His mouth quirks up but he narrows his eyes in what could pass for anger to an unknowing bystander. I can tell he’s trying to be all broody and impenetrable, but that version of Gavin is for the public. The random girls who throw their red lace panties at him. But to me, he’s Gav. The boy I’ve known most of my life. The one whose mom was so cracked out or high on whatever the hell most of the time, she couldn’t be bothered to raise her son. Raise is too lofty a word for Katrina Garrison. More like she couldn’t be bothered to keep him alive. But thankfully Gavin is scrappy and tough and sure as shit never needed anyone like her.
When we were growing up, he was the one always keeping her alive, reminding her to eat and bathe. And she was too busy securing the means for her next hit to do the same for him. The Gavin I know has nearly fallen apart in front of us on multiple occasions when his worthless excuse for a mother nearly overdosed. So his tough-guy act is wasted on me.
“All right. You win.” He reaches the hand holding the pack behind him as if to tuck them back into his pocket, but I hold mine out.
I twitch my fingers twice in a “gimme” motion and he scoffs at me.
“Jesus Christ, Dix. I won’t smoke around you, okay? This pack cost me six bucks.”
I raise my eyebrows, silently challenging him to keep arguing with me. It’s pointless and his efforts to continue this are futile, which he should know by now.
After a minute-long stare-down, he rolls his eyes toward the sky in exasperation and places the pack in my outstretched palm. I promptly fling it over the side of the building.
“Well now you’re just littering.”
“Better than standing here getting secondhand cancer while watching you take years off your own life.” I glare right back at him, because that’s the thing about Gavin. The thing that infuriates me to no end. He will drop everything to take care of his deadbeat, drug-addicted mother. And if Dallas or I needed a kidney or something, he’d be first in line to donate. But when it comes to taking care of himself? The boy lives like he’s trying to express-lane his own funeral sometimes.
“Aww, would you miss me?”
And just when I’m feeling good and sorry for him, he patronizes and antagonizes me. So sometimes I want to kick him in the shin. But then I’d be the one to drop to my knees and check to make sure he wasn’t hurt. If I actually got on my knees in front of Gavin Garrison, there’s no telling what kind of trouble I’d get into while I was down there. So I resist the urge to kick him for both our sakes.
“Yeah, I’d miss you, Gav,” I answer through gritted teeth. “Because I’d be wondering where that giant pain in my a—”
“Ah, ah, ah. Language, sweet girl. What would your brother say if he heard you out here talking dirty to me?”
His eyes drop to my lips and I can feel what discussing dirty talk is doing to him. It’s doing something to me, too. A couple of somethings.
“Okay,” I relent, stepping even closer. “Tell you what. You keep your mouth clean, and I’ll try to do the same. Deal?”
“Hm, I don’t know. There is something awfully sexy about ugly words coming from such a pretty mouth.”
I can’t help but smirk. “The truth finally comes out. You think I’m sexy.”
“You have no idea what I think.” He winks but his tone is low, a warning. He turns to the side, resting his back and elbows on the ledge so that he’s no longer facing me. I hate that I can’t read his expression. The muscle in his jaw pops and his body is still rigid. He can’t make up his mind about us. We’ve always had something. A connection. But the older we get, the more complicated it becomes.
“Whatever you say, Gav.” I lift one shoulder noncommittally, as if I couldn’t care less. But this close to him, my bravado melts and I’m seconds from becoming a quivering mess and begging him to tell me what he thinks about me. About us. Before my secret desire can get the best of me, I turn to walk back inside the building. But I am me and me is stubborn and I hate being the one to break first. So I turn and give him something to think about.
“Oh, and Gav?”
“Yeah?”
I make eye contact, making sure he hears me, that he feels the full weight of my words. “For the record, I don’t make my decisions based on what my brother would say.”
He cocks his head to the side and crosses both mouthwatering forearms over his chest. “That so?”
Yes. Unlike you.