Five Ways to Fall (Ten Tiny Breaths, #4)(55)

“I thought maybe . . .” she says as she gingerly pulls my sheet down and climbs into my bed, sliding a leg over my body to straddle my thighs, “ . . . I could stay here for the night and,” she leans over, her arms resting on either side of my pillow, her fake double-Ds pressing against my chest, “get my fill of Ben. Is that okay?”

I can’t help but chuckle. Mercy has a way with words. She never comes right out and says anything dirty, but the implication is thick. My brain conveniently skips over the “stay for the night” part and goes straight to the part where she’s shimmying down my body, until her long hair grazes my stomach and the heat of her mouth wraps around me.

And then, with a deep groan, my brain just shuts down altogether.



“Are you okay?” I hear Mason ask from the doorway.

“I’m going to get my ass kicked and I probably deserve it,” I mutter, staring at my phone.

Do you want to go to Storm and Dan’s together this weekend?



I knew I shouldn’t have let that happen. But what do you do when a gorgeous stripper shows up in your bedroom in the middle of the night? No guy would say no to that. I don’t care you who are. And if you tell me you’d say no? You’re f*cking lying or you’re gay.

She had never slept over before, though. I was up and out before she woke this morning, so at least there wasn’t an awkward goodbye. And now she’s texting me about going to a wedding together? Yeah, it’s Storm and Dan, but . . . still. I don’t like the way my gut feels about this. It’s telling me that Mercy is definitely wanting more. Telling her I just want to be friends isn’t going to work. She’ll bob her pretty head and say, “I know, Ben,” and then she’ll grab my cock. Short of me bringing someone else as a date, I’ll end up with my pants around my ankles in a bathroom by cocktails.

Shit. That means I need to bring a date! But who? Who is there to bring? I can’t bring anyone that I’ve screwed around with in the past—that’ll just get me into the same boat as the one I’m in with Mercy. I mean, it’s a wedding. Chicks get weird at weddings. They trample each other to catch flying flowers. I need someone who’s not looking for anything from me. I need . . . “Where’s your sister today?” I ask Mason suddenly. I’ve been eyeing Reese’s office all morning and there’s been no sign of life. She promised she’d be here to help me. Plus, as much as I hate to admit it, not getting my morning dose of Reese is noticeable. It’s like I’m in withdrawal.

“Stepsister,” he corrects. “And she’s at home, sick.”

“Seriously?” Shit. She did say she was leaving early yesterday to catch some sleep.

He nods. “And she took a bunch of files with her, including one of mine accidently. I’m heading over there now to go pick it up.” Adding under his breath, “Into that infested house.”

That’s right. Mason tends to avoid sick people like they’re all potential carriers of the bubonic plague. “I’ll go. I’m not a sissy,” I quickly throw out.

“Ben. Trust me, you don’t want—”

“It’s fine. Besides, she likes me more.”

Some thought passes through those green eyes of his and then I think I catch a flicker of a smile. It’s too fast to confirm, though. Fishing his keys out of his pocket, he tosses them onto my desk. “Here—she probably won’t answer the door.” He scribbles down the address. “I need the files back by noon today. Can you pick her up some cold medication? I promised Jack I would.”

“What does she want?”

He shrugs. “Tylenol? Nyquil? Valium?”

“All right.” I collect the keys and the address. And wait for it.

And wait for it.

Finally, I give up. “Dude, aren’t you going to warn me not to try anything on your sister?”

“Stepsister!” he corrects sharply, but then that little hint of a smile is back. “And no. I’m not too worried about that.” Mason takes off, throwing over his shoulder, “By twelve. I need the file by twelve.”

Well, that gives me almost two hours to figure out how I’m going to convince Reese to come to a wedding with me.





Chapter 17




REESE





“How are there no drugs in this damn house!”

“You know all that stuff does is suppress your immune system,” Lina’s voice blasts over speakerphone in my room. “This is why I tell you to take ginseng every day.”

“You and Jiminy Cricket both,” I mutter, staring at the wall across from me, my head propped by three pillows until I’m almost sitting. Because I can’t breathe otherwise. I’ve already raided Mason’s bathroom vanity. It’s brimming with vitamins and supplements, but there’s nothing of any real value. Jack’s not much help to me either right now, given that he believes a shot of vodka a day keeps all illnesses at bay. The only thing I found of any use was a small tub of Vicks, with which I’ve already coated my chest, my back, even my upper lip.

“And does Jiminy Cricket get sick? Because I don’t get sick.”

“I’m convinced that neither of you are quite human. That’s probably why you’ve found each other,” I mutter, my ratty but comforting gray robe wrapped around me in a cocoon not warding off the chill running through my body. I thought it was simply lack of sleep with all the Jared stuff on my mind. I left work, planning to take a nap and catch up in the evening. I may as well have just left all those file folders at work, because I passed out the second my head hit my pillow and didn’t wake up for thirteen hours. Now I can’t stop shivering and my head is about to explode from the sinus pressure. All I want to do is self-medicate but, short of some pills that expired ten years ago—which I’m seriously considering taking—the house is empty of all worthy narcotics.