Page 137 of Tangled Like Us
My mouth parts from his and I bury my head into the crook of his neck.
He quickly raises his hand, fingers glistening and wet, and presses his palm to my mouth to stifle my noises. In the bathroom, we can’t be too careful.
I shudder into him, orgasms rippling through me and he continues to pump up. His hips thrusting. His palm keeping my noises at bay.
We’re practically silent except for thethumpof our bodies colliding, but even that is drowned out by the sink faucet.
And then from the depths of my fuzzy bath robe, my phone rings.
28
JANE COBALT
It’s FaceTime.
It’s Beckett.
And it’s almost two-thirty in the morning.
Those three variables add together like toxic chemicals. Highly combustible and only appearing when the situation has reached critical levels.
I am alsoverynaked. Urgency speeding my pulse, I try to put my arms through the holes of my robe as quick as I can. Thatcher helps, and in my attempt to wrangle the fabric, I elbow him in the cheek.
“Merde.” I reach to try and touch his cheekbone. “I’m so sorry.”
“Jane,” he says, still moving to put my other arm through the hole. Not even affected by my elbow punch. “Your phone.” It’s stopped ringing. We both stare at the blank screen, but Thatcher is also still dressing me. Two arms in the holes. Check. He tightens it around me by tying off the fuzzy belt.
“Maybe it was a butt dial,” I say, hopefully.
Thatcher looks pissed.
“What?” I ask him.
“I don’t have my radio.”
It’s in his room. He was off-duty tonight. There’s no reason he would have needed it.
Seconds later, my phone lights up. Beckett’s trying to FaceTimeagain. This is most surelynota butt dial.
Dread sinks into my stomach. I’m imagining catastrophic scenarios. There’s not much that would cause Beckett to call me in the dead of night. He’d normally be resting up for early-morning rehearsals or out enjoying what little free time he has.
“I’m going to get my radio,” Thatcher says as he rises to his feet. Buck-naked. He walks to the other side of the bathroom, shuts off the faucet and collects his pants.
“Will you come back?” I wonder. I want him here, I realize. If this is a disaster, he’s someone I would choose to face it with.
He pulls his pants on, his eyes flitting around me like he’s assessing the situation. “I’ll be one minute.” It sounds like a promise.
“Thank you,” I say.
He nods and goes to the door. I make sure that the screen is pointed atmeand not the opposite direction before I click into FaceTime.
Fourof my brothers fill the screen. All the ones who are currently living together in Hell’s Kitchen. Beckett and Charlie share the couch while Tom and Eliot sit on the floor. I can see all of their hands, like a wide shot, which just means that Beckett must have called me from his laptop.
All four of them wear solemn, serious expressions. Utterly tense, and less jovial than they usually are. I’d expect Eliot and Tom to be jumping on the couches in the very least. The pit in my stomach mushrooms.
“Hey, sis,” Beckett says, cupping his hands in front of him. He leans forward a little. “Have you been online tonight?”
“No,” I say. “What’s going on?”
