Filed to story: Kissed by Claw and Fang
Zane: Why don’t you open the door and find out?
Me: That sounds like a yes
Me: You don’t have to do this, you know
Me: I mean, I appreciate it so much
Me: But it’s not necessary
Zane: Ivy
Zane: Open the door
I start making my way across the room to the door, thrilled that since the Advil kicked in, walking doesn’t hurt as much, and my limp is a lot less pronounced. Then, right before I open the door, I text: Me: How do you know I haven’t already opened the door?
“Because I think I would have noticed,” he answers from where he’s standing on the other side of the beaded curtain.
“Zane!” I squeak out his name, my free hand going to my hair automatically in an effort to smooth down the mess. “You’re here.”
He lifts a brow. “You want me to go?”
“No, of course not! Come on in.” I hold the door open as I step back.
“Thanks.” He jerks a little as he steps over the threshold and Macy’s beads brush against him.
“I don’t know why Macy insists on keeping those up when they shock people on the regular,” I say, swatting the annoying things out of the way so I can close the door. “Are you okay?”
“I have no idea.” His eyes meet mine for the first time, and the happiness bubbling inside me dies down as I realize the blankness is back.
“Oh, well.” I duck my head, suddenly way self-conscious around this guy who I’ve had no trouble talking to all day. “Thanks for the book.”
He shakes his head, but at least he’s smiling when he answers. “I thought it might give you something to do while you’re resting your ankle.” He looks at me pointedly.
“Hey, I was in bed. You’re the one who knocked on my door.”
His eyes widen a little at my mention of being in bed, and then we both do the only thing we can do in the situation-stare awkwardly at my rumpled hot-pink sheets and comforter.
“Do you, um-” I clear my suddenly clogged throat. “Do you want to sit down?”
He makes a face, then moves in a negative motion but seconds later does the opposite and plops down at the end of my bed. All the way in the corner, like he’s afraid I’m going to bite him-or jump him.
It’s such an un-Zane-like move that for a second, I just kind of stare at him. And then decide, screw it. I’m not going to spend the next hour feeling awkward. I’m just not. So I flop down on the bed next to him and ask, “What did one bone say to the other bone?”
He eyes me warily, but his shoulders relax-and so does the rest of him. “I don’t think I want to know.”
I ignore him. “We have to stop meeting at this joint.”
He groans. “That was…”
“Fabulous?” I tease.
He shakes his head. “Really, really awful.” But he’s smirking, and finally I can see something in the depths of his eyes-something real, instead of that terrible blankness.
Determined to keep it that way, I tell him, “It’s kind of a specialty of mine.”
“Bad jokes?”
“Terrible jokes. I inherited the talent from my mother.”
He lifts a brow. “So terrible jokes run in the DNA?”
“Oh, it’s totally a gene,” I agree. “Right next to the ones for curly hair and long eyelashes.” I bat my eyes at him to make a point, much the way Macy did to me a little while ago.
“Are you sure you didn’t get it from both sides?” he asks, face totally innocent.
I narrow my eyes at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Just that your jokes are really terrible.”
“Hey! You said you liked my octopus joke.”
“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.” He reaches for my leg, drapes my foot and ankle over his lap. “It seemed rude to kick you when you were down and out.”
“Hey! I may be down, but I’m not out.” I try to pull my foot back, but Zane holds me in place, his long, elegant fingers instinctively finding the spots that hurt the most and massaging them.
I moan a little because the massage feels really good. And so does having his hands on me. “How are you so good at that?” I ask when I can finally speak again.
He shrugs, shoots me a little smirk. “Maybe I inherited it.”
It’s the first time he’s mentioned any family except his one cryptic comment about his brother yesterday, and I jump on it. “Did you?”
He stops for a second-his hand, his breath, everything-and just looks at me with those eyes I try so hard to find emotion in. And then he says, “No.”