Chapter 4 #2
I’m still clutching my phone like it might ring again—like my brother could cut through all the nonsense and speak to me without riddles, without the threat of death.
But I know Ruger. If he’s calling me, it’s already bad and there’s no fixing it over a phone.
I just don’t understand what that means for me. How do I help?
I take a gulp straight from the bottle and nearly choke.
At some point, I kicked my boots off and just slumped down into this old chair, which is comfortable, if I dare to admit it.
There’s a moth the size of a tortilla chip dive-bombing the porch light.
It looks like it wants to die on my watch.
I consider joining it, but figure there are better ways to die.
A truck rumbles up the drive, and I lift my head slowly.
Headlights flare across the porch, and I’m momentarily blinded.
I flinch, clutching the bottle to my chest as if someone is going to come and snatch it right out of my hands.
The engine cuts, a door slams, and then my eyes adjust enough to see him.
Knox. He stands at the edge of the porch steps, staring at me with a look that is a mixture of disgust and concern.
“You drunk?” he asks, voice low, as he moves up the steps towards me.
I try to smirk, but it lands somewhere between a grimace and a sob. “No, I’m just conducting a scientific experiment to see if you can die from feelings.”
He snorts.
Then he sits down beside me on the chair, way too close, his jean-clad knee brushing against mine.
“You want to talk about it?” he asks.
“Not even a little bit,” I mumble.
He takes the bottle from my hands without asking and drinks. Reese is not with him, and I wonder if she is still upset with her Daisy encounter.
“What happened to Reese? Couldn’t handle the country life?” I ask, staring at him.
His eyes meet mine, and I feel a shiver run down my spine. A good one, a very, very good one. “Reese is a fuck. She ain’t of any importance to me.”
“Wow. Cold,” I mumble, snatching the bottle back. “Get your own.”
“Cold, but the truth. She is as useless as a fuckin’ car with no gas.”
I giggle, and it startles both of us. It erupted out of me like a volcano, and it’s a sound I haven’t heard in a good long time. It’s terrifying, really. And God, do I really sound like that when I laugh? Yuck. Knox snatches the bottle back, his lips twitching.
I’d laugh, too.
We sit like that for a while, and the night slides over us. I can feel the world spinning even though I am sitting perfectly still. After a while, I turn to him. “Why are you here?”
He takes another sip. “Wanted to make sure you had no more visitors.”
“Oh, so this is a charity case now? I thought you wanted me to lose.”
He grunts. “Oh, believe me, darlin', I do. But I don’t want to win because you get murdered.”
“Wow, how noble of you.”
He leans in, elbow on his knee. “Never claimed to be a good man,” he says, and he’s so close I can smell the whiskey on his breath. “Your mascara’s running. Makes you look like you went twelve rounds with a raccoon.”
I give him my best evil-eye. “You’re a terrible guest, Knox.”
“Again, never said I was a good man.”
I huff, snatching the bottle. “Why are you really here?”
His eyes meet mine. “You should go inside, Callie.”
“Yeah, no, thanks.”
“Don’t think you should be out here if those pricks come looking.”
Well, he’s right about that. Besides, I do need a snack. Cheese puffs sound amazing right about now.
I stand, but it turns out I am far more inebriated than I thought. I stumble, landing straight onto Knox’s lap. His fingers curl around my arm, and for a second, we’re there, face to face, hot breaths mingling, eyes locked. I don’t know what to say or do, so I just sit there, staring.
“You can let me go,” I say, but it comes out far breathier than I’d like.
“I’m tryin’ to decide if that’s a safe idea,” he growls, his voice scarily low and sexy.
God dammit.
I should move. I should really, really move.
Instead, I look at him. Really look. The porch light picks up the long white scar under his jaw, and for once his expression isn’t bitter—it’s almost like he’s searching for something in me.
Or maybe I’m just wanting him to because there is something about him that captivates me, and I know it shouldn’t, but here we are.
We’re close. So close it makes my skin hum.
There’s a sliver of air, and he’s looking at my mouth the same way I keep catching myself looking at his.
The world is all porch light and moths and whiskey fumes.
I realize I’m not breathing. He leans in, just a fraction, and I hold my breath, terrified he is going to kiss me and wanting him to all at the same time.
But just before our mouths crash together, a thought slices through the haze.
Harper. His woman. My cousin. Someone who wouldn’t want me here, on her man’s lap, even though she is no longer with us.
My chest tightens as memories fill my mind.
Harper in dusty Polaroids, Harper humming in dim kitchens, Harper’s perfume ghosting half my wardrobe.
Harper, who was wild and beautiful, who would have thrown an entire wine glass at me for this.
I jerk back so abruptly I nearly slide off his lap. He steadies me, but I don’t meet his eyes. I can’t. There’s a roaring in my ears, a hot streak of shame climbing up my throat. What the hell am I doing? What the hell were we about to do? I was inches from making out with my dead cousin’s man.
I squirm away, practically falling onto the porch floor. I clear my throat, searching for something dumb or witty to say, but all that comes out is, “Do you miss her?”
Jesus. Who asks that? Of course, he misses her. What is wrong with me?
Knox is staring at me. Not angry, not even annoyed, just... unreadable, which is way worse. He stays silent long enough that I pick at the hem of my shorts, then he growls low, “Don’t want to talk about her.”
And that is the end of it. The words are a door, and he slams them shut with finality. He stands up, looming, and I think he’s going to storm off, but instead, he grabs me under the arms, hauls me to my feet, and then—without warning—throws me over his shoulder.
“Knox! What are you—let me—this is not—” I protest, my voice way too high-pitched and girly.
I catch a blurry upside-down glimpse of his boots stomping through the living room, then without warning, he tosses me down onto the air mattress before reaching for my folded-up camping chair and undoing it, slamming it down onto the ground and sitting on it.
I’m confused as hell.
I force myself into an upright position, the air mattress wobbling a little too much and making my stomach turn. “Wha...what are you doing?”
“Sittin’ here until you’re sober and I know you won’t get stabbed in your fuckin’ sleep,” he says.
I blink at him. I want to argue, but my head is spinning in a way that forces me to lay back down and stare at the ceiling, scared to close my eyes because I will actually feel like the room is spinning.
I rub my stomach, praying I don’t vomit, and wondering how I’m going to get up fast enough if I do.
“You want water?”
I nod, not moving my eyes in his direction, far too scared of what the consequences of that action might be.
He leaves, but I don’t hear him return, because just like that, my world goes dark.
Bliss.