Page 88 of Broken Pieces
And my eyes check her out.
I can’t fucking help it.
Her ass in those jeans? Fuck me.
The kind of curve that makes you forget your name. Makes your hands twitch with the memory of gripping it once, too long ago. There’s exhaustion in the way she moves, but all I see is how fucking hot she is.
Too hot for me to be standing this close without doing something stupid.
I want to fucking touch her. I want to tell her she’s safe. That she can sleep without looking over her shoulder. That I’ll make damn sure no one ever lays a hand on her.
But I don’t.
I brush past her instead, moving across the workshop, heading for the stairs as if she’s not every goddamn temptation I’ve ever fought off.
Rainer doesn’t glance up. He’s elbows-deep under the hood of a beat-up Dodge, radio low, engine ticking. The place could be burning down and he wouldn’t notice.
Good.
Last thing I need is for him clocking the way my eyes drag over her like she’s mine.
The stairs sound under my boots as I take them two at a time. I keep my hands in my pockets and my mouth shut.
Keep your fucking hands to yourself, Rivera.
She’s not yours.
No matter how much she feels like it.
Chapter Fourteen
Skylar
Theplacesmellsofoil and cigarettes. It’s the kind of smell that latches onto the back of your throat and refuses to let go.
The apartment is small.
One room divided by a worn-out couch that sags in the middle. A punching bag hangs in the corner, a stack of weights scattered near its base. A bed sits made against the far wall, low to the floor. Bare bulbs swing from the ceiling. The tiles near the kitchen sink are cracked and dirty, the grout worn thin. Shadows crawl along the edges of the room, clinging to the places the light refuses to touch.
I stand there, hands still clutched around my heavy bags, pretending I don’t notice the thin film of dust on the counter or the plate sitting in the sink. Everything in this place hums with the weight of him. Rough. Unpolished. Real.
“It’s not much,” he says, raking a hand through his hair.
“It’s fine,” I lie.
It’s his place. His mess. His bed. At least he has something to come back to. I don’t even have that.
He moves past me and heads for the kitchen bench, tossing his jacket onto a nearby chair without looking.
The fridge door groans as it swings open. Inside, there’s almost nothing. A few beers, a half loaf of bread. A block of cheese and a jar of mustard scraped nearly clean.
He grabs the bread and cheese, then closes the fridge door with his foot. He sets everything down on the counter, his movements steady. Unhurried.
I drop my bag beside the couch and sit. The cushion sinks under my weight; the springs creaking loud enough to cut through the quiet. The walls press closer with every breath.
He grabs a pan and sets it on the stove. The burner clicks, then catches. Butter hits the pan with a hiss, the sound cutting through the quiet.
I shift on the couch, pulling my knees in, trying not to watch the way his shoulders move beneath his shirt. He never glances my way, but every action comes off as deliberate. Controlled.
