Page 14 of Washed Up
“You need to let everything that knob-end said and did go.” I brush my lips against his temple where the skin is thin over his skull.
“What he did hurt.”
“I know.” It hurt all of us, but those songs poured from Wynter’s heart, making the attack far more personal. It’s souredthe whole creative process for him. Dammit, he never asked for someone to come in and fix his work. It didn’t need fixing.
He pulls another match from behind his ear and strikes it against the grain of the side table. He lets it burn until it singes his fingertips. I blow it out before he gives himself some serious burns. “You need your fingers to play, remember? You should run your hand under the tap.”
He doesn’t budge, so I head to the kitchen to fetch a cup of icy water. It’s something. When I return, Iris is perched on the sofa in the spot I recently vacated. She’s wearing one of Max’s oversized shirts. It skims her knees, leaving the lower part of her comely legs on display. Her knees are scraped, but otherwise the skin there is unmarred. She holds up the TV remote. I watch from the doorway as she starts scrolling through the Netflix offerings.
She stops on the new Jack Bold film I know Wynter’s been itching to see, but putting off, claiming he hasn’t earned the right to view it yet. Silly bugger. He thinks he’s dangling carrots to incentivise himself, really, he’s torturing himself for being a failure.
Max leans over the banister from the mezzanine. “Are you guys having a watch party?”
The wooden stairs groan as he descends. I return to the kitchen and brew up four hot chocolates with marshmallows, squirty cream, and sprinkles. It’s about the extent of my culinary ability. I carry them through on a tray.
“You forgot snacks,” Max says, claiming a cup.
“I made drinks.”
He flips onto his feet. He’s an agile bugger for all that he’s both tall and bulky. I settle on the left of Iris. When Max returns, he sits on the floor with his back against my knees.
We eat. We drink. And we watch.
No one speaks.
No one tries to lick the chocolate moustaches from anyone else’s top lip, but it’s comfortable and settled in a way that it hasn’t been for far too long.
At the sixty-minute mark, there’s a sex scene that requires the strategic locationing of some of the square sofa-parasites. Guess they have a nondecorative purpose after all. Iris hides her face behind hers. God she’s cute.
Shortly after, she rests the cushion on my knee, and her head on it. Her legs wind up across Wynter’s lap. He wrestles a throw off the back of the sofa and wraps it around her. I guess she trusts us, because within another ten minutes, she’s asleep and making sweet little purr-like snores.
Wynter turns his head. “Is that her?”
“Yup,” I nod.
He grins. Properly grins in a way that I’ve not seen in forever. It lights up his eyes and smooths all the harsh edges from his face. “Should we move her upstairs?”
When Max attempts to lift her, she stirs, rubbing her eyes like a sleepy animal in a Disney movie.
“Sorry, I think I dozed off.” She glances at the screen, which is back to showing the viewing options. “Damn, guess I missed the end. Did the good guys win?”
“They did,” Wynter says.
“It’s okay, Max. I can walk myself up the stairs.” She brushes off his attempt to lift her.
We all rise. I turn off the TV, while Wynter slides the guard across the fire.
“Too soon for a sleepover?” I ask her, as she heads for her door. Her room is next door to mine.
“Goodnight, Reid.”
“Guessing that’s a yes.”
“You might not like me so much after you hear me snore.”
Consummate gentleman that I am, I decline to inform her that all three of us have enjoyed that privilege.
CHAPTER SEVEN
