Page 87 of Rogue Riders Duet

Not in the metaphorical ‘wow, this massage is intense’ way. Actual knives. Serrated, probably.

“Breathe,” she commands, all calm and spa-voiced as she digs into the meat of my calves as brutally as possible.

“I am breathing,” I grit out. “Through the pain.”

“You’re fighting me.”

“I’m trying not to scream.”

She hums, sounding pleased. “Then it’s working.”

I’m face-down on a padded table that smells of antiseptic and lavender with my hoodie bunched up under my ribs, binder already stripped off because even I’m not masochistic enough to keep it on during this, but I did forget to remove the socks I stuffed down my boxers, and now they’re pressing awkwardly into my crotch as a sock-shaped reminder of every bad life choice I’ve made.

Awesome.

It’s late, and Piper already had a long day with pit setup and her other sessions, so she only wanted to work a quick one on my legs and hips and told me to keep my clothes on.

My sports bra feels loose, my limbs are Jell-O, and my brain is a goddamn war zone. The thing about a deep-tissue massage is that it gives you nowhere to hide. No excuses. No distractions. Just knots being worked out of your body while your mind works knots out of everything else.

Like the Luc thing.

God. The Luc thing.

What the fuck was that?

I can still feel his knee between my legs, the heat of his hand under my jaw, and the sharp scrape of his teeth where he bit me.

My body fucking lit up. One second, I was pinned between a tree and a French menace, and the next, I was soaked through my boxers.

I know my body, even if nobody else has ever touched me like Luc did. I’ve figured out on my own that getting off sometimes helps with pain by loosening the tension in my muscles.

But privacy is a luxury I don’t get, not when I’m living in a damn bus with Dane, where every creak in the floorboards carries, and the shower is barely big enough to sneeze in.

So, I haven’t done anything to take the edge off since Luc lit the fuse, and now the ache he left behind is still burning in places I didn’t know could ache so fiercely.

It was hot. Stupid hot. Just like Delacroix himself. The kind of heat that makes your brain shut off and your hips press forward all on their own.

He was possessive, and the way his body pressed into mine like he wanted all of it, like…

I shift on the table.

No. Not going there.

Breathe, Alaina. Concentrate on the pain.

And yeah, there’s plenty of that. Whoever said diamonds are a girl’s best friend clearly never met Naproxen.

I slept in the goddamn driver’s seat of the bus last night and the night before. Curled up with a blanket over my head and spine propped against the gear stick, which let’s be honest, was dumb as fuck considering how I hurt on a normal day after sleeping in a bed, but Dane is still sick and quarantined to the back of the bus.

And, of course, that thought loops me back to Finn because he knows.

He knows.

He hasn’t said a word, though. Not after the tire was fixed, and we were stuck again for the rest of the drive over here, and not since.

And then there’s Mason, who’s apparently still mad at me. Sure, he helped change the tire, but he didn’t look at me or acknowledge me in any way. Not even a ‘hey.’ It’s all fucked.

Luc, Finn, Mason.