Bane (Sinners of Saint #4)(59)

My eyes widened. This had taken a wrong turn, fast. I didn’t want to get into the story. I didn’t even want to know how Bane knew they weren’t minors, and how deep he’d dug into my case.

“The case is closed, Officer Villegas. Nothing to talk about anymore. Let’s go, Jesse.”

Pam’s words came back to haunt me. I shook my head, trying to swallow the bitter lump in my throat.

“Can we not talk about it?”

“No. We kind of have to.”

“Really, Bane? On my birthday?”

“It’s Roman. And will you talk about it tomorrow?”

No. “Maybe.”

“You let them get away with it.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” I growled. The way I said that, with my eyes burning holes through his newly-shaven skin, must have told him he was in no position to talk to me about it. He narrowed his eyes, the fire in them promising the retaliation I was reluctant to seek for myself, then wiped the anger from his face completely and smiled.

“So, how did I do?”

I looked back to the wetsuit and the snow globe.

“Great,” I bit out, still angry about the sudden change of topic. “Thank you.”

“Anything else you want for your birthday?”

I smoothed a hand over the wetsuit, smiling at it absentmindedly. “It’s more than enough, really. You made my day.” My year.

He leaned forward, and we were close. Too close. Close enough for me to fantasize about what might happen. Close enough for me to get the wrong idea. I leaned back, afraid I’d kiss him and make a fool of myself.

“What?” I swallowed. His eyes were heavy in the same way they’d been in the storage room, but also different. The agony was deeper, more profound.

We’re just a helium balloon waiting to pop, every breath bringing us a step closer.

“You could ask for anything,” he enunciated, and I knew what he was shooting for. A kiss. But I was done begging. My father had once said that affection shouldn’t be asked for. It is not a reward, but a necessity.

“Anything?” I batted my eyelashes. He leaned closer still, the heat of his body seeping into mine. My chest was tight, my limbs jelly. Everything was backward and weird. Illogical, yet made perfect sense.

“Anything.” His voice was a soft snarl, his lips inches from mine. And it was tempting, but I had to do it. For my self-esteem. For the way the power was distributed between us in our relationship.

“Then I want you to show me your ass. Seems unfair that the maze got to see it, but I didn’t.”

It took him a few seconds to recover, jerk away, and stand up, but to Roman’s credit, he did it without as much as a grumble.

He lifted a warning finger in my direction before twisting to show me his back. “Is this going to turn into a case where you’ll fall so deeply in love with my ass, I will have to file a restraining order against you?”

I braced myself on my forearms, a cocky smile on my face. “I can’t commit to an answer, but I’ll try my best not to become a stalker.”

He shrugged. “Worst-case scenario—it’d be nice to have someone tell me a day before I run out of beer.”

He turned around and pulled his cargo pants down, not bothering to twist his head and see my reaction. I gulped. His tight, muscular ass had a skull dripping blood down to his thigh, three skeletons holdings surfboards and smiling, and another, third tattoo, that said “Cool Story, Bro.”

“Tell me the story,” I said. He tugged his pants up and rounded my bed, sliding in again, fitting perfectly next to me like that’s where he belonged. We were tucked next to each other.

“I lost a bet.”

“You’re kidding me.” My jaw dropped, but he just pulled one shoulder in an I-fucking-wish shrug.

I blinked, giving him a soft shove. “Who inks something like that on their ass because their friends told them to?”

“Someone who doesn’t give two shits and never misses an opportunity to do something stupid,” he quipped, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear. I grabbed his hand, dragged it to my mouth and kissed his open palm. He nearly flinched, and it saddened me. He’d slept with so many women, but I wondered when the last time he’d been kissed on the knuckles, hugged in the rain, or had been loved the way everyone deserved to be loved.

“You need to respect your body more, Roman. The tattoos. The women. You can say no. You’re so screwed up over this.” This was his father. This was like The Incident. Mental scars are like Lord Voldemort. They shall not be spoken.

He pretended to flatten the collar of my oversized shirt with his hand, looking down at it when he said, “Tell you what. I’ll stop treating my body like it’s a frat house, if you promise to stop treating yours like it’s made of marshmallow and sin. Come surf with me tomorrow.”

I laughed. “And if I do?”

“Then I won’t get any more stupid-ass tattoos. Pun intended.”

“Not fair. You don’t have any more space for them, anyway.”

He stroked his chin then pointed at his smooth, shaven face. “I do now.”

I swatted his chest. “I’ll kill you.”

“Trust me, baby. You’re already halfway there.”

“What does that mean?” I purred.