Nash (Marked Men #4)(7)

I was getting uncomfortable. I did great with strangers when they were bleeding and needed my help, but this kind of interaction was out of my wheelhouse even if I did agree with her on the hotness levels of Nash’s crew of friends.

The guy with the scar was Nash’s old roommate, Rome Archer. He was dead sexy in a warrior, take-care-of-business kind of way. I knew firsthand because he had been a patient of mine not too long ago. At the hospital the other night I caught a glimpse of Rule Archer, he was Nash’s best friend and he was still gorgeous and dangerous-looking in his own unique way. Later on in the night Jet Keller had shown up with a blond guy who looked like he had escaped from the 1950s and another guy that was so undeniably handsome that it was necessary to look twice at him just to make sure your eyes weren’t playing tricks on you. All three, hot and oozing sex appeal and trouble in different ways. I just didn’t know this woman well enough to divulge any of those insights to her, not that I would be comfortable doing that even if she wasn’t a stranger.

I knocked on the door more out of desperation to get away from her and her curious gaze than to see if Nash would answer.

Of course he didn’t and I felt like an idiot. I shifted uneasily from foot to foot and tried to knock again.

“Good luck. He hasn’t opened it for anyone else.” She sounded amused and I flushed bright red. I would never get over feeling like I was always the butt of someone’s joke. It made me feel kind of sick to my stomach, more so because she looked the way she did.

I was lifting my hand to knock one last time when the door suddenly yanked open and I was face to chest with a mostly naked, furiously scowling, obviously inebriated Nash Donovan. Those amazing eyes that were trapped somewhere between purple and blue blinked sluggishly at me and I let out a startled gasp as he grasped the hand I still had lifted up to knock and pulled me toward him.

“You must have the lucky touch, Red. Good for you.” The neighbor’s laughing voice followed me into the apartment as Nash stumbled unsteadily backward, taking me with him.

He slammed the door closed behind me with a thud and tried to focus on me out of bloodshot eyes. He smelled like booze, cigarette smoke, and I couldn’t help but wrinkle my nose up in distaste. I could physically handle myself. It was a job requirement in the ER, but at the moment he looked kind of feral and I had to admit his glowering, grumbling presence was slightly menacing.

He was taller than average, but so was I, meaning he wasn’t really looming so much as he was threatening, because he was so unfamiliar and unhinged in his current state. It would be a flat-out lie if I tried to pretend like I didn’t notice that even in his disheveled and drunken state he was in good shape. He obviously took pretty good care of himself aside from pickling his liver and that awful habit of smoking. He had always been a darkly handsome guy, his dark brows slashing and dramatic on a face that was full of character holding a hint of unknown ethnicity behind it. Those purplish eyes of his were out of this world and unforgettable. They were really too pretty and delicate-looking to be on such a masculine face.

I think it was the fact that all he had on was a pair of black boxer shorts revealing there wasn’t an exposed part of his olive-toned skin that didn’t have some kind of design inked on it that was making me a little bit overwhelmed. I liked tattoos, had a couple myself, but Nash’s dedication to decorating his body was on an entirely different level. I mean I wasn’t surprised at the amount of artwork he was sporting considering he had those brilliant flames tattooed on his head and a curved ring in the center of his nose. That was all designed to make a statement, to proclaim that he didn’t have to live by anyone’s rules but his own, which I guess was fine and worked for him, but it was a lot to take in for me when I already considered him a danger and kind of a douche bag.

I refused to admit I was openly checking him out. I couldn’t help it. He was missing clothes, built and gorgeous, even if all that was under miles of ink.

“I ordered pizza.”

I looked up at him and asked like a moron:

“What?”

“I thought you were the pizza guy, but you’re not.”

He stumbled back a few steps, grabbed the back of the couch, and sort of just slithered down until he was sitting on the floor across from me. He stuck his long legs out in front of him and rubbed his watery eyes with the knuckles of his hands. What in the hell was happening right now? It was like he had just folded in on himself right in front of my eyes. He was disappearing inside of himself.

“Are you okay, Nash? A lot of people are worried about you.”

He gave a laugh that sounded so broken, so jagged, I felt it scrape across my skin, leaving goose bumps in its wake.

“No.”

I wasn’t following his slurred or broken side of the conversation, maybe because I was totally distracted by his naked torso. I had seen a few good-looking guys in their underwear in my time, some at work, some not. None of them in memory held a candle to Nash. Someone should tell him what he did for a pair of black boxers should be considered a lethal weapon to a woman’s sanity.

“No, what?” I had to make a real effort to try and follow his scattered additions to our choppy conversation.

He tilted his head back so that he could look up at me. The flames over his ears were attached to more tattooed flames that curled up over his massive shoulders and onto the front of his chest. I guiltily wanted to see what they attached to on the backside of him. He also had what appeared to be some kind of intricately inked wings that draped all the way across his rib cage, down both sides of his corrugated abs, and disappeared into the front of his boxers on either side of his belly button. I couldn’t even imagine how bad something like that had to hurt, but the tattoo work was impressive in its enormity and detail and so was the rock-hard body that it lived on.