Ann Aguirre - The Shape Of My Heart

“You’re looking especially fierce.” Max was smiling slightly, his head cocked in apparent fascination.

It was interesting that my expression could distract him. “Just contemplating all the ways I can kick ass and take names.” With a last twirl of fingers in his hair, I slid off his lap. “Your leg must be asleep, huh?”

Max was on the lean side, and I suspected I weighed as much as he did, possibly more. In his case, the weight was also stretched along eight additional inches. But he just shrugged and shook his head. If I wasn’t mistaken, a touch of color also burned high on his cheekbones. Wow, never thought I’d see him blush.

Clearing my throat, I moved away, taking my half-eaten slice of pizza to the bed I’d dumped my backpack on. I bounced onto it, completely casual, as if we hadn’t just been sharing deep emotional stuff. Max silently threw away the napkin he’d shredded and went into the bathroom. The shower switched on, resulting in an awesome banging of pipes. I pictured them breaking through the wall and flooding the floor. By the time he came back barefoot, wearing a ratty T-shirt and sweats, I had the TV on, watching a bad action movie.

“Oh, this. I’ve seen it eight times.” His offhand tone told me we were good.

“Then line it up for number nine.”

“Hey, Kaufman...”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“Stop. Your boundless gratitude is freaking me out.”

“Okay. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. So obviously I’ll proposition you instead, get us back on familiar footing.”

I grinned, wadding up a piece of paper from the pad next to me and chucking it at him. “I’m not making out with you.”

“Does that mean sex without kissing is off the table?”

“Definitely. So far off, it’s out the door, chained up in the backyard.”

He let out a mock-wistful sigh. “Poor coitus. What did it ever do to you?”

“It was the best of sex, it was the worst of sex...”

Max laughed, and it felt fairly glorious to bring him to this point so soon, relatively speaking, after he’d told me about the accident. “Are you butchering Dickens in a subtextual pun or am I reaching?”

“That depends,” I said.

“On what?”

“If you thought it was funny.”

“Definitely.” He shot me the lazy grin that crinkled his eyes and displayed a dimple.

Okay, stop being adorable, Max. It’s bothersome.

“Then it was definitely on purpose. But why do you recognize a misquote of A Tale of Two Cities , science-engineering person?”

“I read.”

“Dickens? Really? I disbelieve.” I pretended to roll some dice. “Natural twenty! Now tell me the truth or I’ll resort to drastic measures.”

“Okay, Dickens was compulsory. It’s not on my summer fun list.”

“And what is?” I couldn’t remember if I’d ever seen him with a book, but he did fiddle with phone and tablet a lot, so he might be reading that way. “Fictionwise, I mean.”

“Oh, and here I planned to share all the freaky places I did it in August.”

“Max.” I infused his name with a warning tone, so that I sounded uncannily like the rabbi’s wife, back when I still went to synagogue.

“Fine. My favorite genre is horror, but I also like sci-fi, fresh and edgy stuff, not boring white guys saving the universe and banging space hotties.”

Surprise popped up like a weasel. Great, now I had that kids’ song stuck in my head. “Wait. You read mostly genre fiction? Max Cooper. You’re a secret geek.”

“Don’t tell anyone, ’kay? Not that they’d believe you.” He flipped up his shirt to reveal tasty abs. Not mega ripped but taut and fine with delicious V-lines revealed by loose sweats. “I mean, just look at this package.”

Fortunately, my brain had never let me down, no matter how much sexy, muscled, yummy tan bod was on display. “If you have to ask a girl to inspect your package, you work for UPS or you’re trying too hard, bro.”

He smirked. “I don’t like how you call yourself a girl. It’s demeaning.”

“Hey, I’m allowed to say it. Dudes aren’t.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

We stopped talking after that, but the silence didn’t thrum with badness. Max seemed as okay as he could be, considering he was on his way to bury his grandfather and see his brother for the first time in five years. And that didn’t take into account his asshole dad or the extended family, who might make his life hell for the next two days. Though we had another long day of riding ahead of us, I was looking forward to sitting behind him on the bike more than our arrival. The shit might really hit the fan then.

Before ten, I passed out on top of the covers and didn’t know anything until a pained sound roused me, however many hours later. Shoving up on an elbow, I glanced around in confusion. This isn’t my room, that isn’t Nadia... What—oh. Max. He writhed in the bed next to mine, an arm lashing at the mattress, and he was bathed in sweat.

That’s definitely a bad dream.

This was so far outside my jurisdiction—then again, maybe not. He’d invited me along, knowing we’d be in close quarters for the duration of the trip. So possibly he’d foreseen this development and didn’t entirely mind? Whatever. When he snarled an unintelligible curse, I rolled out of bed and crossed to his, perching on the edge.

“Max. Wake up. You’re bothering me.” That was the first thing that popped into my head, but it didn’t rouse him.

“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no .”

The pure anguish in his voice told me he was reliving the accident. There was no way to know if talking about it summoned the dream or if this happened fairly often. For as much as we hung out at home, I’d never slept in the same room with him. Sucking in a breath, I rested my hand on his head, brushing the damp strands away from his brow. With the light from the sign outside illuminating his face, I saw a tear trickle from the corner of his eye, something I never imagined, ever.

Fuck me. Max cries in his sleep.

My heart twisted in my chest, and I couldn’t stop myself from leaning down, touching my forehead to his. That was enough to rouse him, thank God. He blinked up at me blearily, his hands unclenching. “You okay?”

“Bad dream. Scoot over.” Since he wasn’t even fully awake, he mumbled as he did. I fell asleep with my back against his.

Hours later, I stirred in increments, then snapped alert when I realized Max was spooning me. His arm was strong and warm across my waist, hips snug against my ass, and I felt each slow breath into my hair. Well, crap. No good deed, and so on. It seemed unlikely that I could get away without disturbing him. The bedside clock read 5:45 a.m., so it was still mostly dark. As I shifted, he tightened his hold and nuzzled my neck. Obviously, it felt incredible, but it had been eight months. These days it didn’t take much to turn me on. But I wasn’t a shy virgin trembling with fear that he’d ravish me. So I lifted his arm and crawled out of bed. Max was rubbing his eyes when I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth and get dressed.

“Okay, did I imagine—”

“Nothing happened.” I wasn’t about to tell him that he was crying in his sleep so I figured I better go on the offensive. “My bed had janky springs, that’s all.”

“Uh-huh. Anyone ever tell you your hair smells like lemons?”

“That’s the top-notch motel shampoo.”

“Couldn’t resist me, huh? This always happens, sooner or later. Should we just do it already, defuse the sexual tension?”

“As if. You were on my side of the bed. There are Russian hitmen who would pay big money to spoon this.” I slapped my ass with a teasing grin and yanked the covers off him. “Come on, get up.”