Does It Hurt? (46)

“You got a problem with it? Don’t see yer name written anywhere on her,” Sylvester retorts.

“I won’t just write it, I’ll carve it. Take your hand off her, or I will do it for you.”

Abruptly, I stand, dislodging Sylvester’s grip and attracting both of their attention.

“Let’s not fight, okay? And while I appreciate both of your concerns, please don’t use me as a tool in your pissing contest.”

Sylvester opens his mouth, but I rush out of the room before he can get a word out.

I run. Because that’s what I do best.



I’m sitting on the bed reading through an old book about lighthouses when a knock rumbles against the door. Sylvester opens it and steps through a moment later, not even giving me time to let him know it’s okay to come in.

I sigh.

He has no concept of privacy except when it comes to his own. I could have been changing, though I only have a few spare t-shirts and one pair of shorts anyways. My bathing suit is my only source of undergarments, and I only take them off long enough to wash them before slipping them right back on.

“I owe ya an apology for earlier,” Sylvester says, appearing contrite.

It’s been a few hours since I escaped from the dick-measuring showdown, but I haven’t seen Enzo since.

The bastard probably went to my cave, and I’m fully prepared to fight him over it. I found that damn cave, so I reserve the right to control who has custody of it and when.

I shrug. “It’s cool. Testosterone gets the best of us,” I say mildly.

“Meh, well, I don’t think it gets the best of you, but I hear what yer saying. That boy doesn’t got no manners, and my pride got in the way there. I’m sorry if I made ya uncomfortable.”

“Sure. I think as long as everyone keeps their hands to themselves from now on, there shouldn’t be any more issues like that.”

His bottom lip juts out as he nods, and for a moment, he almost looks displeased by my answer. It seems as if he was expecting me to say his touching me didn’t make me uncomfortable, but well… it did.

And I may be a liar, but I’m not about to invite this old man to put his hands on me whenever he pleases.

I’ll go live with the fucking glowworms before that happens.

“That include yer friend, too?” he asks finally, keeping his stare pinned to the wooden floor.

I frown, my brow furrowing.

“What do you mean?”

Sylvester shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “I imagine any man would have a hard time keeping their hands to themselves when you look like ya do and are dressed how ya are. Can’t exactly blame ’em, can ya?”

I blink. “Sounds like you’re talking about little boys. A man wouldn’t touch a woman without their consent,” I volley back. “Plus, a bathing suit isn’t an invitation to be violated.”

Sure it is, pipsqueak. You're practically crying for fucking attention.

He chuckles deep in his throat, the rough sound lacking humor.

“It’s been a rough day. Bedtime is at seven PM tonight, ah’ight?”

“What? Why?”

He grumbles something, waddling his way over to the door.

“We’ll all start fresh tomorrow mornin’,” is all he says.

Just as he steps out, Enzo appears, his face immediately cast in suspicion. He’s shirtless, and it’s almost enough to distract me from the caretaker’s odd behavior.

Sylvester keeps silent and just waits for Enzo to enter the room, the pair watching each other closely.

“You two have a good night,” the old man calls before firmly closing the door behind him.

I stand, having no idea what the hell to say but prepared to say something, until I hear an audible click.

“Did you just lock us in here?” I shout, rushing to the door and jiggling the doorknob.

“Sleep tight,” he calls back, before hobbling down the hallway.

“The fuck? He seriously locked us in?” Enzo barks, pushing me aside to try the door handle for himself.

Enzo slams a hand on the wood. “Hey! It’s fucking seven o’clock, man. Let us out.”

However, Sylvester is already gone, on his way down the metal steps, if the metallic ringing sound is any indication.

“What the hell happened?” he snaps, turning his glare to me accusingly.

“I didn’t do anything!” I shout defensively. “Where were you anyway?”

“I’ve been downstairs fixing a few things so I could focus on something else other than throttling him. I just went to take a shower ten minutes ago and came out to this,” he explains, frustration evident in his tone.

It’s only now that I realize that water droplets are clinging to the fine dusting of hair on his chest, dripping down the contours of his abs. His hair and beard are growing out, yet it doesn’t make him look any less devastating. Coupled with the fierce expression on his face, my organs are currently on fire, and my blood is the gasoline.

“So, what happened?” he repeats, his brow furrowed with anger.

Clearing my throat, I will myself to refocus on the issue at hand.

“He came in here to apologize and then ended up saying if a man touches me, I asked for it because I'm wearing a bikini and shorts.”