© Copyright 2012
All work is property of Leah Crichton, any duplication or reproduction of all or part of the work without explicit permission by the author is illegal.
He'd fallen asleep hunched over the keys of the piano. When Devin's hand brushed his shoulder, it was the best he could do to moan in agony.
“Sawyer,” she whispered. “It's nine thirty. Aren't you late?”
“Don't care,” he said into the keys.
“Can you move?” she whispered.
“Don't think so.”
Devin's hands began to push into his shoulders. “You have knots,” she said. “You should get that taken care of.”
“Thanks sugar for pointing out the obvious, unfortunately time is a little hard to come by these days.” He still couldn't move. Jesus, he felt like he'd had his asked kicked.
“Make time,” Lane's voice cut in. “Your health is important.”
“Told to the chain smoking, booze hound slash motorcycle driver. Makes perfect sense,” Sawyer said sarcastically. “Help me.”
“Please,” Devin whispered. “Manners.”
Sawyer rolled his eyes to no one but the ivories stuck to his face. “Help me please.”
“Shove over, Dev,” Lane said. Sawyer could feel Lane's body behind his seconds before the pressure of Lane's two hundred pounds dug into the sore spot between his houlders. Lane somehow managed to wrap Sawyers arms around his like he was going to hold him in a full nelson before he said, “take a deep breath on the count of three.”
Sawyer braced himself for impact knowing Lane was about to send him into a world of hurt.
“One,” Lane said.
Sawyer sucked in a breath.
“Two.”
Another.
“Three.” He didn't award Sawyer with the opportunity to take the deep breath as he'd instructed before he lurched his body up and back, sending a grotesque and audible cracking from his tailbone to the nape of his neck.
“Ah, I hate you!” he yelled.
Lane released his arms. “No, you don't. Quit bein' a baby and get up. You're late for work.”
Sawyer stood. “Work implies that I'm getting paid, which I'm not. I'm late for the bullshit community service and to be honest I can't bring myself to care.”
“Will you care when the judge sends you to prison?”
Sawyer's jaw tightened. “She did send me to prison. It's called Paper Planes. I'm phoning in sick.”
“You can't just call in sick for community service. That's not how it works.”
Sawyer gave Devin a wink. “Watch me,” he said. “Can you put coffee on?”
Lane adjusted the waist on his sweats and turned shaking his head. “It's like the last supper but the last coffee instead. You're a dead man.”
Devin was worried. “What if you get in trouble?”
“Don't worry sugar, I won't. Hey, thanks for the present,” he gave a nod to the piano. “I can't say I recommend sleeping on it though. Give me a hug, darlin'.”
Devin's face changed at the mention of his piano. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. “I knew you'd love it. But it was Lane's idea.”
