There was a mumble and I was guessing it was Kite’s reply. He didn’t raise his voice; at least, I never heard him, and he was pretty calm and patient. His appearance contradicted his business-like attitude, all tatted-up and pierced.
I pulled out my long-sleeved V-neck grey shirt and a pair of jeans and threw them on my bed. I inhaled swiftly when there was a quick knock on my door before it flung open.
“Some chick is outside leaning over the fence patting Clifford.”
I glared at Crisis. My hands clenched around the towel wrapped around my body. “Just because we texted a few times, doesn’t mean you have access to my room.”
“I knocked.” He strode over to the window and parted the white pleated curtains. “And it was more than a few times texting, babe. Few hundred maybe.”
His voice took on a grumbling tone and from the way his broad shoulders flexed beneath the snug t-shirt I could tell he was a little pissed at my casual reference to our texting.
I walked to window and glanced out. He stood beside me and for some reason, it was different with him than before he left on tour. He was in my bedroom, me in a towel, hair dripping wet and there was no overwhelming need to get him out of my space. Instead, there was comfort in his presence and something else . . . a whoosh in my belly that I was currently trying to ignore.
It also meant vulnerability.
A rare ambiguity compressed my constant barrier into a tight little package at my feet. If he took one step to the right and touched me, he’d step on it and crush it.
I swallowed.
There was no room for what was traipsing all over my body like some engorged fire that fed off a pile of dynamite. I didn’t know if he felt it too or what, but I saw his fingers curl tightly around the curtain. I glanced at him and he was still staring out the window, but his jaw clenched.
He abruptly turned, eyes locking on mine. There was a moment of silence as we stood completely still, bodies inches apart, his one hand at his side, so close to mine that if I took a deep breath, our fingers would touch.
He was first to break. “Haven.” It was a husky whisper.
That was all I needed to snap me out of it and I clamped up. I stepped away and focused my attention on the girl outside. “It’s Dana. Don’t worry. She isn’t one of your stalkers.” Although, she may soon be when she found out Crisis and Kite were here.
“Funny, Ice. That girl is a misguided chick with a fucked-up delusion of what happened between us.”
I didn’t say anything.
Dana stroked Clifford’s white and dapple-red head. Clifford was rescued from an abusive home a few years ago. When I first came to live here, in order to avoid everyone, I’d sit in the field, under this oak tree and Clifford would always find me and nudge my leg then eat all the grass around me.
I turned around as Crisis threw himself down on my bed. He lay on his side, perched up on his elbow and looked at me. The loose-ringed blond curls hung just over the cusp of his ears, unkempt strands that couldn’t decide which side to part on.
I eyed him for a second . . . maybe it was more admired . . . it was another moment of weakness, but there was no denying Crisis was attractive.
He grinned. “Want me to pick you out something to—”
“I want you to get out of my room.” His muscular thighs rested on top of my clothes and he lifted slightly so I could yank them out from under him. I strode to the bathroom and the mattress creaked behind me. “Get out, Crisis.”
I shut the door.
“I’ll go introduce myself,” he called.
There’d be no introduction needed. Dana lived on Earth; she’d know who Crisis was.
I quickly dressed, applied a small amount of mascara and lip gloss, then emerged from the bathroom. Crisis was like a leech that kept sucking the blood out of me, but it wasn’t blood, it was my coldness. It was as if he was the heater turned on high and I was the block of ice that was slowly melting. And it had happened over text—text. How was that even possible? I thought it was safe. I thought I could keep my distance, but it was too late. Crisis had somehow become important.
Fifteen minutes later, after changing tops two more times—not to try and look better, but the complete opposite—I walked downstairs into the living room. Dana sat on the couch with Kite and Crisis, a game controller in her hand.
“Yes!” she screamed, leaping to her feet, pumping her fist in the air as her car crossed the finish line a millisecond before Crisis.’ “I rock.”
“No, sugar, we’re the ones who rock.” Crisis grinned and tossed his controller onto the glass coffee table.
Dana noticed me and put her hands on her hips. “Seriously? What the hell? Why didn’t you tell me you lived with Tear Asunder? Like, this is huge. Huge, girl. And you kept it from me?”
I shrugged. “They just got back. They were—”
“Yeah, on tour.” She leaned over and playfully punched Crisis on the shoulder. “Tickets. That’s what I get for winning. To your next concert in Toronto. And I want a backstage pass.” She was virtually hopping up and down with excitement. It was going to be a night of talking about the band. And this was why I’d never told anyone. Not that I had anyone to tell except Dana and a few acquaintances who were her friends, not mine.
Her grin vanished as she took in my attire. “And you’re so not wearing that. You look like a nun off-duty.”
Crisis burst out laughing and Kite chuckled, eyeing me, then he winked because I suspected Kite knew I was not into going out and dressing up. I liked being a mosquito on the wall, watching, ready to get out of the way of any threat or be the threat. Either way, I was a bystander until I was forced not to be a bystander anymore.