Page 50 of Double Apex

“Control yourself!” he orders, doing his best to get a better hold on me, like a juggler whose bowling pins are escaping him. “Bloody stop, dammit!”

I’m thrashing so much that his hand connects in a smack with my bare thigh as he tries to adjust his grip and prevent me from falling. I yelp and choke out a sob, tumbling to the bed.

His arms are extended to guide my landing, his face drawn as if he’s in pain too. He reaches to touch my knee and I unsuccessfully kick at him with a screech.

“Are you all right? I’m so sorry, draga—I didn’t intend to strike you.”

I stand on my knees on the bed, twisting to inspect the back of my thigh. Swallowing tears, I rub the spot as I glare at him. “You asshole, is this how you are?” Suddenly I see a place to twist the knife. “Go ahead and hit me, like your uncle hit you and your sister. Are you just like him?”

Cosmin blanches, taking several steps back until his feet run into a dresser. His hands flatten against it, posture like a burglar who’s been caught in a searchlight.

I open my mouth to apologize, but my anger won’t let the words past the lump in my throat. A sigh deflates him, and he walks to the sofa and sits, cupping his face.

I pivot to sit on the edge of the bed. “Don’t you dare,” I growl. “Don’t make me pity you after you hurt my feelings this morning and embarrassed me. This isn’t even Steven.”

His hands slide off and he looks at me, his wavy hair—the same color as the caramel in the chocolate I was just eating—disheveled, eyes bleak. “Who is he?”

I blink at him. “Who is who?”

“Steven.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I stand and walk to the mirror. “You’re being cute and clueless about English because you know it’s a weakness of mine when you do it.” I scrutinize the faint pink mark on my thigh.

“I didn’t know you found that attractive,” Cosmin says, tired. “You seem impatient when it happens.” He stands and pulls his shirt off. “And with many other things.”

I’m torn between suspicion and guilt, recognizing the truth in what he’s saying as well as the resignation with which he delivers the words.

Iamimpatient. I lash out without thinking. I go for the thing I know will hurt most. I throw the last cookie to the birds so Aislinn can’t have it either. I take potshots at Natalia.

Fuck.

“Why are you undressing?” I demand, changing the subject. “Don’t get any fancy ideas, Legs. Not happening.”

“I’m taking a shower. I’d just arrived when you texted.” As he passes me on his way to the bathroom, I see the twin claw marks on his lower back, one deep enough that it’s bleeding.

“Oh, fuck, Cos.” I stand up. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s fine.”

He rounds the corner and I hear the water go on. I sit on the bed. My eyes drift over the objects on his bedside table: a glass bottle of water, cordless headphones, a novel calledThe Baron in the Trees. There’s a bookmark tucked inside, and I pick it up to snoop.

The bookmark is a child’s colored-pencil drawing of a Formula 1 car—Emerald’s—with sponsor names written as if copied by someone who can’t read. It’s long and thin, so the young artist has filled the space behind the car with “speed lines” and billows of smoke. I flip back a few pages and peruse what Cosmin might’ve read before sleeping last night.

Minutes later, the water turns off and I hear him brush his teeth. He comes out, a towel around his hips.

I hold up the bookmark with a weak smile. “Hopefully the smoke isn’t prophetic.”

He merely nods, going to his suitcase and taking out a pair of blue pajama bottoms, giving them a shake before stepping into them, turned away.

“I didn’t expect you to be here still,” he says, speaking over his shoulder.

His profile against the soft glow of dusk in the big window is striking, and my heart twists, sad for everything we’re doing wrong.

He comes to the bed and props a stack of pillows against the ornate headboard before sitting as far from me as possible. I watch him sidelong. Ugh, his stupid torso is a work of art and I don’t want to love looking at it. His neck is strong, shoulders broad, chest and stomach defined by polygons you could set your watch to. His skin is smooth and naturally golden.

After only a few weeks wherein we’ve managed a dozen covert fucks, my fingers already remember the lines and textures of him like the words to an old song. It’s as if my hands are touching him right now, the thumbs feathering over his exactly right non-weird nipples (why are most guys’ nipples so gross? Cosmin’s are perfection) and gliding up to follow the long darts of collarbone, then resting on the hard, teardrop deltoids of his shoulders. I glance away before he catches me staring.

“So,” I venture. “Who’s supposed to, like, say shit first? How does this work?”

---