Fallon
Chapter thirty-eight
Fried Chicken and Taillights
I almost turn around and head straight home.
Idling at the stoplight in town. The yellow orb switched to red when I notice her—my mother—idling beside me.
She’s a bad omen I can’t shake. Same beat-up car.
Same rusted door. Thick black smoke is pouring from the tailpipe as if the car itself is angry at the world.
Wanting to spread the same poison she does.
Relief washes over me that Lani has the kids today.
It’s best if I carry the burden of her hatred.
She looks over.
Her eyes rake over me, her mouth twisting into a sneer sharp enough to sting. No words. No wave. Nothing but her hatred.
The light turns green.
She lurches forward, smoke choking the air behind her. I sit here a moment longer than necessary before moving. My hands shake slightly on the steering wheel, but I force myself to breathe. I wasn’t going backward. Not today.
The smell of fried chicken curls through the car, warm and grounding, a little pocket of normal in the swirl of life.
Normal. An ordinary life. I’ll catch Cyrus completely off guard.
My heart hammers with the tiniest thrill, the kind that makes my spine straighten, posture rigid with purpose.
By the time I pull into the police station lot, I’ve calmed.
He spots me before my foot hits the pavement.
His expression shifts. Surprise, appreciation, and something softer sliding underneath. He crosses the distance, removing his hat and giving it a little shake. “Is that for me?” he asks, gesturing to the basket in my hands.
“It is,” I suck on my bottom lip. “But don’t get used to it.” I ease the sting of my joke by reaching up, situating his crooked collar, I step back to take a seat on the bench.
Cyrus drops down beside me on the bench with ease, stretching one arm along the backrest—not touching me, but close enough that I feel every shift of him. My skin prickles with awareness. He opens the foil-wrapped food in his lap, and the quiet crinkle of it somehow feels louder than it should.
He pauses for half a second, like he’s checking what’s inside, then lets out a low sound of approval that does absolutely nothing for my self-control.
Which is a lie.
It does everything.
I focus very hard on the drink in my hands instead of the way he eats like he’s actually enjoying the moment, like he isn’t thinking about anything else in the world but right here, right now. That kind of peace shouldn’t be attractive. It is. Especially on him.
Cyrus leans forward slightly to take another bite, elbow resting on his knee, completely unaware—or completely unconcerned—with the fact that I’ve gone suddenly quiet beside him.
Or maybe he is aware. The corner of his mouth ticks up like he knows something I don’t. And I really, really don’t like that I want to know what he’s thinking.
“You’re spoiling me, woman.”
I shrug, daring to flirt with him a little. “I think you could handle it.”
“Oh, I’m handling it,” he says, eyes darkening. “Barely.”
I laugh, but my thighs tingle as his knee brushes mine-and stays there. He doesn’t move away. Neither do I. The energy sizzling between us from the small contact.
“This is incredible,” he says between bites, gratitude plain on his face. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“I wanted to,” I admit.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “If you start doing sweet things for me, I’ll expect it to become the standard norm.”
I tilt my head. “Would that be so bad?”
Cyrus’s smile turns slowly dangerous. “Depends on how serious you are. Because, I am dead serious.”
The air between us is charged now. Heavy. His fingers brush my wrist as he reaches for a napkin, deliberate this time. My stomach definitely dances. I clench my thighs, this blue sundress doing absolutely nothing but leave the deepening of my skin on display.
“So,” he says, voice casual, eyes anything but, “you busy this weekend?”
“That depends.”
He leans closer. “I was thinking about going fishing.”
I snort. “You can fish.”
His brow lifted. “And you?”
“I’ll tan,” I say easily. “Keep you company. Make sure you don’t fall in. That would be tragic.”
His gaze drags over me, unhurried, envisioning me in a bikini. “That’s cruel.”
My lips curl slightly. “I’m full of surprises.”
He chuckles, voice dropping an octave. “Do know what that does to me?”
I raise a brow, feigning innocence. “Enlighten me.” I’m playing with fire, and I know it. Other than holding hands, we’ve shared some earth-shattering kisses. What if he thinks I’m moving too fast? I don’t want him to think that..
“The idea of you stretched out in the sun,” he says, knee pressing closer, “watching me. This wild mane of yours tumbling around this intoxicating body of yours. Yeah, I want to make that happen. Something tells me, you know exactly the picture you’re planting in my head.
” Okay, so he doesn’t think I’m moving too fast. I need a fan or cold water.
It’s hot out here. Where’s an ice bucket challenge when you need one?
Knowing I’ll suffer from it later, I bump his shoulder with mine. My breath hitches. “Maybe I do.”
Cyrus’s hand finds mine, thumb brushing slow circles against my skin. Subtle. Intentional. Enough to make my pulse jump.
“You’re dangerous today,” he tells me softly.
“So are you,” I shoot back.
His smile deepens. “Good.”
For a second I think he might kiss me right here.
Remembering our last kiss. I wouldn’t mind if he claimed my lips before God and all, right here on this bench.
Instead, to my disappointment, he leans in close enough that I can sense his warmth, smell soap and summer, and something unmistakably Cyrus.
“Thank you,” he murmurs. “For lunch. For showing up.” I squeeze his hand, heart racing. “Anytime.” And this time, when he smiles at me, it carries a promise.