Page 10 of Altered By Lead (Undercover Sinners 2)
"Nothing," Weston replies, shaking his head and continuing to push Colt up the path in his wheelchair. Any further questions I have are interrupted by the obstacle of stairs in front of us. "Sorry, buddy, I'm going to have to carry you. This shit shack isn't wheelchair compliant."
"Fuck. That." Colt glares daggers at his best friend. "You try to pick me up like a girl and I'll nut punch you so hard you'll get pubes stuck in your teeth."
I smother a laugh as Weston rolls his eyes and backs away, letting Colt stand from his wheelchair. “Yeah, fine, whatever, it’s your funeral. If you want to macho-man yourself into an early grave, that’s your prerogative.”
Colt smirks, and then takes a moment to stretch, lifting his strong arms over his head and wincing slightly when the muscles in his freshly scarred chest shift.
"Are you okay?" I ask softly, not wanting to baby him like Weston’s doing, but genuinely concerned for his well being. That, and it gives me something to focus on other than his obvious hard on. And I'd thought he was joking. I’m also really glad he wasn’t.
Considering Hawke’s been avoiding me like the plague (pretty sure he hates me), and Mace seems like he’s fighting his desire to be with me, I could use some, uh, companionship. Sex, yes. But also friendship. It’s a little lonelier out here than I thought. Back home, I was always surrounded by people. People of little value who’d just as likely stab me in the back as offer any kind words, but still.
Colt's green eyes rest on me as he lowers his arms, a lazy smile curling his lips. "Better than okay, beautiful girl. I'm alive." My heart skips a few beats, and my throat closes up, but I just flip my hair and pretend I don’t give a shit. Because that’s my M.O. I don’t get girlish flutters around people like Colt. That’s … almost normal people behavior, and I’m far from normal.
"Alive, maybe, but late," Hawke says, his deep voice reverberating through my bones. I glance over my shoulder and catch the sharp flash of his gray eyes as he keeps his attention focused on Colt, not even bothering to acknowledge that I'm standing beside him.
Since the night of the shoot-out, he hasn't touched me. Not once. Not even when we bump into each other in the dark kitchen, and my breath catches in my throat, my nipples harden, my pulse races ...
I feel a little crazy even thinking it, but I truly believe he’s been avoiding me. "We have a debrief in fifteen minutes in the kitchen. Don't bother going upstairs just yet."
And just like that, he spins away and takes off, weapons hanging off every inch of his body, like some sort of asshole porcupine. Just looking at him fills me with a righteous sort of fury, like I’d just as soon kill him as fuck him. After being numb for so many years, I’m struggling to untangle all of these new emotions. It’s like parts of me that I thought were long-dead are just now coming back to life.
"Did you just mouth asshole porcupine?" Colt asks, looking confused but cute as hell. I force a smile and beam over at him, feeling this strange hollowness inside my chest.
Not for the first time since I got here, I wonder what the fuck I'm doing.
How did I go from caged princess to weak sidekick? At least before, with all the sex, I felt like I had some purpose. I mean, it's sad, but true. Sex, I can do. I've had plenty of it. And, if I do say so myself, I'm pretty damn good at it, too.
But now ... when my physical prowess is being measured up against men who've been training their whole lives, who are twice my size, hard as rocks, brutal as hell ...
I feel inadequate, and I don't like it.
My hands clench into fists at my sides, and I exhale sharply.
"You alright there, babe?" Colt asks again, and I turn slowly to face both him and Weston with a smile. These jovial assholes should be able to cheer me up, right?
Because even Mace …
“I’m fine,” I say, and then I let Colt wrap an arm around my waist as we make our way into the kitchen. Speaking of the devil … Mace storms through the room in what's clearly a cold rage, the worst kind of all where the fire's already gone out, but the ash is like a stinging acid that blinds. No thank you. I let him go by without a word, but at least his eyes flick briefly to mine before he turns away.
As soon as he exits the room, I realize what's caused his anger.
Arsen.
My throat constricts as he moves into the entryway, his bright green headphones around his neck, his pale blue eyes arcing over to find my face. He, at least, doesn't shy away from me the way Mace has been doing. Touching me softly, and then jerking away like he's suddenly thought so much better of it.
