Death Layer (The Depraved Club) by Celia Loren, Colleen Masters

tile.
    “No,” I moan, protesting as his hands grab the sides of my
shirt.
    Sleep was so close.
    “Arms up,” Bane grunts.
    When I don’t move, he swears to himself under his breath and
reaches around my hips for the edge of his t-shirt, reversing the roll until it
bunches up around my uncooperative arms. Giving me another grumpy glare, Bane
haunches down to squat in front of me. I feel his fingers working under my sore
shoulder joints, but I am too tired to help or hinder. He draws me close to
him, resting my ribcage across his thighs as he works the t-shirt over my
shoulders and head with surprisingly gentle hands.
    Now I’m just in my dirty bra and underwear again. Bane’s
hands tilt my ribcage back up and steer me until I am leaning against the wall,
facing him. He reaches for the straps of my bra and my breath becomes ragged as
I realize his intention: he’s going for naked. With a whimper, I draw my arms
across my body.
    “Stop.”
    He marks my reflex with a smirk. “Relax, Red,” he whispers.
His eyes trail down my shivering body. “Your new garbage perfume could turn any
dick into a limp rag.”
    That irascible grin of his is back and I realize he’s
teasing me like Rachel would, or Blake. Or Mr. King. The thought stirs up mixed
feelings, a warring sense of longing and distrust.
    “That’s what I was going for,” I retort huskily through my
haze of exhaustion and nerves. “Because your man-whore habits could turn any
lady boner into common sense.”
    He blinks at me as if he’s not sure whether to slap me or
laugh. Rather than respond, he pushes up to his feet, twists a faucet and
stalks away, slamming a frosted glass door behind him.
    A hot stream of water cascades over me and I yelp in
surprise.
“Shower,” Bane explains sardonically. “Soap is above you, unless you’d rather I
do it for you. You have ten seconds.”
    I achingly scramble to obey as he trudges away. It’s the
first time I’ve been alone or clean since Mr. King dragged me to this hell, and
in spite of my depletion I find myself singing softly—perhaps there is a shred
of humanity left in me, after all. By the time I’ve lathered and rinsed
everything, I almost feel like a person. Just as I turn off the water, I see
Bane’s dark shape fill the frosted glass door and a threadbare towel is snapped
unceremoniously in my face.
    “Towel,” he grunts before disappearing again.
    Baffled by his caveman-like hospitality, I dry myself and
wrap my hair in the towel. It’s surprisingly clean, if old. As I slowly and
carefully make my way out of the shower, I am surprised to find a large white
t-shirt and boxer briefs folded on the sink waiting for me.
    Dressed, I push the bathroom door open and find myself in
Bane’s utilitarian bedroom. He is sitting on the bed in gym shorts,
cross-legged and shirtless, eating Chinese food out of a takeout container.
    “Where’d you learn to sing like that?” He asks. When I don’t
respond, Bane sighs and tosses a box at me that I barely manage to catch.
“Eat.”
    His eyes follow me as I precariously lower myself to sit on
the floor as far away from the bed as possible. More urgent than my wariness
and attraction to Bane, though, is my growling stomach. I can’t remember the
last time I’ve eaten.
    Peeling open the lid of the takeout container, I see that
it’s chicken fried rice. My stomach lets out a hungry rumble that can probably
be heard in the Empire State building. I’m about to dig in with my bare hands
when a plastic spoon and paper napkin launch across the room and smack into my
face.
    “Ow!”
    “Hey!” Bane’s voice is terse. “Manners!”
    I don’t bother to shoot him a withering look. I am too
hungry and use the spoon to begin shoveling food into my mouth. For a few
blissful minutes, my entire world is chicken fried rice. The only thing that
interrupts my ravenous gorging is Bane’s low whistle.
    “Jesus,” he mutters. “My mother would whip your ass for
eating like