Page 30 of The Pretenders of Copper County
Unfortunately, I also felt lots of other things, too. Inappropriate things. Things that made me want to rub my chin against Reed’s neck just to feel the bristles, and trace the hard lines of his muscles with my fingertips, and know how his lips tasted. Things thatmade me ache to know what it was like to have someone’s body and hands on mine. Things that made my cock hard and my thoughts flutter like butterflies in a windstorm.
Things I needed to stop thinking—and totally, absolutelywouldstop thinking—just as soon as I put some distance between myself and Reed, let my logical brain take over again, and got my cock to settle the heck down.
Unfortunately, the moment Reed opened the motel room door, I realized things weren’t likely to settle down.
Not hecking likely at all.
CHAPTER SIX
REED
I usedto think being an agent for the Division meant I was ready for anything. After today, I was thinking nobody in the universe could be ready for Chris Winowski.
“There’s plenty of room if you’d like to sit down on the bed,” I told the man standing in the corner by the window for what had to be the seventh time since we’d entered the shabby motel room.
The wood-paneled space was maybe a couple of hundred square feet—too small to hold more than a single queen-sized bed, a tiny dresser, and a huge television that had probably been the height of technology the year I was born—but the sheets were clean, and the lock on the door was sound.
“Oh. N-no, thank you,” Chris replied softly, also for the seventh time. “I’m fine here.”
I tilted my head back into the pillow and stared up at the textured ceiling. I’d bet that ceiling had witnessed all kinds of ridiculous shit over the years. Quick sexual encounters, arguments, possibly an illegal act or two. But I wasn’t sure it had ever witnessed anything quite as ridiculous as a trained Divisionagent trying to coax his protectee—the same man who hadn’t freaked out during a gunfight and had cheerfully provoked a fucking bar brawl—into sitting six inches away from him.
“You can’t sleep standing up,” I pointed out. I pressed a dripping bag of ice against my face while another sat melting against the bruise on my ribs where one of the bikers had landed a glancing blow. “You’re going to have to sit sometime.”
“I will,” Chris agreed, eyes wide behind his glasses. “Sometime.”
I huffed out a breath. “If you’re gonna stand there, at least drink some fucking water.”
“I d-did. Thank you. I had three glasses?—”
“Then drink a fourth,” I nearly growled. “Otherwise, you’re gonna be hungover, the way you were throwing back shots.”Threeshots of Fireball, to be specific—you’d better believe I’d been counting—which was a lot for anyone, let alone a man who weighed next to nothing. “I’m surprised you’re able to stand, period.”
“I don’t feel drunk anymore.” He hovered in the small space between the green-and-gold-patterned curtains and the door and sounded almost regretful when he added, “I’m very much… m-myself.”
No, I snorted. He wasn’t. The quirky, chocolate-milk-loving, figure skating chatterbox who’d stood up to me at the safe house and again at the bar—It’s not stupid to think the best of people, Reed Sunday—had fled the scene, leaving behind only a polite, stammering, agreeable shadow. And though I appreciated that shadow-Chris wasn’t throwing himself (and therefore me) into danger at the moment, part of me missed the other version.
A lot.
I’d like to think Chris’s anxiety was a normal human reaction to being in danger—a shootout and a bar brawl in one night would stress anyone out. Hell, they stressedmeout—but that wasn’t the case here. Chris had been tipsy but cheerful on the walk over from the roadhouse, our earlier angry words seemingly forgotten.
As soon as I’d opened the door and he’d seen the small room with its lone bed, though, he’d gone wide-eyed and flustered. After a quick trip to the bathroom, he’d stood awkwardly, shifting from one foot to the other. And when I’d taken off my shirt and laid down so I could apply the ice I’d retrieved from the vending area to my ribs, he’d retreated to his corner, as far from the bed as it was possible to get in the tiny space. Which meant it wasn’t the proximity to actual life-threatening situations that had stressed him out; it was proximity to… me.
And my bigstupidmouth.
I took a breath and tried to summon a patient smile. “Look, if the bed-sharing thing is freaking you out, I promise I’ve bunked with all four of my brothers. It’s no big deal. We all survived uninjured. Except Porter,” I added after a moment of thought, “but that blanket thief deserved what he got.”
Chris swallowed hard.
“That was a joke,” I said gently.
He nodded, eyes round.
I sighed. “Or why don’t you take the bed,” I offered. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“What? No. Not when you’re injured, Reed.” Chris gave my ribs a worried glance, then bit his lip, blushed, and looked away, obviously uncomfortable.
“Is it…” I blew out a breath. “Are you worried I might hurt you if you get close to me? Because I wouldn’t, Chris. I swear. No matter how angry I was.”
His gaze swung back to mine in surprise. “No, I believe that,” he said softly.
