7. Echo

7

Echo

I drink two glasses of wine with dinner and pretend the glinting amusement in his eyes is interest.

Later, I jack off in the crisp white sheets of his downstairs guest room, imagining it's his hand wrapped around my cock. The tan muscles of his forearm shifting with each stroke, his fingers in my mouth, salty and calloused. And when I slip one spit-slick digit behind my balls and press it into my own heat, I come hard enough to forget how terrified I am of tomorrow.

It doesn't last.

I'm awake a few hours later, my heart pounding to the faint throb in my head, the sheets gone clammy with the half-remembered panic of another nightmare.

The house is dark and spectrally silent. Even in our gated community at home, the night is always full of small sounds. The frantic bark of some neighbor's 50K guard dog warning off a coon, the far-off wail of LA's ever-present sirens, the hushed growl of the security trucks making their midnight rounds. Apparently, NorCal doesn't even have crickets at 4 a.m. in April.

The sky here, on the other hand, is a vast orchestra of stars. The silver light filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows that make up the south wall of the living room as I stumble out in search of a glass of water. More than enough illumination to see the rope's black silhouette hanging like a harbinger in the center of the room.

Today .

I'm out of time.

I should have let my parents into the studio to see the wreck I've become. That's what normal rich kids do, right? Let their parents bury their flaws under a shield of money and scotch-scented phone calls. Give him a little more time. We're handling things on our end. How many zeros on the check?

Just because I've never needed their protection before doesn't mean they wouldn't have given it. How many times did my dad bail Gabe out of some near-humiliation?

I am not like Gabe.

"Are you scared, little brother?"

My hand flinches back from the rope, and I stumble over the lip of the mat.

Am I still dreaming?

I suck in a breath and shove my hand into my pocket, where I curl each finger into my palm to a slow count of ten. I press my nails into the skin, digging for a pain I can point to, an excuse I can name. Too bad my calluses run even deeper than my scars.

I tiptoe up the stairs to the kitchen, lingering on the landing that leads to Byrd's bedroom. Three steps up, and I could open his door, cross the carpet, and crawl into his bed. Maybe he'd fuck me.

Idiot .

Most likely he'd toss me out, pissed—or worse, horrified. Either way, he'd be done, and I'd be back home. Safe. Alone.

Don't forget damaged and horny.

I remember him surreptitiously checking me out in the car, and the hitch of his breath when I cornered him outside the kitchen door. I can see his forearms flex in the glow of the refrigerator light and the shape of his lips closing over his finger. I still want to know if his hair feels as sinful as it looks.

I still want to be whole again.

Fuck it.

I climb the rest of the stairs and steal my glass of water from the tap. By the faint light of the abalone nightlight he left glowing above the counter, I stare at my name in his calendar and think about August. I notice a tiny circle around the date, and I realize the whole month going back is the same. He must mark off the days every night before he goes to bed. It's such a strange, old-fashioned quirk, like something out of a Hallmark movie. Or an after-school special about the football star who fucks up his knee and makes a miraculous recovery just in time for the big game. Like it should be a lesson instead of a time bomb.

I take the Sharpie and turn the small circle into a cartoon cock and balls.

Then I slink back to bed, going over everything I brought in my duffel to plan the most devastatingly sexy morning-workout outfit I can muster.

After a brief fantasy involving turquoise booty shorts and body glitter, I settle on a white wife-beater and pale-blue joggers that hug my ass. Simple and classic, and I've reaped the benefits of the look at the gym more times than I can count. Maybe I can distract him into ignoring the way my hands tremble when I reach for the rope.

In the watery daylight, the black canvas sheath that covers the braided core is faded with use and rosin to a well-loved gray, only the very top and the tail curling on the mat still dark with the original dye.

Byrd watches from the couch, sleeves shoved up above his elbows where they rest on his knees, and I'm forced to admit I'm way more distracted by his thighs in sweatpants than he seems to be by mine.

"Just run me through your usual warm-up," he says, offering an encouraging smile.

Right .

I want to show off. I want to surprise him. I want my acrobatic prowess to make his dick hard.

I do three basic climbs.

Tuck-ups. Straddle-ups. Single-coil wheel ups all the way to the top. At least those last ones are impressive. I cut the beat sequence short when the hardware starts to wobble at the point and my breath tightens in my chest. For a second, I hang there, letting the momentum ooze out of my body. When the rope settles, I force myself to invert, hooking my left knee so I can peel my clinging fingers free.

There are a dozen tricks I could do from here. Basic ones I can handle even on my off side, but my mind is full of static, and muscle memory eludes me, short-circuited by trauma's sharp current .

"Unlocked star?" Byrd's voice breaks through the buzzing in my brain, calm and casual.

It anchors on my bad hand when I do it on this side, but it's not really a release move since neither hand leaves the rope during the drop. I throw the tail across my waist and regrip, bracing for the rotation, and then pop my leg free. I ride out the short spin, my right arm locked straight to slow and control the drop. It's not as flashy as it could be, but it lets me absorb most of the landing with my left arm and shoulder, trapping the pole in my armpit so it doesn't pop free. I relax into the flag like an afterthought, hanging from my good hand with the other held out to the side, the rope taut between them.

So much for hiding my mess.

I let go and drop the few feet to the mat, flexing my fingers like it hurt and biting my lip.

"I'm okay," I lie, feeling like an asshole when his brow creases with concern.

"Reggie said you were cleared for more intensive training," he says, rising from the couch and reaching for my hand. "Does it still hurt?"

I hesitate, ready to lie again, but his long fingers close around my wrist, and the heat of his touch derails me.

"Nope." I flutter my lashes and tease my knuckles along his pulse, imagining it racing to catch up with mine. "But I won't complain if you want to kiss it better."

He drops my hand and narrows his eyes, but I swear the hint of a blush steals up his throat, and suddenly I do feel better. "In fact…" I offer up a slow smile. That's not all you can kiss.

"Nice try." He cuts me off before I can push it and ignores my best pout, returning to his perch on the couch. "Do the drop again. Let's see it on both sides. "

It goes better the second time, but my brief surge of confidence doesn't last. No amount of flirting can cover up the fact that the old Echo is lost, especially when Byrd refuses to rise to the bait again, and all my insecurities return with a vengeance. I limp through the rest of the workout until he finally calls it quits and sends me off to shower while he runs out to grab lunch from the local store.

Beneath the purgative spray of Byrd's rainfall showerhead, I rewrite the morning. The memory of his hand wrapped around my wrist spills into a fantasy where I'm tugged against his broad chest, his mouth whispering accolades over my skin. Naked, cocooned in steam-drenched glass, I fly flawlessly through every trick and cast the faint surprise behind his eyes as lust instead of cautious disappointment.

Tomorrow I get to try again.

Yay .

But first I get to spend the rest of the day with him—hearing his voice and watching him cook and whatever else he does for fun out here in the boonies. Maybe he'll let me suggest a few things to pass the time. I find the tiniest bath towel he owns to wrap around my hips while I saunter back through the house to my room.

Maybe if I can make him want me, I'll stop feeling so helpless in my skin, and the rest of me will come back too.

Even fallen angels are allowed to dream.