Chapter 7 · Thirty Seconds

I'd been standing in the steam ten full seconds before my brain caught up with my eyes.

Garrett. Under the rusted showerhead, tap cranked to scalding, water sheeting off his shoulders and breaking over a map of scar tissue.

Twelve gouges down the left side of his spine, spaced too even to be an accident. Two thick tracks sliding under his ribs. An older burn wrapping low around his hip, toward the front where I couldn't see.

A smart woman backs out of that room. Mumbles an apology. Freezes her ass off in the cab downstairs like a lady.

I didn't move.

The pipes groaned. The water snapped off.

"Door sticks," he said, back still to me. "Should've warned you."

Then he turned around.

Water dripped off his lashes. A fresh razor nick sat on his jaw. An ugly purple bruise spread across his lower ribs. His towel hung off a pipe by his elbow, and he didn't reach for it — didn't scramble to cover one inch of himself.

I kept my eyes nailed to his. It cost me every scrap of pride I had left.

"Nine o'clock, the bed's mine." My pitch came out wrong.