Page 11 of Combust (Everyday Heroes 2)
“Are you staying with him?” As much as I’m not trying to play games here—and lied just to end the topic of conversation—a part of me enjoys hearing the shock in his voice.
“It doesn’t matter who I’m staying with. Get to the studio on Wednesday. Don’t be an asshole to Kai and the rest of the guys,” I say, referring to the audio engineer. “And listen to the lyrics I put over the track. Let me know what you think. I’ll move on to the next song until I hear from you.”
“I love you, Dylan.”
I close my eyes and let my head fall forward as I hear words from him I know he doesn’t often say. “If you loved me you wouldn’t have fucked someone else.”
And with that, I end the call and sink onto the edge of my bed. My phone is clutched to my chest as the reel of me walking in on him and Tara plays over and over again in my mind.
I glance at the clock to see that it’s two in the morning. We always worked best when it was late and our brains were fuzzy and that kind of delirious state kicked in . . . I guess not even distance can change that.
Picking up my guitar, I hum the lyrics and play the chords, my mind trying to pinpoint where the song is off.
A sound breaks through my process. At first, I assume it’s the scanner, my telltale sign that Grady is home from his shift, but just as I strum the guitar, I hear it again.
“Help. Please. Oh. God.”
Grady’s voice is filled with anguish and need. I drop my guitar and am out of my room within seconds, heading down the hall to where I can hear him waging a verbal struggle. His bedroom door is open, and when I enter, he’s sprawled across his bed, asleep.
He’s dreaming. Not in trouble.
My heart slows a beat, but the deep mewl of agony he emits as he bucks his body on the bed has me moving to him without a second thought.
“Grady! Grady! Wake up!”
He flings his arm back as I try to shake his shoulders and jar him awake. He struggles against me while that horrible keening sound continues in the back of his throat. I climb onto the bed, uncertain of what to do but positive I can’t let him continue with this nightmare.
“No. Please. No,” he murmurs as he writhes from side to side and I struggle to calm him. He’s too strong and shifts suddenly so I fall somewhat on top of him. I can sense the minute he wakes and comes to. His body tenses. There’s a quick intake of breath. His hand holding my wrist relaxes.
“Dylan?” It’s a question, as if he needs to understand why I’m sitting here, straddling him in his bed.
The light from the hallway casts light over his face and makes the sheen of sweat covering his chest noticeable. Our eyes meet, his glassy and curious. “You were having a nightmare. I tried to . . .”
He clears his throat, and I can see him try to shake off whatever ghosts of the dream still cling to him. “I . . .” He brings his hand up to scrub over his face. “It was just a bad dream. Sorry to wake you.” The unbothered tone in his voice contrasts with the struggle of emotion in his expression.
When he lowers his hand and meets my eyes, there is more in the depths of them—vulnerability, fear, shame, confusion—but he blinks it away as quickly as it flashes.
“Are you okay? Can I do anything to help you?”
“No. It’s . . . I get them often.”
And it’s in this moment—the one where his eyes try to avert from mine so I don’t see too much and slowly run their way down my torso—that I’m more than aware of what pajamas I have on. A tank top and flimsy shorts that could double as panties.
His breath stutters again, but it has nothing to do with his nightmare. His dick stirs to life beneath me. There is a moment of suspended disbelief that passes in slow motion as we realize what is happening and neither of us is sure if we should stop it.
And then, just as quickly, his hands are on my torso pushing me as I’m scrambling off him. Standing beside the bed, I cross my arms over my chest to hide my nipples, which are hard and needy and reflect exactly where my thoughts went.
“I’m sorry.” We both say in unison and then laugh, nerves tingeing the edges.
“I didn’t mean . . . I hope you’re okay.” There is a long, awkward pause before I stammer out, “I’m just going to go now.”
I make my way to the door, embarrassment staining my cheeks and modesty having me wish I had my robe to cover up.
“Dylan. Wait.”
When I pause and turn to face him, Grady is sitting up in bed, a sheet draped over his waist, his hair a total mess. My first coherent thought is: I was right. He looks every bit as mouth-wateringly perfect as that eight-pack of abs beneath his shirt hinted at the other day. “What is it?”
“I’m sorry . . . for waking you up . . . for, you know.” He motions his hand at the space between him and me as a sheepish smile tugs at the corners of his mouth that has me wanting to bolt when my feet want to stay.
