Page 17 of My Lovely Tragedy
“Like I said. I sing. I used to write most of our songs, but I co-write with Benji more often than not anymore.” At the mention of whom I assume to be a member of his band, and from the rough measure of affection in his tone, a close friend, Brooklyn tenses.
My eyes trail over his body, to the slight curl to his fingers, the tips nearly grazing his calloused palms. His biceps flex, muscle rigid. His jaw is tense, the sharp bottom curve elongated with his molars locked together.
And even with all that tension, unease oozing off him in concentrated waves, I still ask. Because I am desperate to know any and everything he will give me.
“Benji?” I keep my tone purposefully soft, hiding the true desire of my interest.
His throat rolls, and my stomach coils tightly.
“Yeah.” A slight wince. Maybe they’re not as close as I thought. “He’s the bassist. Wicked fucking fingers and a lyrical genius with a better voice than mine.” Even though his words are as self-deprecating as they come, there is no ill-intent behind it. Just hard truths—at least whathebelieves to be the truth.
“You think he is more talented than you?” I ask gently.
Brooklyn crosses his arms over his chest, pulling my shirt tight across his pecs. My gaze lingers on the flexed muscle, the sharp, yet rounded curvature that really should be impossible simultaneously but isn’t.
I fight the twitch in my lips, the desire to smile becausehow marvelous is this boy?
“Yes,” he says honestly. “They all are.”
“They?”
“Benji. Dexter and Cobain. My family, really. They’re all…” Brooklyn buries his hand in his hair, sending golden strands cascading in all different directions. After scratching at his scalp, he rubs at the stubble growing longer on his chin, nearly the same golden color as his hair but darker.
“Each one of them is more than I’ll ever be. They were made for the life, but me?” He huffs out a breath, andthistime, it’s purposely disparaging. “My wings have long since melted, and I’m speeding toward the water. Welcoming the cold plunge.” He breathily mutters the last part as the backs of his knees bump against the coffee table, causing him to stumble. I shoot upward, laptop clattering to the floor as I lock my fingers around his triceps, near his elbows.
His hands find rest against my waist, and I stop breathing.
I keep my eyes locked on the curvature of his throat. My lungs ache, straining for the air I won’t give them. Brooklyn’s chest is rising and falling at a rate faster than normal. Or maybe it’s the flutter of my own eyelids distorting reality, giving me the perception I want—Icrave.
The twitch of his muscles causes my fingers to flex, to dig in deeper. Soft flesh, pliable muscle.
His breath is warm, smelling of sleep. His eyes flicker down to the floor, no longer burning into my face, and his voice shatters.
“I hope you didn’t break that.” Brooklyn’s words give me pause for a moment before I follow his gaze to my laptop, lying on its side on the floor. An amused flicker touches my lips before I frown as Brooklyn steps back and to the left, putting more distance between us.
Ifeelit. Like wind gusting, sending my hairs on end as a void fills. But there is nothing I can do about it in the moment, so I let it go. Let itbuild.
I cup my nape, feeling the caress of curls over the back of my hand as I rub and dig into the tender muscle. “Yes, I do, too.” Brooklyn dips to pick it up for me and hands it over without a word. I take it with a grateful tilt to my lips and close the lid the rest of the way without preamble.
“You’re not going to check it?” he asks, incredulous.
“No. I’m going to make breakfast.” I turn, feet taking me toward the ladder leading to my loft. My loft that smells of every shade of Brooklyn I have come to learn so far.
After plugging my computer in to charge and changing into something clean, the sound of glass clinking together has my ears straining as I make my way back down.
Brooklyn stands with his back to me, the canister lid for the coffee beans lying on the countertop, glass jar barely in view as heattemptstomake coffee, but the darling thing doesn’t have a clue.
As my feet softly thud against the floor, I hear a plume of soft expletives. Amused, I follow the sound, each one coming out harsher and more strained as he tries to figure out how to work the machine.
I step up behind him, feet padding smoothly so as to not make a sound.Nothingto disturb Brooklyn while he is in his element.
The heat of his body radiates in staggering waves. Waves that taste of crisp, rain-filled air as the wind roars.
I inhale deeply, reveling in all he is. Warmth and anger. Untapped energy and agitation. It tastes bitter on my tongue as I swirl it around inside my mouth, capturing the very essence of it.
Forcing my heavy eyelids open, I pin them on the back of his head, a hair’s breadth away. “Would you like some assistance?” My breath causes a few strands of hair to flutter. Goosebumps prickle along the slope of his neck.
He jolts, palms slapping against the countertop with a loud crack. “Jesus fucking Christ, you scared the shit out of me.” His foul language makes my lips twitch with amusement.
