Page 33 of Ravaged
Air grates against my lungs, and for a horrifying second, I consider throwing my arms around him and burying my face against his chest.
Goddamn, that’s some good brown liquor.
Clearing my throat, I glance away from him on the pretense of surveying the room. Anything so he can’t glimpse how his words touch me.
“Where’s Zora?”
“She had to go to the bathroom. And it was either me escort her and your brother come over there and rescue you or vice versa. Since I was less likely to offend everyone within a mile radius, Zora appointed me as your emissary.” He jerks his chin in the direction I just escaped from. “Not that you needed my help.” Pause. “You okay?”
“Yes.” I exhale. “Just ... family.” Shame and dismay slam into me like a brick to the face, and I jerk my head back in his direction. “Oh shit, Cyrus. I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”
How could I have forgotten that he’d lost his parents years earlier? And here I am complaining about mine ...
He waves a hand, cutting off my apology. “Stop, no need for that, Miriam. Zora, Levi, you, Jordan ... all of you are my family. I’ve been blessed to have one of blood and one of choice. Speaking of Jordan, though.” He cocks his head. “I’m kind of surprised you didn’t invite him as your plus-one. I thought you two were connected at the hip. And bonus—he would’ve shut down whatever that”—he nods toward where my mother still gabs it up with my relatives—“was.”
Yes, he would’ve. And done it with so much charm and such a big grin they wouldn’t have known they were being put in their places.
God, I miss him.
It’s been a week since I visited his house with my impromptu snacks and card game. This might be the longest we’ve gone without seeing one another since becoming friends. Of course, we’ve talked on the phone,but ... something’s off. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was avoiding me.
But that’s ridiculous.
“He’s been busy with physical therapy, practice, and home games. You know he’s been faithfully going to the last two, even if they won’t let him play,” I say.
“Yeah, I know.” He studies me, and I lift the glass of whiskey to give myself something—anything—else to do to avoid his unwavering scrutiny. Freaking attorneys. Make you feel like everything that comes out of your mouth is a lie. Especially if itisn’tthe whole truth. “But if you’d have asked him, he would’ve been here with you.”
I shrug. “This isn’t a big deal. Hell,Idon’t want to be here. And besides, that’s all I need is my mother assuming there’s more between us than friendship.”
Monica Nelson meddling even in my theoretical love life. Shudder.
“Is there?”
The plastic cup pauses halfway to my mouth. “What?” I blink. “No.No.” Am I protesting too much? Does he know aboutthatnight? Did Jordan flap his gums? I mean, I did to Zora, but that’s beside the point. “We’re just friends. That’s all. And why are you looking at me like you’re about to go Jack McCoy on my ass?”
He snorts, pushing off the bar. “Sometimes you and your sister are so much alike it’s scary. You want another one?” He arches an eyebrow, glancing down at my nearly empty cup.
After throwing back the little bit of alcohol left, I hand him the empty one, and he tosses it. “No. Thanks, though.”
“I’m not sure what ‘going Jack McCoy’ looks like, but if it’s an expression of skepticism touched with amusement and a dash of exasperation, then yes, that’s it.” He settles his palm on the middle of my back and guides me across the room.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means now I’m understanding why your brother wanted to stomp a hole in me not too long ago.”
I draw to an abrupt halt and scowl up at him. “Is it me, or did you just threaten me with bodily harm?”
“Listen, I have my life insurance premiums paid up, but I’m still not taking my life in my hands.” A smirk quirks the corners of his mouth. “And you know damn well I’d never do that. What I’m saying is I now get your brother’s frustration with me having my head up my ass when it came to your sister.”
Yeah, I’m still not getting it. And I tell him so. “Still not getting it.”
His smirk deepens. “You will.”
“Now who’s the frustrat—”
“Just one thing, Miriam,” he says, interrupting my incoming grumble about enigmatic lawyers.
His words don’t necessarily stop me, but his tone does. The humor has vanished, leaving behind a seriousness that demands my attention and sends a note of trepidation skating down my spine.
