Page 4 of Washed Up
CHAPTER THREE
Iris
“Let her be, Max.”
A second man rests against the nearby cupboards, all laconic ease. He arches a ski-slope brow, evidently bemused by the interplay between me and the giant. Mister Laconic needs no introduction—Wynter Knight. A man I’ve harboured more than a few fantasies about.
I do indeed appear to be standing in Lucidity’s kitchen.
Oh, and yeah, Wynter Knight is his real name. I’m sure his parents thought it was clever.
I gawp. This is crazy. I bashed my head. This is probably a hallucination. I’ll wake in a moment, in hospital or still in the freezing water.
Fantasy land lingers on, despite repeated blinking. Wynter observes me, somewhat bemused. At least, I think that’s what I’m seeing. Everything about Lucidity’s singer-songwriter is so sharp that it gives him a malevolent edge. Chin, cheekbones, yes, even the slopes of his brows. Then there’s his eyes. Green like poison.
He’s hot for all that. Mind-numbingly so, in a way that makes me forget to breathe.
It’s probably a good thing when the sandy haired behemoth blocks the view. I inhale deeply. He offers up a sheepish grin. It makes him look as if he’s contemplating eating me but is trying to be polite about it. He towers over me, casting a shadow. I snatch the tea towel from him as if it might provide protection.
“I’m Max.”
Yes, yes, he is. In every sense.
“Max Eden.”
Lucidity’s drummer. My knees quake. Reading his vital statistics online isn’t the same as experiencing them in real life.
“And you’re?”
“Iris,” I gulp after the prompt. “I’m…I’m Iris.” I set aside the tea towel and thrust out a hand.
Max grins. He forgoes my handshake. Instead, his two tree-trunk arms wrap around me and crush me to his solid chest. “You’re okay now. I’m so glad you’re okay, Iris.” He pats my back as he squeezes.
This is surreal. The world has surely tipped on its axis. Max holds on, keeping me trapped between the cupboards and the solid wall of muscle that is his person, squashing the air out of me. But you know what? He smells good. A little spicy, a little citrus, undercut with his own signature musk. Is this the time to be thinking such things? I’m almost out of oxygen. And oh, hello, there’s something maxi-sized hitting me in the hip.
“She might need to breathe, Max.” A third man says. The last of the trio.
“Shut up, Reid, I’m counting.”
Only instead of counting, Max mutters the lyrics toNovember Rain, that old Guns and Roses song my dad liked. Okay, I like it too, it helps me remember him.
“All done,” Max says, releasing me at the end of the first verse. “Longer hugs are better for bonding. We all need to hug for longer. It’s a fact.”
“Right,” I croak. I’m awash with something. Not sure if it’s endorphins or terror. I gulp down air as I take a sly look at the area below his waistband and confirm what I already know. There’s quite a package there.
“It’s bollocks,” Wynter remarks.
“It’s scientifically proven, Wynt.”
“It can be both those things at once,” Reid diplomatically contributes.
Now that Max has released his grip, I can see around him to get a look at the band’s lead guitarist. Reid Rushmore is wearing sweatpants that have holes in the knees, two odd socks, and a raglan shirt with grass stains up the sleeves, and wet patches across the front as if he’d recently gulped a bottle of water and mostly missed his mouth.
“All right, Ariel,” he says. His grin is wide and utterly endearing, his hair a tangle of unruly brown strands inclined towards ringlets at the ends.
“Um, it’s Iris.”
“Don’t bother,” Wynter remarks. “He’s convinced you’re his personal Little Mermaid. Max, brunch for our guest, yeah.”
