Her eyes widen, and her chin jerks up and down. “Well, I mean, technically it’s my mom’s, but it’s named after me, and I’m working on buying it from her. And you’re just standing in it! Oh, my god.”
Spinning around, she waves at Riley. “Dude, do you know who this is?”
Riley snorts. “Unfortunately.”
I smirk, and Dahlia’s shoulders slump. “What do you mean, unfor—” Cutting off, she whirls back around to me, a wounded expression on her soft face. “Jesus, ignore her. Clearly, she’s going through something, otherwise I know she’d never disrespect a god.”
I’ve been called that a lot over the course of my career, even though I vehemently refute it at every turn.
Would a god go years without producing a single piece of music, all because he’d become consumed by thoughts of the girl who ruined his life and then left it, like none of what happened when they met mattered?
I suppose it depends on which god’s mythology you’re looking at, but I’ve never felt like anything but a mortal.
“Seriously, Herculean Effort got me through my mom’s chemo a couple years back,” Dahlia says, shaking her head. “I had tickets to go to one of your shows in Boulder, but it…”
She trails off, as if just remembering what happened to that show, and all the others scheduled after. Her face morphs into a mask of reservation, and she pinches her lips together.
“Got canceled?” I provide, and she nods, suddenly looking extremely uncomfortable in my presence.
I try not to let it bother me, and force my smile to remain in place anyway, but the sudden shift in demeanor is a serrated knife to my heart. It slices me wide open, leaving the eviscerated bits behind as blood pours from the open wound.
“Uh, yeah.” She rocks back on her heels, sliding a hand into her apron. “I was really sorry to hear about all of that.”
“All of that,” I repeat, blinking down at her as she now avoids eye contact. Irritation courses through me, and I glance back at Riley, who’s watching with a blank expression. “You know, they never proved those rumors true. The girl never spoke up, and no evidence was ever found. The police wrote it off as the incoherent ramblings of a scorned fan.”
I watch Riley as I say it, tracking the slightest movements in her face. Her left eye twitches, and her tongue darts out, swiping over the scar at the corner of her mouth.
The scar she left visible, all because I asked her to.
Instead of waiting for a reply from Dahlia, I push past her and head to the back. My cock swells painfully, pride washing through my veins as I stalk toward my prey.
She doesn’t cower, doesn’t move as I stop at her table, gripping her chin in my hand. Up close, the evidence of some sort of assault in her life prods at something buried deep inside of me, but all I can focus on right now is the even sound of her breathing.
The cerulean hues of her irises, crystalline as they stare up at me.
“You’re not wearing makeup,” I mutter, tracing the scar near her mouth with my thumb.
“Well, you said not to, and I don’t really want to be murdered in my sleep, so I—”
Pinching her lips between my fingers, I stifle her sentence. My heart kicks at my ribs, and I release a strangled sound.
“Doesn’t it feel so much better when you do what I ask, pretty girl?”
Before she has a chance to answer, I shove her head back and crash my mouth to hers, needing to taste her as much as I need to formulate my next breath.
And if kissing her in public causes her problems, well.
So be it.
30
Turning my phone in my hands, I try to suppress the anxiety coursing through me. My brother’s name lights up the screen, an incoming video chat, and I’m sitting in the bath with my clothes on, hoping that Aiden’s done stalking me for the day so I can talk in peace.
The odds aren’t particularly in my favor, especially given his knack for showing up out of nowhere, but hope still springs eternal in my chest.
I’ve never been much of an optimist, but I’m trying to convince myself so my brother doesn’t worry. Because I fear I may not have been taking this situation as seriously as I should have, and I already know what he’d say about it.
Sucking in a deep breath, I accept the call, and Boyd’s stoic face fills the screen.
“Surprise, still alive,” I joke, the words tumbling out before I can catch them.
Somehow, his expression flattens even more. “Did you turn in the hotel project I sent you before the holiday break? They’re saying they didn’t receive it.”
The smile drops from my face, fake as it is, and sadness swirls in my stomach. Nodding, I pinch the inside of my thigh, grounding myself in that pain so I don’t have to acknowledge the internal.
“I uploaded it Sunday night. It should be in their box folder, but I can double-check.”
“No point in double-checking right now,” he says, tone sharp, like a blade sawing against my throat. “They’re gone for the week. Make sure it’s there by Monday for when they come back, and hopefully they’ll still pay you in full.”
Leaning my head back against the lip of the tub, I don’t say anything else. Frankly, I’m not sure where to even go from here. Not sure why he called.
After a prolonged silence, where we just stare at each other through the screen, I try something else. “How are things in King’s Trace?”
“Why do you care?”
My eyebrows shoot up into my hairline, and my vision goes lax as my nose burns with the urge to burst into tears. Running my tongue over my teeth, I try to think of a response, but nothing comes out.
The thoughts in my head play like a broken record, sentences forming halfway and then getting skipped over before they can be vocalized.
Boyd groans, scratching at his jaw. “Fuck, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“How’d you mean it, then?”
“I don’t know.” He looks over the camera, hazel eyes unfocusing for a beat, before returning to me. “I guess I’ve been hoping your new life would erase your ties to this place. Help you forget the people here and get you to a place where you don’t care anymore.”