Chapter 3
CHAPTER
THREE
JUNE
Monotonous landscape flies past the window, green-brown marsh grass and low, scrubby trees.
It should soothe me. Familiar. Home.
It does not.
My eyes dart from Charlie’s thin-lipped expression to the road and back again, fingers tightening around the pebbled plastic handle in the ceiling.
“I’m sorry about that.” Charlie glances over, the rictus grin she wore after backing into the poor, poor pedestrian finally sliding off. “He’s probably okay, right?”
“Sorry about hitting that guy, or about laughing at the fact that you hit him?” My voice creeps up a pitch. “What the hell is wrong with you, Charlie? I thought I knew you better than this.”
I never pegged Charlie for the type of woman to drive over a human and barely hold back laughter over his groaning form. And it’s only adding to my anxiety for the unfortunate man, bringing it to a boiling point.
“Do you think he ran away because he doesn’t have health insurance?” She shrugs, keeping her eyes fixed on the road.
“I think we should try finding him,” I say for the hundredth time.
“Nah. I’m sure he’s fine.”
Is she… still smiling?
Concern for her trickles through me. “Are you okay? Like, do you feel cold? Are you experiencing?—”
“I’m not in shock, June.” Her voice is flatter than a can of La Croix left open in the car all afternoon, and it makes me wince.
Denial. Charlie is absolutely, one hundred percent in shock. Has to be. No way any normal human could be unshaken after that. Even I’m in shock, and I didn’t hit the guy.
“Uh-huh.” My voice is calm, even. “I think you should let me drive. Huh? How about that? Would it make you feel safe if I drove?”
Charlie narrows her eyes, shooting me a look I recognize. The one from tense department meetings where our resident mansplainer tries taking over the agenda.
“Will it make you feel better to drive?” she asks.
No . I do not want to drive after that. All I want is a double-shot margarita, hold the margarita part, and to call the cops. My lips purse.
“I didn’t think so.”
My grip on the bar tightens and I can’t help but feel Charlie’s voice is… off. A coldness in it. A tone she uses on idiots in meetings, or students who cross the line in lecture, and I usually love it. But it’s not a tone she’s ever aimed at me. Like this is somehow my fault.
Which is entirely ridiculous.
“You know what? I would like to drive. Seeing as how this is my truck, and you just ran someone over with it.”
“You going to be able to let go of the Jesus H. Christ bar long enough to get out of the car right now?”
Tilting my head, I glance up to where I’m white-knuckling the plastic. “Huh, is that what it’s called? I always thought it was ‘Jesus, take the wheel,’ not, ‘Jesus, hold the handle.’”
Charlie snorts out another laugh, and heaven help me, I join her.
The palms and beach scrub on either side of the highway give way to a glimpse of sparkling ocean. The smooth water is serene, and my eyes close, momentarily allowing the surf to take away some of my anxiety.
“We’re almost there, anyway,” Charlie says, breaking my small moment of peace. “Tell you what, if it makes you feel better, I’ll call us an Uber after we eat and drink, my treat. And I’ll pay to get the blood cleaned off your front fender, too.”
My mouth falls open, turning to the back of my truck. “Wait, there’s blood on the fender? When did you even look at the fender?”
I hadn’t even considered possible damage to my car. No, being the normal one of the two of us, I’d been too caught up worrying for the man on the ground cursing me out. To busy focusing on the fact she hit a guy holding a gun?—
“Oh my god.”
“Are you gonna puke?” Charlie shakes her head, like this is a common occurrence. Like she often sees people puke after running over fellow humans.
I blink at the odd thought. Why would she have experience running over people?
Charlie is a professor of Texas history; she is my friend. She is not a serial people-runner-overer.
She’s just trying to shrug it off like it’s nothing. That’s all.
We’re both in shock.
It’s the only logical conclusion.
“No.” My stomach roils noisily. “Maybe.” I swallow. “No.” I take a breath.
“Uh-huh,” Charlie says, glancing sidelong at me. “Cleaning up your puke in the car wasn’t part of the deal I was offering.”
“No, Charlie, listen…”
I trail off, and she slides another meaningful look my way.
“I just figured out what he was holding,” I squeak out. I glance down at the hand in my lap, pretending to cradle something in it. “Did you see it?” I look back to her. “He was holding a gun. Oh my god. He had a gun? Why would he have a gun ?”
My nerves fray, crackling like a downed live wire after a bad storm.
“Why would he have a gun?” Charlie repeats the question in a sing-song voice. Her fingers thrum against the steering wheel.
The rippling ocean comes into view, reflecting the late afternoon sun as we round a corner. I take a steadying breath as we get closer to the marina and bar.
“I felt like someone was watching me all day. What if…” I push my hair back with one hand. “What if he was watching me?”
Charlie makes a non-committal noise.
Now that I’m talking about it, I can’t seem to stop, the words rushing out of me.
“You saw the gun too? Didn’t you? Is that why you didn’t care that he was hurt?” As soon as the words leave my mouth, my brain catches up to the facts. “Is that why you hit him?”
I stare at her, uneasy. How well do I really know Charlie?
“I don’t make a habit of running people over.” Reaching over, she cranks my window down noisily, filling the car with the salt-heavy tang of ocean air. “If you’re going to barf, do it outside your truck, please.”
I hang my head out the window, willing myself not to be sick.
This is a nightmare come to life, feeding on memories from the week leading up to my thirteenth birthday. A week I’d done everything in my power to forget.
This might not be anything at all. We’re in South Texas. Open carry is practically a given at any time.
Still. Still .
I’d spent the last fifteen years thinking about what would happen if I encountered the people who inspired my nightmares again. The people who caused my paranoia—who’d earned it.
Charlie glances over at me as the speedometer inches past seventy. She guns my old truck over the speed limit, singing at the top of her lungs.
Doing her best to act like nothing just happened.
I turn back to the ocean. It can’t be related to what happened to me when I was a child.
Clenching my jaw, I banish the thought.
The man could’ve been a random carjacker, deciding it was easier to run away after getting, well, run over. Could be he was just out taking his gun for a walk.
I blow out another breath, watching the sun ripple off the water. Searching out the shrimp boats heading back home to the shelter of the bay, specks of white against the endless blue.
It’s just a coincidence.
All kinds of people flock to the South Texas beaches for relaxation, especially during the summer. Maybe he was a student enjoying the solitude of the empty campus.
I should alert campus police.
Letting go of the handle, I reach back for my purse, determined to do the rational thing and tell the authorities.
Very adult.
Not paranoid, but smart.
Calm, cool, collected. Or, at the very least, one of those adjectives.
The purse is cool against my lap, a victim of overactive floorboard air conditioning, another problem I put on the back-burner after my father’s death.
Phone, phone, where’s my phone? Aha.
My clammy fingers finally find it. I tap through the university’s website until I find the campus services number. It rings several times before a bored voice finally answers.
I open my mouth to reply, to get the weight of Charlie’s hit-and-run off my shoulders, but let out a wheeze of surprise instead.
“We’re here,” Charlie sings out, yanking the wheel left, skidding into the parking lot.
The force of the turn has me scrambling for the Jesus-take-the-wheel bar, grappling for purchase. Charlie slams on the brakes, sending my phone flying out of my sweaty grip, out the open window.
“That’s it,” I scream.
There it goes, my last straw, flying right through the open window along with my phone.
I don’t have the time and certainly don’t have the cash to replace it right now.
I barely glance at a group of people outside the restaurant and bar, ignoring shocked expressions on their faces in favor of searching for my phone on the ground.
Charlie slides to a halt in a parking spot near the restaurant entrance. The phone sits, screen up, glowing from the still-connected call. Dirty, and beat to hell, but not ruined.
“It’s okay, my phone’s still intact,” I tell Charlie on an exhalation. “Finally, one piece of luck in an absolute trashcan of a day?—"
A massive, macho-man Jeep pulls into the spot, crushing my phone under the lifted wheels.
The group of bystanders let out a collective gasp. A few shake their heads, throwing me pitying looks as I bite back a shriek of rage.
Charlie’s saying something. “Don’t start something you can’t finish, June.”
“I’m so done with caring at the moment.” All I wanted to do was the right thing, to call the university. To help the man Charlie ran over. And before that, get the grant. Find the Santu Espiritu .
But noooooo . I get the day from hell instead.
“June, wait?—”
I ignore her.
“All I want is to pick up what’s left of my phone, scream at the driver of the Jeep, then forget about this awful day with as much tequila as possible,” I ramble under my breath.
A three-point plan never fails.
The car door slams behind me, flip-flops smacking against the uneven pavement as I storm across the parking lot to the shards of my phone, may it rest in peace. Or pieces.
The Jeep driver’s door opens, and a Dorito of a man steps out. A tight black athletic shirt calling attention to broad shoulders and ridiculously muscled arms setting off his narrow hips in form-fitting black cargo pants.
Probably way too big to start arguing with.
But I’m in no mood to let a little detail like that stop me. I’ve got enough steam building to power an angry freight train.
The man runs a hand over his stubbled chin as I bear down on him. I stop a few millimeters away and poke him right in the chest.
Damn. It’s a hard chest. I draw back and clear my throat. Where was I?
“You ran over my phone.” Fresh irritation flares, and I crane my neck up to make eye-contact.
He’s so tall I have to step back, which, frankly, is rude as hell of him.
His mirrored aviator sunglasses reflect my irate expression, not to mention how snarled my hair is, thanks to the open car window.
What a douche.
I try combing it back in place, and the man removes his sunglasses… and my mirror. His eyes are a warm whiskey brown, fringed in long dark lashes.
“My phone.” I point at where my phone lies shattered on the ground. Way to go, June, really helpful declaration. “You ran it over.”
“That explains why you’re looking at me like that.” His voice is deep. Gravelly.
“Yeah, it does,” I say, poking him in his rock-hard pecs a second time before looking back up.
Oh. Oh .
The Douche Edition Ken Doll is hot . Stubble lines a defined, square jawline, dark brown eyes set off by a fringe of lashes and thick black eyebrows. For a second, I forget why I was mad at all, my brain stuttering to a bit of a halt as it registers that this man is fine. Like, really fine.
Built and pretty?
Probably has the personality of my dead grandmother’s floral couch, with a face like that. Perfect for sitting on.
No, wait, that isn’t right.
Clearing my throat, I wait, placing a hand on my jutted hip. As good a way as any to hide the way I’m now irritated with myself for finding this absolute douche nozzle hot.
“I’m Dean, and I’m sorry about your phone.” He grins, white teeth flashing, a dimple appearing in his cheek.
It must be a magic dimple, because my irritation vanishes. Poof .
“Hi,” I breathe.
My finger bends now, lying against his chest, not at all pokey. More stroke-y. Embarrassed, I move my hand away, now worried its clamminess has stained his shirt, only to have him catch it. His hand rough against mine, warm and powerful.
“And you are?”
“June.”
He shakes my hand once, somehow firm and delicate, all charm and danger, and a thrill shoots through me. Then, just as abruptly as he clutched at my hand, like it was a lifeline, he drops it.
Charlie sidles up as the other man from the Jeep walks around the front of the it.
“We were about to go in for drinks. And dinner.” I smile, rewarded by another dimple sighting.
Well, mostly drinks, but maybe I’ll eat if he eats. Maybe he’s in the mood for a taco. A special taco.
I blush. What the actual hell is wrong with me?
“This is Pierce,” Dean says, pointing to the guy now checking out Charlie. “And what a coincidence, we were going to have drinks too. And dinner. Maybe I can buy the first round, since…” He trails off, gesturing to the phone, and a fresh wave of irritation surges over me.
I welcome it. Better irritated than trying to jump this dude in the bathroom as a distraction from my hell of a day. That would be gross.
Probably.
“Since you crushed my phone with your monster truck?” I make myself say. It comes out breathy though, not at all pissy like I was aiming for. I tilt my head, a wayward tendril tickling over my cheek. “That seems like the least you could do.”
“It’s a Jeep, ma’am.”
His formal tone screams military, but the heat in his eyes, the way they travel up and down my body—triggers an instant response.
Nobody has looked at me like that since… Well, nobody I wanted to look at me like that, at least.
Like he wouldn’t mind having more than dinner with me.
Like maybe I’m on the menu, too.