Chapter 8
EMMA
My heart is trying to punch its way out of my chest. I feel it—wild and erratic—slamming against my ribs like it's trying to escape the scene in front of me.
Jake Callahan steps out of the shadows like he was carved from them, in a black cowboy hat and black clothing, standing over Eli Turner’s dead—I think—body. He’s taller than I remember, broader across the shoulders, his face harder and colder than any face I've ever seen.
But his eyes… God, his eyes are exactly the same—that icy blue that made my pulse race when he sneaked in my bedroom window, when he’d pull me onto his lap to straddle him in his pickup, when his fingers slid into my panties and into me. Watching me, always watching, like he wanted to know my soul.
Now they make my pulse race for an entirely different reason.
If it were anyone else, I’d be terrified that I’d end up next to Eli, slumped lifeless against a rusty chain-link fence, but this is Jake. I may not have talked to him since he left the day after graduation, but I know deep in my heart he’d never hurt me.
Of course, maybe I’m crazy for thinking that.
I know he went into the military and joined some sort of badass secret special forces unit. He’s spent the past eighteen years doing God knows what. Maybe he’s cracked.
Maybe I’m cracked, because looking at Eli Turner’s body while Jake looms over him like an avenging angel only makes me think Thank fuck he’s gone.
Because Eli Turner is—was?—scary.
I cringe, remembering a few hours ago when Eli showed up at my house, and the way he leaned in, his hand squeezing my tit as he said, “I hope you make it real hard for me. I like it when they fight.”
Thank God my foreman Jim happened to walk by.
Now, I look back at Eli’s body. I hope he really enjoyed this fight. I know I would have if I’d seen it. I’d have dusted my high school pompoms off and cheered Jake on the entire time.
Because, unless Eli took his own life, it seems pretty evident what happened. Eli always liked to start fights. Jake liked to end them. Being the stronger one, Jake would have won hands down.
I return my attention to Jake.
His jaw tightens. I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his gloved hands flex at his sides like he's still ready to fight. He's covered in shadows and occasional flickers of red neon, and there's something coldly feral in his eyes—something that should scare me.
It doesn't.
He looks at me like I'm the only thing that matters in the world, like he'd burn Iron Ridge to the ground if it meant keeping me safe. And the terrifying part isn't that I believe him.
The terrifying part is that I want him to.
Frankly, just the fact that I can go home tonight and actually sleep instead of staying up with my dad’s old baseball clutched in my hands, waiting, jumping at every creak in the night, makes me want to throw my arms around him and sob in thanks.
Four weeks of feeling powerless while Eli threatened everything my father left me, him pressing his disgusting body against mine, his breath creeping on my skin as he told me accidents happen—like my daddy’s—and how I should sell the land before something unfortunate occurs.
I lift my head. So no, I'm not scared of Jake Callahan.
I'm grateful.
And I'm something else too—something I haven't let myself feel in eighteen years.
I'm wanting.