Page 25 of Riff

“Back home, we have a club brother, Detroit, best cook in the fucking state, I think,” Raff told me. “Think he could make you a spread that would make your grandma proud.”

“Do you guys cook?” I asked, glancing over toward Riff who’d polished off his whole breakfast platter. Because he had let me have all the food from the cabin.

“Never had a chance to learn,” Raff admitted. “We’re always in motel rooms. And our old man didn’t really cook. He barbecued, but that was about it. Do you cook?”

“A little,” I said, though it almost felt wrong to say that in the present tense, since I hadn’t cooked anything in months.

Riff started to clean up, tucking my leftovers into the mini fridge in the room, then gathering his clothes for a shower.

“While Riff takes a shower, I think I am gonna go run a couple of errands,” Raff said. Though I had a feeling he didn’t actually have anywhere to be, just sensed that I would feel uncomfortable alone in a motel room with him when Riff wasn’t in the same room. Which was really sweet.

In fact, being around these two men was the safest I’d felt in a long time.

So when Riff went into the bathroom, Raff went out of the door, and I got up to lock it before I got into the bed, making a cocoon with the covers, pillows, and the blanket and squishy stuffed kitten Raff had brought for me.

It was the warmest I’d felt in so long.

I felt my eyes immediately starting to get heavy.

But a few moments later, the bathroom door opened, letting out puffs of steam and the rich, woodsy scent of Riff’s soap, the same scent that was currently clinging to me.

He didn’t come out, was just trying to clear the steam, it seemed, as he stood inside the bathroom facing the mirror, dressed in a pair of low-slung, lightweight green plaid sleep pants.

The whole of that tattoo on his arm was on display, and I found myself wanting to know what else was mixed into the sleeve, if he had any silly tattoos like that slice of pizza his brother had.

From my cocoon, with nothing but my eyes and nose exposed, I found myself watching him as he dug out a toothbrush and paste, and got to work on his teeth before reaching up to run his fingers through his wet hair to push it back from his forehead.

Then, well, then he turned.

I mean, I guess I assumed he was fit. He’d effortlessly run through the woods. And he’d even carried me for hours without seeming the least bit bothered by the extra weight.

I just hadn’t seemed to think about the lean, taut muscle that might be below his clothing.

The breadth of his chest, the corded biceps, the indents of abdominal muscles, and the two cuts near his hips that disappeared into the waistband of his pants.

He reached for his shirt, making all those muscles twitch and flex, and I felt something I didn’t think my body would be capable of ever again.

A flutter of desire.

Primal, undeniable.

But absolutely horrifying to the part of my brain that was so tormented and traumatized.

I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the sensations to go away, as I listened to Riff clean up the bathroom, then make his way out into the bedroom.

He flicked on the TV, but lowered the volume down, likely thinking I was asleep, and not wanting to wake me.

Eventually, there was a light tap at the door, and Raff got up to let his brother in. There was the rustling of plastic bags and the click of the door and slide of the locks.

“She asleep?” Raff whispered.

“Yeah,” Riff answered. “I think she’s probably going to be doing a lot of that,” he said.

“Did you get a chance to talk to her?”

“Yeah. She doesn’t want to go to the police.”

“I’m not surprised,” Raff said. “I mean, she’d have to be poked and prodded, tell someone all that shit over and over. Maybe even go to court and face that motherfucker…”