All the Inside Howling (Hollow Folk #2)(102)

When Emmett sauntered up to us, though, all he said was, “Did you get a room?”

Becca held out the key and his wallet. She had a grin like a cat with a bowl of cream.

“Why’d I have to wait out here?”

“Never mind,” I said. “Just be grateful.”

We took the east staircase to the second floor. 28 was the room on the corner, and Becca let us inside. The light switch activated a single bulb overhead, and its light was an even darker mustard color, if that were possible, than the gumdrop lights outside. Under the window sat an old climate-control unit, which, when I turned it on, roared and clanked but put out a surprising amount of heat. Against one wall was a wooden table with huge letters spelling L SUCKS J in nail polish—cherry red—across the top, and a console TV with rabbit ears. One of the ears was wrapped in tin foil still printed with the Jolly Green Giant and the words Green Beans. There was a sink. There was a door to the bathroom. And then I had to look at them: two beds.

Becca was already climbing onto one of the beds, and when she noticed my look, she snorted and waved a hand. “You two, over there.”

“But—”

“Over. There.”

“Becca,” I said. “Think about this. It’s actually better if I’m with you. Nothing can—”

“Vie.”

“He—”

She threw out one arm, pointing imperiously at the bed, and I surrendered. Emmett, standing between us, fixed me with a look. If Becca, earlier, had a smile like a cat with a bowl of cream, then Emmett had a smile like a cat with a bowl full of dead mice, lightly seasoned with catnip.

“Forget it,” I said, brushing past him and crawling onto the bed. I plumped the pillows and made a line down the middle.

“I didn’t say anything,” Emmett said, but his grin had grown, that little shit, and it was making me blush. The room was already too damn hot, and little beads of sweat broke out under my collar.

“Well you can forget it anyway.”

“Sure.” He held up both hands. “Innocent as a lamb.”

“Emmett, I’m not joking. Forget it.”

“Forget what?” He got onto the bed, pushing me back with one hand and straddling me. Five days ago, I could have knocked him off like he was a bag of feathers. I mean, the kid had muscle, but not nearly as much as I did. After the last few days, though, all I could do was grit my teeth against all my aches and try to shove him away. It didn’t work, and within a few moments, Emmett had me pinned. He put his cheek against mine, his stubble rough against my cheek and striking sparks like tiny cascades of lightning down through my chest. “Mr. Vie Eliot, when this happens, and it will happen, you are going to be more than willing. Trust me.”

“You’re an ass,” I said. “Would you get off me?”

He laughed, and as he pulled back his stubble scraped my cheek again, all those sparks falling on me like I was dry tinder. He rolled onto the bed next to me—but safely on the other side of the pillows, and let out a groan. “Sleeping arrangements aside, this has got to be the worst trip I’ve ever been on.”

“It’s not over yet,” I said.

“It’s over for today,” Becca said, flipping off the light. “Goodnight.”

And somehow, in spite of everything, I slept.

Morning came slowly, by degrees. The hot electric smell of the climate-control unit came first, like a cheap toaster pushed too far. Then came the sound of Emmett’s breathing. Then his warmth, almost indistinguishable from my own because at some point in the night, the great wall of pillows had been cast down. One of Emmett’s slim, toned arms lay across my chest, and his head was tucked against my shoulder.

Asleep, with his long, dark lashes brushing his cheeks, with the cockiness and his other irritating qualities temporarily hidden, he was . . . beautiful. I dodged that word, circled around it, but I kept coming back to it. His features were refined, like it had taken generations to get everything right but once it got right, well, watch out, baby. Beautiful, more than hot or handsome or good-looking. The kind of beautiful people write songs about, the kind they put in glass and paint and stone so they can have it forever, even if they can only have it in part. The kind that can stop your heart, really stop it, and the only thing that can get it moving again is a look or a smile or a touch.

“Stop staring at me,” Emmett said thickly, without opening his eyes.

“I am not staring at you.”

He knuckled the corner of his mouth, cracked an eye, and studied his arm across my chest. “Guess you changed your mind.”

“Real funny.”

“I didn’t move the pillows,” he said.

“Neither did I.”

“Ha, ha,” he said. “Just admit it. I’ll admit that I cuddled up to you once they were gone, but you have to admit you moved them.”

“I did not move the pillows.”

“Just like you weren’t staring at me.”

“I—” I stopped. “Where’s Becca?”

Her bed was made, and the door to the bathroom stood open and showed that she was not there. Emmett slid up against the wall. At some point, he had taken off his shirt, and the finely worked muscles across his chest and stomach rippled as he stretched. That stretch seemed to go on and on, and I thought my eyes were going to dry up and fall out of my head from staring, because good God, that boy had a body. Then Emmett laughed, and my cheeks heated. I swiped up his shirt and tossed it at him.