11. Ford
FORD
Two hours later, I’m officially buzzed. Not drunk. Buzzed. And yes, there’s a difference.
For one, I can still walk a straight line, and two, I’m still very much aware of my surroundings.
Maybe a little too aware, now that I think about it.
June’s over by the bonfire. Bryan snagged a cooler a few minutes ago and dragged it closer to the heat.
He lets June use it as a seat before setting her up with a bag of marshmallows and two roasting sticks.
One of which, I assume, he’ll be using. I tear my attention from the couple in question as Paxton belts out the lyrics to one of the band’s greatest hits.
My head bobs up and down with the music.
Judge was right. He’s not half bad. Not as good as Dodger, the usual lead singer, but not half-bad at all.
I continue my perusal of the sea of people.
I still haven’t seen Ethan. Not sure whether or not his absence is a good thing.
Hawke is nowhere to be seen, and Roman has only popped up once or twice.
It makes sense. They’re used to staying out of the spotlight.
Me, on the other hand… I lift my chin toward a couple of buddies, bring the beer to my lips, and take a long pull of the amber liquid while Jagger and Violet dance across the beach.
I’ve never seen my brother so happy and relaxed, which is saying something, considering the shit-show of our lives at the moment.
He smiles down at Violet, bending closer and closing the distance between them.
Meeting him halfway, she kisses him back, her fingers threaded at the nape of his neck.
Gross.
I toss back the last of my beer and wipe my mouth with my sleeve as my gaze finds June again despite my best effort. Roaster in hand, she cooks a marshmallow all by her lonesome.
Where’d her boyfriend go?
I survey the people scattered around the bonfire, but come up empty.
Maybe he fell into the flames and was burned alive?
My mouth twitches before I smooth out my features and saunter toward her, tossing my empty bottle into one of the barrels we brought for trash on the way.
A small voice in the back of my mind says I should keep my distance, but what does he know, anyway?
Okay, maybe I’m a little closer to drunk than I initially guessed.
Nah, I’m fine.
Hands outstretched, I let the heat lick my palms as I stand beside a seated June. She doesn’t notice me. Too busy cooking her late-night snack. The flames dance off her pale skin. It makes her rosy cheeks practically glow as her mouth forms the lyrics to the song.
Funny. I would’ve pictured the girl as a country aficionado more than a punk rock listener. Not all of IndieCent Vow’s songs fit into that category, but as a whole? Yeah. Kind of.
“Hey, June Bug,” I finally greet her. June’s body jerks, and her head snaps toward me. With a laugh, I add, “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
Realizing I’m not some stranger, she relaxes, but only a bit. “You’re fine.” She smiles, turning back to her marshmallow. “And…hi.”
“Hi.” I rock back on my heels. “You mad at me?”
Her stare remains on the flames in front of us. “Why would I be mad?”
Because I was a dick to your boyfriend, I almost tell her as she removes the marshmallow from the fire and analyzes the exterior.
Still. Silent.
The question is…is it because she is mad and doesn’t want to talk to me, or is it because she doesn’t know what to say and is gathering her thoughts? It wouldn’t be the first time, and I doubt it’ll be the last.
Let’s try a different tactic, shall we?
“Having fun?” I prod.
“Mm-hmm.” She blows on the roasted marshmallow. The slight pucker of her lips makes my cock twitch in the process. It’s a good thing she can’t read minds, or she’d probably skewer me herself. “Whoever’s idea it was to have marshmallows for s’mores is a genius,” she adds.
Pride prickles at the base of my spine. “I’m sure I can think of one or two ways you can thank me for said geniusry.”
She snorts. “Is geniusry even a word?”
“I know of at least two people who have used it, so I’m going to go with yes.”
Another quiet chuckle is all I get in response as she picks off the crunchy outer shell of her marshmallow from her roasting stick, leaving a white, melty center on it.
So focused. So content.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
She peeks up at me again and tosses the outer shell of marshmallow into her mouth. “Hmm?”
I motion to the white-tipped roasting stick, where half her marshmallow is still hanging on. “Do you not like the inside?”
“No, I love it.”
“Then what’s that?”
Wiping at the corner of her mouth with her thumb, she asks, “What’s what?” She frowns, analyzing her half-eaten marshmallow. “Oh. It’s round two.”
I bite back my scoff and collapse onto the cooler beside her. “Maybe I’ve had one too many beers,”—I’ve definitely had one too many beers—“but I’m gonna need you to spell it out for me, June Bug.”
She brings the marshmallow innards back to the flame. Slowly, she begins spinning the stick to make sure all sides are evenly golden. “This is round two.”
Round two?
“How many rounds are there?” I ask.
“My record’s four,” she announces. “But it’s only happened once or twice.
I usually get three rounds before the whole mallow comes off the stick, and I have to start over.
” Removing the roaster from the heat, she peels off another golden layer and pops it into her mouth before sending the even smaller mallow back to the fiery depths. “Here’s three.”
Curious, I reach for a discarded roaster and snag a marshmallow from the bag between us.
After stabbing it with the pointy end, I begin cooking the white confection.
It’s kind of nice. Easy. Simple. Something to focus on instead of the curvy minx beside me.
Yeah, this isn’t half bad. When was the last time I had a roasted marshmallow, anyway?
Scratch that, a marshmallow in general? My brows dip as I search my memories.
Man, it’s been years. Forget the graham crackers and chocolate. I want a roasted marshmallow.
June’s stare burns the side of my face more than the bonfire in front of us as I rotate the marshmallow over the flames. “There a problem, June Bug?”
“No?” she hesitates. “It’s just… Why are you here?”
“What do you mean, why am I here?” I glance at her. “This is a Harden Night. I’m kind of obligated to be here.”
“No, I mean here as in…” She wiggles on the cooler, causing my body to jiggle ever so slightly in the process. “Here.”
“I’m sorry, is this your cooler?” I counter.
Her lips purse, but she stays quiet.
“Maybe you make roasting marshmallows look appealing,” I offer.
“Where’s Alyssa?”
Alyssa, huh? She wants to know where Alyssa is?
“Where’s Bryan?” I toss back at her.
“Restroom.”
I fight my disappointment that he wasn't swallowed up by the fire like I originally hoped, and turn back to the flames. “Alyssa went home,” I answer.
“Oh.”
Giving June the side-eye, I wait for something else.
Anything else, really. All I get is silence.
Is she happy Alyssa left? Surprised I didn’t leave with her?
Not sure why June would care. What the hell am I thinking?
Of course, she doesn’t care. June’s here with someone else.
As she should be. Her pretty pink lips open as if she’s going to say something.
Instead, she only turns back to the fire.
With a gasp, she shrieks, “Ah! Ford, your marshmallow!”
Sure enough, flames engulf my marshmallow, not unlike what I imagined had been Fireman Bryan’s demise until June shit all over my fantasy.
Karma, you sneaky bitch, you ruined my marshmallow.
I bring the flaming ball to my mouth so I can blow out the fire. Shit! The fire extinguishes on the fourth blow, and what’s left is pathetic at best. The exterior is all charred. The once-white smooth surface is nothing but a bubbled black mess.
Well, shit. So much for a perfectly cooked masterpiece like the ones June created. Oh, well. Can’t win ‘em all.
Slipping off the treat, I toss the whole thing into my mouth. It’s burnt as hell, but once you get past the charred flavor, it still tastes decent enough.
With a laugh, June shakes her head, studying me. “Not one for patience, are you?”
I’m not, but it’s beside the point.
“Who says this has anything to do with patience?” I challenge.
She shrugs but doesn’t answer, choosing to stare at her tiny, almost perfectly golden mallow instead.
Here’s the thing. I’m used to people making assumptions about me.
Hell, it comes with the Harden name. But for some reason, June’s assumptions hit differently.
They’re…sharper, almost. And the ease with which she pieced together my lack of patience over something as trivial as a fucking marshmallow? Ouch.
“Seriously, I want to know,” I push. “Because from where I’m sitting, it’s a marshmallow.”
“Well, yeah, but…”
“But what, June Bug?”
The same purse of her lips does weird things to me as she eyes me from her periphery.
“Do you really prefer the burnt ones over ones like this?” She pulls her roaster from the fire.
On it is a perfectly cooked, golden ball of marshmallow guts.
Even though it can’t be more than the size of a mini marshmallow you find at the store, I can’t deny the truth.
It’s cooked to perfection. But does she need to know that?
Nah, I think not. I give her a “You serious?” look, and she laughs again.
“What? It’s good.”
“Have you learned nothing?” I volley. “Size matters, June Bug. And I mean that in every sense.”
Her shoulders shake with amusement before she plucks the pathetically-sized mallow from the stick. Bouncing her eyebrows up and down, she motions for me to take it. “Can’t knock it ‘til you try it.”
“That so?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Careful what you wish for.”
Something dances in her pretty gaze. Is it…mirth? Fuck, she’s pretty when her guard is down.
“And what am I wishing for?” she quips.
“That I’ll steal a taste.” Grabbing her wrist, I bring her fingers to my mouth, wrap my lips around them, and suck the perfectly golden marshmallow from her fingertips.
Bad fucking idea. For more reasons than one.
I blame the alcohol, though it’d be a hell of a lot easier to do if I was blackout drunk and would have no memory of this tomorrow. Instead, I can’t help but memorize the moment. The sweetness of the mallow. The slight saltiness from her skin. The smooth texture against my tongue.
I repeat: Bad. Fucking. Idea.
Her lips part as her focus zeroes in on my lips wrapped around her fingers. Her chest rises and falls on a shallow breath. Honestly, I’m as shocked as she is. What the hell am I doing? Flirting is one thing. Putting your mouth on someone?
Her gaze flicks to mine, but the doubt I expect to see? The shame or discomfort? All of it’s missing. Instead, all that shines back at me is…
Dammit, June Bug. Are you curious?
“June?” someone calls.
Jerking away, June wipes her fingers on her jeans and stands, looking guilty as hell. “Hey, Bryan!” The words come out as a squeak and hit like a bucket of cold water.
Oh.
So, this is where the guilt stems from.
“Sorry, I took so long. The bathrooms are by the parking lot,” Bryan tells her. He stomps toward us through the sand when his attention hits me like a bucket of bricks. “Hey, man.”
Hey?
I lift my chin in greeting, but keep my ass planted on the cooler. “Hey.”
“What are you guys up to?”
“Roasting marshmallows,” June answers.
“Awesome.” He clears his throat. “Listen, uh…”
Here we go.
I stand, bracing myself for a sucker punch. I’ll let him get one or two good shots in before defending myself. After all, I probably deserve it for sucking on his date’s fingers.
Oops.
“Sorry if I was a dick earlier,” Bryan apologizes. His attention cuts to June, then returns to me. “Thanks for keeping our girl company.”
Our girl?
My brows raise.
He chokes out a chuckle. “Figured I can’t keep her all to myself until she lets me, and, uh, since we’re taking things slow and all… For now, we’ll have to share.”
Share? He wants to share?
Throwing my head back, I laugh. “Now that would be an experience. Wouldn’t it, June.” It’s not a question. Hell, it’s a promise. I’ve never been a huge fan of threesomes, but for a taste of her, I’d happily make an exception.
“Okay, Ford.” June rolls her eyes, though I don’t miss the way she relaxes ever so slightly. “I think that’s enough—”
“Aw, come on. I don’t mind sharing—”
“We should get going,” she tells Bryan before glancing at me. “Good to see you, Ford.”
“You, too,” I tell her. My attention shifts to Bryan. “See you around, man.”
“Yeah, you, too,” he returns. Looping his arm around June’s shoulders, he guides her back toward the parking lot.
I assume it means Violet’s sleeping at our place.
Not the first time. Won’t be the last. Even with this knowledge, I can’t help but feel…
fuck. What is this feeling? It’s like I’m sitting on a damn cactus in the middle of a dry desert being burnt alive with no sunscreen.
And yes, SPF is important. Skin cancer’s no joke.
I scrub my hand over my face and let out a sigh.
It does nothing to erase the image of June tucked against Fireman Bryan’s side.
Fuck me.