a flick, sending me away.
“Good.”
“The company helped then?”
“I think so.” I didn’t wake mid-nightmare trying to cut some imaginary intruder, so there’s that.
“What’s for breakfast?” He pulls his legs in and stands, pushing off the wall behind him.
I fall back on the heels of my hands and look up the glorious length of him as he raises both arms over his head and stretches, his boxers obviously tented from this angle. Oh my. Somebody woke up in a good mood.
“Whatever they’re cooking in the kitchen, I guess.” Gathering the remnants of my scrambled thoughts, I right myself and stand also. “But first, coffee.”
“Black, one sugar.”
I jerk my chin back, hands on my hips as I stare down his wide back. He ignores me, shaking out his T-shirt before he tugs it on over his ripped frame. He turns, slowly, one eyebrow raised.
“What you still doin’ standin’ there?”
“Do I look like your fucking maid?”