Dark Wild Night

“You’re a jerk,” I repeat quietly, fighting my grin. I adore him, so much. It’s this massive, blooming emotion making my cheeks heat and my stomach curl with pleasure. I don’t know how I’ll manage once I let go of the rope and float.

The panel shows the girl holding a glowing meteorite in her hands.

Oliver lifts his coffee to his mouth, smiling.



* * *




I FALL ASLEEP in the car somewhere near Long Beach and Oliver gently jostles me awake when he’s parked just outside the store.

“Thanks for the ride,” I say as he pulls my duffel bag from the trunk. He sets it down on the curb and digs one hand into his jeans, tugging them down at the waist.

His boxers are red today. Stomach flat. Hips defined.

“Thanks for coming with me,” I say, blinking to the side in a completely unsubtle attempt to stop trying to get an eyeful of happy trail. “I wouldn’t have had nearly as much fun by myself.”

“Anytime,” he says, adding in a nerdy voice: “I think you’re wonderful, Lorelei.”

I smile up at him. “I think you’re wonderful, too, Oliver.”

He surprises me, cupping my face and bending to press his lips to my cheek. It’s far too close to my mouth to be innocent, but not actually touching my lips. It doesn’t quite count as a kiss. Does it? My pulse explodes in my neck and I have to hold my breath to keep from making a sound. He holds there for the length of a slow, quiet inhale before moving away.

“So,” I say, “maybe we can hang out later?”

“Did you guys just kiss?”

On instinct, we both practically explode apart and turn to see Not-Joe squinting at us. His hair is a total wreck, more spiky cactus than mohawk, and his shirt is on backward.

“No,” I tell him. “We were just . . .”

Okay, maybe we were about to kiss. Fucking Not-Joe.

“Goddamnit,” he half-yells, half-groans. “If you’re not making out then move out of the way so I can get in. I need to lie down.”

It’s Monday—the only day of the week the store is closed—so Oliver unlocks the door and we watch Not-Joe stumble over to the reading nook.

“I need to start using a hurricane naming system for my hangovers,” he mumbles, stretching out on the couch. “I’m calling this one Abby. She’s a total whore.”

Oliver watches Not-Joe with a justifiable degree of wariness: I’d give eight-to-one odds Not-Joe is going to barf on the furniture.

“What are you even doing here?” I ask him. “Why aren’t you at home?”

“I think someone needed his wallet.” Oliver picks it up from behind the counter and tosses it onto Not-Joe’s chest. “There you go, Ace.”

“Too loud,” Not-Joe groans. “Too bright. I think this is what autism feels like.”

Oliver barks out a horrified laugh before saying, “Motherfuck, Joe, you can’t say shit like that!”

“You can’t tell me I’m wrong.”

With a small, exasperated shake of his head, Oliver moves behind the counter to put on some music. Journey blasts through the store and Oliver pulls out his air guitar.

“Yes!” I air-drum on the counter.

“What the fuck, man?” Not-Joe rolls over, face-first into the cushion.

Oliver walks around to the reading nook and yells, “Time to rock out!” right next to his head. Not-Joe convulses into a tiny ball and I burst out laughing.

“Is this ‘Revelation’?” I ask Oliver.

He nods, tongue poking out as he tears through a guitar solo.

“Have you ever thought about that, though?” I ask, and Oliver walks back around the counter to turn it down a little.

“Thought about what?”

When I look at him—wide grin, fingers flying in a ridiculous air guitar, lip curled like a rocker—I realize his glasses break up his looks, cool them down, add ice to the glass. Without them, he’s all bone structure and color: brilliant blue eyes, warm lips, coffee-brown stubble.

“Steve Perry versus Arnel Pineda.” At his confused expression, I explain, “The guy on YouTube who gained a following for covering Journey songs . . . then eventually became the new lead singer for the band?”