Didn’t manage that last night in bed, did you? Couldn’t exactly keep him out of your head. He’s playing a game, but you don’t have to. Get back on the phone and call a doctor.
“Fine, give me the knife,” Miller said, rising to the challenge he saw in Danny’s eyes. Too late he remembered how he’d never been able to back down as a kid when Scott called his bluff, Scott using that knowledge to drive Miller to dumber and dumber heights. Once Scott had challenged him to see how long he could keep a lighter against his palm. Probably would have burned a hole clean through his hand, but Junie had walked in and screamed the house down. He still had the scar. Taking a dare didn’t always work out so well for Miller Sutton in the long run.
“Over here,” Danny motioned, switching on the nearby table 80 | Brooke McKinley
lamp as he lowered himself to the sofa. He yanked off his black sweater, the material ruffling his hair and unleashing the cowlick in front. His white T-shirt came next, revealing the row of stitches and the downy mat of hair covering his chest, trailing off over his stomach where it disappeared into a thin line inside his jeans.
Miller cut his eyes away, pretending to study his fingernails as heat bloomed in his cheeks, his neck stiff and prickly with warmth.
“Ready?” Danny asked, raising his left arm so Miller could get to the wound.
Miller nodded. He knelt on the floor in front of Danny, eyes trained on the ladder of black knots. So fucking careful not to look anywhere else. “Here goes nothing,” he muttered, laying one hand gingerly on Danny’s side.
Danny flinched backward, sucking in a strangled laugh. “Cold,” he explained with a smile.
“Oh, sorry, beer bottle.” Miller rubbed his hand against his thigh, bringing warmth to his fingertips. “Better?” he asked as he replaced his hand, Danny’s skin hot and silky under his fingers.
“Yeah.”
Miller held the tiny scissors, snipping tentatively at each stitch.
“It doesn’t hurt,” Danny reassured him.
Never had a space been so quiet. Miller could hear nothing but the sound of Danny’s breathing, the faint metallic snap of the scissors, his own heart galloping in his chest.
“I’m going to start pulling them now,” Miller warned. He wished Danny would crack a joke, start running his mouth the way he usually did. Anything to cut the smothering silence that was sucking up all the air in the room and making it impossible for him to breathe.
Miller began with the topmost stitch, plucking with the tweezers, pulling it out in one quick, smooth stroke. He could feel Danny’s eyes on him as he worked.
“You’re good at that,” Danny said quietly.
Shades of Gray | 81
“You’ve had a lot of stitches?” Miller asked, hoping to break the intimacy of the act he was performing.
“My fair share. The ones in my head were the worst.” Miller worked steadily down the row until he was tugging at the last stitch, his eyes drawn to the angry red line left in their absence.
“Okay,” he said, his voice low. “You’re done.” Neither of them moved. Miller’s steadying hand remained glued to Danny’s side, his eyes still fascinated with Danny’s newest scar. He wanted to touch it. God, he didn’t know what was wrong with him, but for the first time in his life he was incapable of restraining his impulses, his body’s urges growing stronger than his iron will.
He leaned forward, running a finger gently down the red welt, tracing its path on Danny’s tender flesh. He could smell Danny the way he had when they’d wrestled earlier in the week, that newly familiar scent of smoke and soap and sweat. It was the best thing Miller had ever smelled; he wanted to bury his face in Danny’s skin and just breathe, let it fill him up.
Miller looked up. Danny’s eyes were serious on his, not daring him anymore, not mocking, just watching. Those eyes worked their way under Miller’s defenses, uncovering things he had
“Fine, give me the knife,” Miller said, rising to the challenge he saw in Danny’s eyes. Too late he remembered how he’d never been able to back down as a kid when Scott called his bluff, Scott using that knowledge to drive Miller to dumber and dumber heights. Once Scott had challenged him to see how long he could keep a lighter against his palm. Probably would have burned a hole clean through his hand, but Junie had walked in and screamed the house down. He still had the scar. Taking a dare didn’t always work out so well for Miller Sutton in the long run.
“Over here,” Danny motioned, switching on the nearby table 80 | Brooke McKinley
lamp as he lowered himself to the sofa. He yanked off his black sweater, the material ruffling his hair and unleashing the cowlick in front. His white T-shirt came next, revealing the row of stitches and the downy mat of hair covering his chest, trailing off over his stomach where it disappeared into a thin line inside his jeans.
Miller cut his eyes away, pretending to study his fingernails as heat bloomed in his cheeks, his neck stiff and prickly with warmth.
“Ready?” Danny asked, raising his left arm so Miller could get to the wound.
Miller nodded. He knelt on the floor in front of Danny, eyes trained on the ladder of black knots. So fucking careful not to look anywhere else. “Here goes nothing,” he muttered, laying one hand gingerly on Danny’s side.
Danny flinched backward, sucking in a strangled laugh. “Cold,” he explained with a smile.
“Oh, sorry, beer bottle.” Miller rubbed his hand against his thigh, bringing warmth to his fingertips. “Better?” he asked as he replaced his hand, Danny’s skin hot and silky under his fingers.
“Yeah.”
Miller held the tiny scissors, snipping tentatively at each stitch.
“It doesn’t hurt,” Danny reassured him.
Never had a space been so quiet. Miller could hear nothing but the sound of Danny’s breathing, the faint metallic snap of the scissors, his own heart galloping in his chest.
“I’m going to start pulling them now,” Miller warned. He wished Danny would crack a joke, start running his mouth the way he usually did. Anything to cut the smothering silence that was sucking up all the air in the room and making it impossible for him to breathe.
Miller began with the topmost stitch, plucking with the tweezers, pulling it out in one quick, smooth stroke. He could feel Danny’s eyes on him as he worked.
“You’re good at that,” Danny said quietly.
Shades of Gray | 81
“You’ve had a lot of stitches?” Miller asked, hoping to break the intimacy of the act he was performing.
“My fair share. The ones in my head were the worst.” Miller worked steadily down the row until he was tugging at the last stitch, his eyes drawn to the angry red line left in their absence.
“Okay,” he said, his voice low. “You’re done.” Neither of them moved. Miller’s steadying hand remained glued to Danny’s side, his eyes still fascinated with Danny’s newest scar. He wanted to touch it. God, he didn’t know what was wrong with him, but for the first time in his life he was incapable of restraining his impulses, his body’s urges growing stronger than his iron will.
He leaned forward, running a finger gently down the red welt, tracing its path on Danny’s tender flesh. He could smell Danny the way he had when they’d wrestled earlier in the week, that newly familiar scent of smoke and soap and sweat. It was the best thing Miller had ever smelled; he wanted to bury his face in Danny’s skin and just breathe, let it fill him up.
Miller looked up. Danny’s eyes were serious on his, not daring him anymore, not mocking, just watching. Those eyes worked their way under Miller’s defenses, uncovering things he had
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