Mess To Be Made

55

            "No."

Tyler attempted to stand the second I appeared in the doorway of his living room. He was immediately pulled back down to sit by a broad, brunette man hovering behind the sofa. His hand remained on Tyler's shoulder, and even though I could see the fume steaming off Tyler, his eyes were focused as they scanned me, from the very top of my head down to the soles of my sneakers.

When his gaze found mine again, I couldn't help but notice the relief they held.

I could only imagine mine looked the same. Because other than his hair—scrunched from him clearly having pulled at the roots a few too many times—and a swollen right hand—the knuckles red and adorned with a small red line that looked to be dried blood—he was fine.

He was okay.

He was okay.

"Tyler," I whispered. All I could think was how I wanted to straighten out his hair, like that might straighten out this entire mess. Or rub my hand across his torn knuckles, like that might soothe whatever pain he was still holding onto. It was only when a yelp escaped my mouth as the blonde man jerked me back that I realized I'd even tried to walk toward him.

Still, my eyes never left Tyler's, and I watched as they shaded to a pitch black at my unexpected sound. His head snapped to his right, and the menacing growl that came out of him caught me off guard. "We made a deal, Joby. She's not involved."

A disconcerting laugh skittered across the walls, like a spider's egg sac had been broken open, releasing millions of tiny, venomous notes.

I followed Tyler's gaze to the source of the skin crawling sound. Leaning against the doorframe that led into the kitchen stood a man. He took one small step forward, and that was all he needed to do to suck all the air right out of the room. His gelled back hair, his sharp cheekbones, his bony chin, his pointed nose. His eyes were almost entirely pupil—piercingly black. A small hoop of pink hung around the edges.

He analyzed me, his eyes moving down the length of my body at the same pace Tyler's had only moments earlier. The difference was clear though.

Tyler was accounting for my strength.

This man was searching for my weakness.

And when his gaze finally caught mine, I found myself leaning deeper into the blonde stranger standing behind me and holding onto my bicep like he was afraid I might run.

"We agreed we wouldn't involve her." The man's voice was almost as unsettling as his laugh. He stepped further into the living room, the overhead light casting a glow on his glossy, dark hair. "We never discussed if she involved herself..."

Tyler tried to stand again, so suddenly I flinched. He was pushed back down even faster than before. Tyler rolled his shoulder back in an attempt to push the broad man's hand off him to no avail. "This isn't fucking funny—"

"I'm not laughing," the man cut him off before glancing at me and cocking his head. His dark eyes pierced into me with such pressure I felt a stabbing pain in my chest. "Are you laughing, Allie Carson?"

I stilled, my full name echoing off the walls.

"You know, Tyler's always had a thing for blondes."

"Joby," Tyler warned darkly before glancing at me.

That single glance told me everything I needed to know. My entire system bottomed out, plummeting to my feet.