Page 49 of Stud

I pulled at my T-shirt’s neckline and forced a swallow. “Okay.”

But I wasn’t. Not by a long shot.

His lie by omission still hung in the oppressive air, and there was nothing rational about claustrophobia. No concrete reason I could be in this room one minute, no thought to the size of the space, and a second from a panic attack now. It wasn’t level-headed. Logic was no longer at play. It also didn’t change the facts that forcing air into my lungs was becoming a challenge.

“Hurry,” I managed.

His worried gaze darted over me like I was a stick of dynamite about to be lit, which sounded accurate. Swiveling, he began working furiously on the door. He kicked the bottom closed, yanked at it again. He studied its perimeter exhaustively. When that didn’t work, he turned with another fierce, “I’ll get you out of here,” then proceeded to pound on the Evil Door and shout for help.

Not promising.

I walked backward, until my butt hit the far wall. I slid down its length. There were rough-ins for a shower, toilet, and sink around me, electrical wires protruding from the walls. The unfinished floor undulated as my focus swayed. My heart had never beat so loudly, a steel drum pounding in my ears.

If I weren’t close to losing it, I’d probably come up with a fun crossword clue for the instrument, but losing it I was. My focus blurred as my mind tripped back to Chucky’s Chicken and me slamming my body and fists into the unmoving exit of the walk-in fridge. Laughter had assaulted my ears that day—coworkers taunting me with promises of freedom, only to be denied.

Trapped. Imprisoned. Suffocated.

Today there were no derisive slurs, only Owen’s increasingly frantic efforts and the dwindling oxygen powering my lungs. I’m going to die wearing sneakers and a tool belt.

I wasn’t sure when Owen had crouched in front of me. I could barely register his gentle hands on my face. “I called Emmett. He’s on his way. We’ll get it open together. He shouldn’t be long.”

My saliva had turned to sludge. “You called him?” It was then I noticed the phone on the floor by his boots.

He nodded. “I’m sorry, doll. This is my fault. I was so desperate to see you. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“Maybe a striptease will help.” My attempt at levity waned under my shaky voice.

He must have heard the panic coursing through my words, but that didn’t stop Owen from standing and reaching for his belt. “Whatever you need.”

“I need a football stadium’s worth of air, and I was joking.” I pulled my ponytail away from my neck, hoping to cool down. I closed my eyes and counted to ten, but everything seemed to shrink closer, spin faster. When I blinked, Owen was still hovering in front of me, a sly smirk on his full lips. He pushed the edge of his leather belt through the buckle and flicked the prong from its home. He released the ends slowly and popped the button of his jeans.

“Honestly,” I said, “don’t waste your Magic Mike moves on me today. The blue bean has turned gray. Fear doesn’t increase my sex drive.”

Ignoring me, he slid his zipper down and dropped his jeans to his knees, displaying black Hugo Boss briefs and the package they held in place. An impressive package. I should have been panting to crawl toward him and slip that thin cotton down, down, down, but I was sweaty and nauseous and hot and clammy at once. Still, his male revue continued. He flipped around and dropped his underwear, flashing his toned ass.

And…what in the hell? “Is that a tattoo?”

“Yep.”

Forcing my windpipe to function, I leaned forward and studied the spray of black ink on his left butt cheek. “Are they Japanese letters?”

“Apparently. You asked on the phone if I have any tattoos, and this is it. But I have no clue what it means.”

I shocked myself by laughing. “I so need an explanation for this.”

“Thought you would.” He pulled up his briefs and jeans. Once facing me again, he jutted his chin in my direction. “Okay if I join you down there?”

His awareness of my discomfort, his concern, had me breathing slightly easier. “Sure.”

Nudging me forward, he sunk behind my back, letting me lean on him without wrapping his arms around me and constricting my airflow further. He pushed my hair aside and kissed my neck. “It was, like, nine years ago. Maybe ten. Shortly before I met Tessa, my ex.”

Hearing her name had the thickness in my throat expanding. It gave her life, made her real. It emphasized his exclusion of this important fact. I couldn’t imagine Owen being like Dean or Thomas Arlington the Third, spewing lies about divorces that would never happen. But Owen’s blatant avoidance of the topic nudged at the damaged tissue guarding my heart, warning me not to trust men.

His chest expanded into my spine, his deep voice following. “I’d sometimes go out with Emmett, hit the clubs he liked. We always acknowledged the anniversary of the day our mother left us. Not sure why. A reminder of what we still had, maybe? Or a ‘fuck you’ to her. Either way, once we got fake IDs, we’d go out and get drunk. That night we went overboard. The club and the scene were nuts.”

“A gay club?”

“Yeah. A wild one, with disco lights and men in crazy outfits. Pretty sure I danced a lot, and I made out with at least one guy.”