Page 91 of Resurrection
"Positive."
"Want to make a bet on it?" he challenges.
"You're on," I say, my competitive streak kicking in. "What's at stake?"
Ty grins, and it feels like a victory already. "Winner gets one wish."
I pretend to think it over, but the truth is, I can't resist. "Deal," I say, sealing it with a shake of his hand.
He leans closer, testing the space between us. "You sure this is what you want?" he asks, the question so loaded, it could sink a ship. "I can ask for anything."
"First, I want to see you show up, Ty. Then let’s talk about the rest."
23TYLER
The bed feels too damnsmall despite it being a regular queen size.
I don’t know if it has anything to do with the fact that I spent most of the night on a California king in Sageview Ridge Casino or the fact that I’m a spoiled asshole who got used to sleeping in an empty house on a hill in LA, and now even my parents’ place seems like it’s not big enough.
My head is off the pillow, and my feet dangle off the end like some wannabe grown-up. My back complains at angles it's not used to, even though I’ve been sleeping on this bed for weeks now. So this is what sneaking around gets me. The punishment that makes no sense. One taste of what it’s like being with Naomi Medina again, and I’m all wrong.
I can still smell her on my skin, smell that sweet vanilla and hot desert and something distinctly her. Feel the heat of that tight body next to me, almost as if she’s here.
I reach out to grab my phone from the nightstand. Still no text. Typical. Naomi’s playing it cool while I’m stuck in my mind's hell, desperate, like a teenager.
She did say she didn’t want to get invested emotionally, but it’s obvious she’s lying. That woman can’t think with her brain. Everything she does comes from her heart, and I believe that’s one of the reasons I fell for her.
I stretch, pulling at the edges of my joints. Every crack and pop of my bones brings her back—Naomi laughing, kissing, moaning. Her dark hair spilling over us like ink. Her breathless whispers telling me it’s never felt like this before. Maybe the last one is my imagination. I can’t tell. I was slightly buzzed on the beer and her presence, and it felt like heaven.
I don’t want to overthink it. Don't want to ruin it like I did last time. But as I stand up, fumbling for my jeans, it's hard to shake the memory of her pressed against me and wonder what she’s feeling now or if I’m even on her mind.
The smell of coffee pulls me toward the dining room. My mom's frying something that sizzles and fills the air with the comfort of old routines. Feels like I’m seventeen again, sneaking in late to steal some food from the fridge while praying no one hears the front door.
Only this time, I’m not so lucky.
"Morning, son," my dad says, looking over his newspaper with that half-amused, half-disapproving look only fathers can pull off. "Or afternoon, I guess."
I give him a nod, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. "Morning… Eh, afternoon."
"Late night?" His voice is casual, teasing, like he already knows the answer.
"Lost track of time." I grab a mug and pour myself a dose of caffeine. Then I lean against the counter, trying to play it cool.
"Funny how that happens." He chuckles. "We heard you come in around four. Thought maybe you were avoiding your old folks."
"Me?" I say with mock innocence. "Never." I’m too old to be doing this. Too old to care this much. But guilt prickles at me anyway, like I should know better.
I glance at my phone again, a quick, sneaky check for anything from Naomi. Still nothing. Just a stupid blank screen and the growing pit in my stomach.
Mom nudges me in the direction of the dining table and sets a plate in front of me, loaded with eggs and bacon. "Here you go. Got to keep your strength up if you're staying out all night."
"Thanks," I say, sinking into a chair. "You know, being back in town has me booked solid. The social demands are endless."
"Must be tough," Dad says with a wink.
I shove a forkful of eggs in my mouth and chew slowly. The warmth, the normalcy—it’s comforting, but it also reminds me how out of place I feel here. How out of place I feel everywhere. I need to focus. Need to figure things out. Need to get back on track with my music. For the first time in years, I’m able to write something that’s only mine, that doesn’t belong to anyone but me, that doesn’t have a deadline or a guideline. But this push-and-pull relationship with Naomi has made me emotional, made me a wreck. All I can think of is her, how she was last night. How she might have changed her mind by now.
My phone rings, the sudden noise making me jump and nearly spill my coffee. My first thought, of course, is Naomi.
