“He showed up at Pistol Pete’s. I saw him kissing a girl and—”
A sound like that of a dying animal falls from his lips and he grips the back of his head. I can’t imagine how terrifying it would be to have your body taken over and wake up having no idea what you’d done.
By the slump of his shoulders, I’d say he’s assuming the worst. “Nothing happened, Lucas. I’m pretty sure you two never made it past second base.”
“This is wrong . . .”
“It’s a mountain town, bar hookups and fights are as common as four-wheel drive.”
“. . . could’ve really hurt someone . . .”
“Lucas, you’re overreacting.”
“. . . so much worse.” He freezes and peers up at me, his gray eyes shining with sadness. “You were there.”
My face flames and his eyes dart to my cheeks, then widen. “Did I . . . Gage, did he . . .”
I open my mouth to tell him that he kissed me, that his hands roamed my body with a force that managed to terrify and excite me in equal parts. The words dance on the back of my tongue, ache to confess just how much I want him to touch me again, just how much I long for another possessive kiss that robs me of coherent thought.
Whatever he sees in my expression causes him to recoil.
“I gotta go.” He pushes up fast and takes a retreating step before turning back to me. He seems to struggle with whether or not to help me up, but eventually gives me his hand and pulls me to my feet. “Thanks for the food. Tell your dad I’ll have that carving to him by the end of the week. I’ll finish it at home . . . I mean, your mom’s home . . . I—”
“Don’t worry about that. My dad cares about you. If you need help—”
“No!” The power in his voice seems to scare him and makes my heart leap. “Please.” He gets close and the proximity makes me want to pull him into my arms. “Don’t tell anyone.”
The dark fury that was in his eyes that night is replaced with painful innocence, a vulnerability that makes my arms desperate to soothe. He’s broken, achingly beautiful, and—
“Shy.”
His calling of my nickname rips me from my thoughts.
Eyes, smoke-gray and pleading. “Please.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
He exhales hard and his shoulders slump. “Thank you. I’ll . . . uh . . . I’ll see you around.” He jogs back to the work site, and I give myself a moment to regain my composure.
Lucas is unstable.
There’s no denying it.
As much as he should terrify me, he doesn’t, and that’s what worries me most.
SIXTEEN
SHYANN
It’s Friday afternoon. I’m sitting at my desk sorting new bids and am antsy as hell. It’s been exactly one week since Lucas—more accurately Gage—kissed me outside Pistol Pete’s and four days since I’ve seen him at all. I’ve thought about going down to the river house and checking on him, use food as an excuse, bring dog food for his porch-dwelling pet, claim I have some important message from my dad, but I hold back.
He gave me the impression he needed space, and I don’t blame him. I can’t imagine what it would be like to wake up and realize you’ve missed entire days, and what’s worse, your body is walking and talking and kissing on your behalf. A kiss he doesn’t remember and I can’t seem to forget.
My cell phone chimes with an incoming text from a number I don’t recognize.
It’s Loreen. I’ve got a girl out tomorrow. You interested in picking up a shift?
I chew my lip and contemplate her offer. I made a hundred and fifty dollars last Friday. Even after Dustin got dragged out of the bar and banned for the rest of the night for fighting—funny when he didn’t even throw a punch—I doubled what I’d made the first half of the night. Everyone wanted the play-by-play. I may have conveniently forgotten most of the details, knowing whatever blanks I left open the town gossip would fill with their own version on the truth. Good news is, I ended up pulling in some serious dough.
Sam pouted the rest of the night and when she wasn’t pouting she was glaring at me. Guess having Lucas blow her off and drag me out of the bar was enough to dissolve whatever bridges we’d built and land me back on her shit list.
My phone rings in my hand, and thinking it’s probably Loreen, I move to answer it. Trevor’s name in big letters on my caller ID catches the corner of my eye and I send him straight to voice mail. As much as I need Trevor to keep my finger on the silent pulse of my postmortem career, I don’t need to jump every time he calls.
“Shy!” my dad hollers from his office. “Pack your bags. We’re going up to the lake to fish this weekend. Bass are bitin’ and we wanna grab some while we still can without freezin’ our balls off.”
I cringe and spin my chair to face him. “Oooh, yeah . . . I don’t have balls, so I’m gonna pass.”