What Lasts in Us

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Which are being used as a chew toy by Dog. He growls, trying to kill Nate's shirt, and doesn't notice me. But then I spot Nate, a little ways over. I approach, favouring my ankle.

Nate stands naked waist-deep in the river. His back faces me, and I watch as his swirling tattoos that cover most of his body, twisting and curling up one arm and up the side of his neck, the wings on his back, move as his body does, like living art. He splashes himself periodically, drenching himself from the head down. His dark hair is slicked back, and the water travelling south highlights the bullet wound he sustained to his shoulder, the injury breaking up the ink.

As he turns slightly, he steps closer to shore; the water descends to his pelvis, dangerously close to exposing more of him than I wish to see. But then I notice the familiar bar of soap in his hand. He scrubs it first through his hair, then over his arms, chest, stomach, and back.

I'm quite happy in just watching him, in a creepy/ stalkerish way from behind the trees. I mean, I can definitely appreciate him from afar. I'd have to be blind to think he's not good-looking, what with his broad shoulders and narrow hips and bulging muscles. It's riveting to watch, even as he submerges the bar of soap and–

"I use that on my face," I say, and never have I heard my voice sound so bad. It scrapes like sandpaper; a croak. I clear my throat, which of course does nothing.

Nate looks up then, and watches as I slowly and painfully approach. I know he's taking stock of me and my injuries, and he doesn't look away or say anything as he continues to wash himself, like I haven't just interrupted his bath time. His movements are mechanical, slow, like he's distracted. But then a wicked grin slowly turns up the corners of his mouth.

"I don't want dick on my face," I say to him, and god help me for having a voice that is croaky and sore and scratchy. I swallow, but it doesn't do me any good; it only irritates my throat further.

Nate continues to wash himself, now with exaggerated movements; his arm is lost beneath the water. I doubt he's unintentionally flexing; I doubt he's not trying to draw my attention to certain areas. "Did you just call me a dick?"

I smirk at him, though it's uncomfortable to do so. "If you want to be, you can."

Nate's grin slowly turns into his smirk, that stupid all-knowing one. He gives me a brief look before he turns his attention to my bar of soap, which he brings to the surface and rubs between his hands. The water around him turns soapy. To say my eyes don't drift to his abs would be a bit of a lie. "It's all good. See? Clean."

I scoff at him, but the sound only agitates my throat. "You can keep it."

Nate looks up at me, shrugging before he tosses the soap to me. It lands at my feet. "Can't waste it," he says simply before he leans forward and dips his hair into the water. In doing so, he gives me a nice glimpse of his ass.

"Do you always put on a show for the ladies?" I croak. I take a seat on the ground by the river, the ground warm through my jeans. The sunlight shines directly upon my head, and a slight breezes kicks droplets of water onto me every now and again. But it's refreshing – a word I haven't used to describe a situation since Day Zero.

Nate's back is still to me as he washes his hair. "Only for you," he says.

"I'm flattered."

"I can tell." He turns to me now, his mouth crooked up in that smirk of his. "Join me."

"Unfortunately I would have to say no to that."

He cocks an eyebrow and takes a step forward, the water dipping dangerously low on his pelvis.