Page 10 of Stone’s Cage

When Stone closes the front door, I feel stupid. I mean, I should have just said "yes" to his sofa offer. What is my problem? Why couldn't I just go sleep on his sofa? From this angle, I can see Stone inside, brushing his teeth over the kitchen sink and getting himself ready for bed. It's a one room, studio apartment. He offered me the sofa and he said he'd sleep on the floor. Now, he's bunching up the pillow and throwing the sheet on this tanned, threadbare sofa while Tig dances around trying to stay out of the way of covers. Stone peels off his shirt and I try to avert my eyes.

But I can't. He is built. And the light above the stove is still on.

Every muscle is defined, bunching when he moves or just reaches across a counter. I squirm a little with something building in my core. When he lays down, his abs flex and shadows deepen and there's a stirring in my groin when the sheet settles low against his hips, and deadly symmetrical hollows appear just below his navel on either side, defining his obliques. I'd slept most of the day, knowing I'd be up at night, but the adrenaline rush making my heart beat in my chest leaves me breathing fast. I am on alert. I lick my lips. I've never gone for a white boy before. Never was attracted. And he's a Hook.

He's a Hook. A Hook with a worm.

Remember that. The enemy.

He accidentally left that feeble light on over the stove but it's enough to let me watch him slowly nod off. Hitching my hood up, I think back to when he said I could just let myself in and bolt the door. He left it unlocked.

I could open that door sneak in there and slit his throat. He doesn't know me from Adam. He doesn't know who I am. He doesn't know the problems I have. And yet he does this. He is taking care of me. It feels weird. My parents took care of me. My brother, Sammy, always took care of me. But no one else. Ever. And now Sammy's dead, my parents devastated.

I shift, the glare of the street light competing with the little stove light for Stone's frame as he sleeps on his back, the pillow disappearing somewhere. Slowly, slowly his breathing evens out and an arm drops to the dark floor. His head slips back little so this throat is fully exposed. The light catches it and I keep looking in through the window.

I can't take my eyes off of him.

He's hypnotizing. My underwear is wet and I pull it out a little so I'm more comfortable. Catching a wiff of my own sex, I wipe my hands on my pants. Stone struggles in sleep shoving the sheet a little further down and suddenly I just wanted to touch him. I just wanted to touch that barrel chest. He is so gorgeous. His even breathing, unconscious and vulnerable, is such a turn on.

Sitting up, I wrap my arms around my knees and edge forward for a better look. A siren wails in the background. There's sounds, something like shots, four in a row and not so far off. I turn around, listening, waiting for a moment or two. But then there's nothing, not even voices.

When I resume my gaze through the window, something's wrong. He's moving on the sofa, his back arched, his face in pain. An arm flings back and strikes the sofa. Another arm flies up to his forehead, and then he's up on both arms, wrestling with something invisible. Tig's on the floor, his mouth open, crying, and turns to look at me like I should do something.

Scrambling to stand, I realize it’s got be a dream. A nightmare. Stone's yelling and without really thinking, my hand is on the door knob, and I'm still leaning over, trying to see what the hell he's doing.

Stone rolls to his side, his back to the cushion. He can't breathe. A fist comes up and he hits is own chest. Trying the knob, it doesn’t turn. I lean over and peer though the window again. Now he's writhing, head back, mouth open, choking. I lunge at the door and throw my weight against it and Tig yowls as it cracks open and I fall into the room.

The noise must have jarred Stone loose from whatever had him in its clutches because in a second, he's sitting straight up, scrambling off the sofa, grabbing cover and sheets around his waist, standing, panting, staring down at me. He's coated in sweat.

"What the hell," he says, reaching down to scoop Tig up before he bolts from the apartment. I just look up at him, splayed on the wooden floor, supporting my weight on my arms, feeling like an idiot.

"You looked like you were choking," I managed. "I thought you were, like, having a seizure or something."

Stone's face remains impassive, and he scoots my legs over with a foot so he can shut the front door. With his back to me he says, "I'm leaving it unlocked so you can get out if you feel like you have to."

Forget the door. I stare at him. "You scared me to death. I thought you were dying."

"Why would I be dying?"

As I start to stand, he lifts me by one hand, holding Tig in the other. I watch his pec flex as he hoists me up. His nipples look hard.

"I don't know. Traumatic brain injury. You know, like concussion. I don’t know. Something."

"Because I'm a fighter?"

My stomach drops. "You're a fighter?"

Oh shit, the autographs. Duh.

Chapter Eight

Stone

After a dreamless night, Lily's sitting on the sofa, unpacking TBIs for me, explaining shredding concussions and successive concussions, minor and major concussions.

I watch her arms and hands, how they move as she speaks, how her hair catches the light. She's got braids on either side of her head tucked into a bun at the nape of her neck . . . and her neck. Man, it’s like a black swan's neck, long, curving, beautiful.

Who the hell is she? Why is she here?