“SON OF A bitch,” I bite out as the twisted metal tears into my skin.
“Jesus, Dixie. What the hell?” Jaggerd McKinley glances up from under the hood of a 1968 Mustang Fastback and narrowly avoids slamming his forehead into it.
Before I can stop him, he’s around the car and grabbing a clean rag from a tray beside me.
“Be still,” he commands, using the cloth to blot at the blood on my hip. I tug the waistband of my jeans down a little lower so he can press it against my flesh wound. It’s not huge but feels deep and raw. Kind of like I just walked too close to a piece of gnarly metal sticking out from under a tarp, which is precisely what happened.
“What the hell was that?” I nod toward the tarp. “What’s under there?”
Jag’s eyes resemble the color of whiskey in the sun and tighten when they meet mine. “Nothing,” he mumbles under his breath.
“Sure as hell didn’t feel like nothing.” I lift his hand gently and peer at my wound. I can handle just about anything except the sight of my own blood.
I feel my eyes rolling back and Jag’s firm arms around me.
“Still squeamish about that, huh?” His breath tickles the side of my face and I am suddenly acutely aware of his proximity.
“Yeah, apparently,” I say, feeling the edges of my vision fade.
“Easy, girl,” he says with a laugh, wrapping his arms even tighter around me and leaning me gently on the passenger door of the Fastback. “Take a few deep breaths.”
“I’m fine. I promise.” I run a hand through my wayward curls before wiping the sheen of sweat from the back of my neck. “It’s just been a long week.”
“I heard Dallas was back. I’m glad the scare overseas turned out okay.”
I nod. I had every intention of staying angry with my brother for not telling me Gavin wasn’t on tour with him but then he went and disappeared for almost forty-eight hours, scaring me half to death and forcing me to forgive him. “Me, too. The wedding is this weekend.”
Jag busies himself wiping his grease-covered hands on his jeans. “Guess it really does work out for some folks.”
The cocktail of emotions behind his statement twists around my insides like twine. “Guess so.”
“Robyn seems like a great girl. Glad they were able to get their second chance.”
The constant heaviness I carry in my heart lightens a little. I am happy for Dallas and Robyn. I’m excited to be a part of their big day and literally ecstatic about becoming an aunt to my future nephew. But . . . something about the anticipation of it all, the impending burden of necessary smiles and laughter in the midst of my complete and utter devastation about having to face Gavin Garrison for the first time in months . . . It’s like getting the worst news of your life on the brightest, sunniest, clearest day of the year.
I’m a walking, talking, living, breathing storm cloud waiting to burst and rain on everyone else’s parade.
But I won’t. Because I can’t.
I had my chance. My one night. And even a little more than that.
“Wait for me, Bluebird,” he’d said.
Apparently I should’ve asked for the specific details of just how long he intended to make me wait. I thought he meant wait until he got back from being on tour with Dallas. Too bad he didn’t go on tour with Dallas. Lucky me, I got to find out the hard way.
I have seen Gavin Garrison a grand total of twice in the past three months. Once at a bar he apparently worked at, unbeknownst to me. And then again when my brother went missing and he stopped by to check on me—as if he actually cared. He didn’t even come inside, just stood on the porch and asked me to keep him posted about Dallas.
Adrenaline courses through me like an electric current at the memory of seeing him at the bar with another woman. Her perfectly manicured nails skating up the skin on his arm.
“You sure you’re okay?” Jaggerd’s voice yanks me from the past.
I swallow hard as he takes a step back. “Yeah.”