Keats blinked, the tough-guy face faltering for a second. “What?”
“Five hundred and you come home with me for the night.”
“That wasn’t the offer.”
“You’re going to turn down five hundred bucks and a warm place to sleep?” he asked, knowing Keats had no more than thirty bucks in his case and that the cold rain would start falling any minute.
“Nobody gives you that much money for nothing,” he said, his expression tight. “And I don’t fuck guys.”
Even hearing the crass words roll off Keats’s lips had anger welling in Colby. So he was going to keep this bravado crap up. Colby crowded Keats against the side of the bench, using his size to the fullest advantage. He knew he wasn’t fighting fair. Keats was nervous even if he was trying to play it off. But there was no way in hell Colby was letting him walk away. If it meant playing as dirty as Keats was playing, so be it. He leaned in, meeting Keats eye to eye. “Do I look like someone who’d need to pay for a fuck?”
“Col—” he started, then caught himself. “Shit.”
Colby smiled and backed off, victorious. He took the guitar case from Keats’s hand, the burden of Colby’s awful day lifting a little. The situation was beyond screwed up. Keats was on the street—or close enough to it to be busking in a park. He hadn’t actually asked him if he had somewhere to go. But he was alive. That was enough to be thankful for. “Come on. Let’s get a sandwich and get indoors before the skies open up. I need to sober up before I can drive. But when we’re done, you are going home with me.”
The nothing-bothers-me attitude dropped from Keats’s expression and he looked . . . lost. “Why?”
“Do you have someplace better to go?” he asked, lifting a brow.
Keats’s jaw twitched and he glanced away, the shame in his eyes making him look more like the kid he used to know and less like—Colby counted off the years in his head—the twenty-three-year-old man he’d grown into. “Not if I don’t show up with some cash in my pocket.”
“That’s reason enough, then. I’m guessing five hundred will cover you. Come on.”
Keats followed him when Colby started walking back toward the main road. He fell into step with him. “Your . . . family isn’t going to mind you showing up with some stranger?”
Colby peered over at him, the question catching him off guard. “I live alone.”
“Oh.” Keats looked down. “That’s cool.”
Ah, hell.
This had trouble written all over it. Colby switched the guitar case to his other hand and put some distance between the two of them.
Line drawn.
FIVE
Georgia sat curled up in her living room, nursing a glass of wine and trying to plot out the next scene in her book on the legal pad propped on her lap. A rerun of 48 Hours was on in the background, but she wasn’t listening to it. Really, she hadn’t been able to concentrate on much of anything all evening. Instead, her eyes kept drifting to her living room window. Colby had said he might bring over burgers tonight. All day she had stressed about it, wondering if she would be able to manage it. She knew she couldn’t go over to his house, but she wasn’t sure she could let him in hers either. Every time she thought about it, she got that electric feeling in her muscles—like they were all going to seize up at once.
But Leesha had been so enthusiastic when Georgia had mentioned the potential date-that-wasn’t-really-a-date to her this morning. According to Leesha—in all her therapeutic wisdom—getting interested in a man was a “major” step in the right direction. It showed willingness to trust again and reconnecting to the outside world and blah blah blah. Georgia had zoned out a little on the therapist-speak. Even so, Leesha’s excitement had been contagious, and Georgia had promised her she would do all she could to give it a chance and not chicken out.
So she’d started making plans to eat on the backyard deck. Her garden back there was quiet and the trees offered shade. She could control the situation there. But all the planning and worrying had been for naught. Colby hadn’t come home at his normal time. And it wasn’t like he had her phone number, so he hadn’t called. So either something had come up or he’d simply forgotten. Or something was wrong.
She pushed the thought aside, frustrated that her mind always went there. Hello, Paranoia, nice to see you again. It was always there, waiting in the rafters and ready to pounce. Sometimes she wondered if Phillip had seared it into her psyche permanently, that there was no getting better for her, that he had killed the woman Georgia used to be spiritually even if her physical form had managed to survive. Maybe she was sentenced to a life inside these walls, watching the world go by through her windows and on her TV screen, and only going out when she popped a pill that made her thoughts go slow and sticky. She set her wineglass aside and pressed the heels of her hands to her eye sockets, the thoughts making her brain want to implode.
No, she wouldn’t let that happen. She was trying to get better. She was going outside every day. She was doing her therapy. Hell, she’d held a full conversation with her neighbor today. Even Leesha was hopeful. Things were getting a little better, right? And once Phillip was put away for good, the fear would surely go away. Knowing that he was out on bond and could pop back into her life was what held her hostage. The chances were slim that he’d leave the state since if he tried, he’d be thrown in jail. But it was the existence of that minute possibility that she couldn’t get past. Because she knew without a doubt that if he found her, there would be no escape this time.
A door slammed in the distance, making her jump and almost knock over her wine. She turned her head toward the window. Colby was back and someone was climbing down from the passenger side of his truck. Georgia shifted on the couch to turn fully around and watch. At least he was safe, even if the thought of him bringing home some woman had a different kind of feeling twisting in her stomach. But when his passenger came around the front of the truck, it was a lanky guy with shoulder-length blond hair. Not anyone she recognized from Colby’s gaggle of friends.
Jealousy rooted down in her gut despite the fact that it was a guy. Georgia had watched Colby long enough to know he wasn’t only into women. Though not recently, she’d seen him with a male lover once before. It had shocked the hell out of her initially. She knew gay or bisexual men didn’t necessarily fit a stereotype. But Colby was the epitome of the Southern-boy alpha male—the last person she would’ve ever suspected. When she’d first watched him fool around with the guy, she’d expected to be turned off. She’d always dated what she’d thought of as “manly” men, ones who would’ve balked at the idea of touching another guy.
But she’d been floored by how hot it had been to watch Colby take over another man. It hadn’t been effeminate at all. It’d been rough and sexy and intense. Transfixing. By the time the night was done, she’d been sweating, breathless, and out of her mind with all the . . . wanting. She hadn’t quite understood her reaction, but she’d decided not to dig too deep into that one.
However, tonight she wasn’t in the mood to watch. Her pride was dinged. She and Colby had made plans, albeit loose ones, and then Colby had blown it off and brought someone else home. It was probably stupid to feel any jealousy. She and Colby were just neighbors. It was only an offer for burgers. She probably wouldn’t have even been able to invite him inside. But it didn’t stop the feelings from surfacing.
She watched the other guy pull something out of the truck bed, a guitar case from the looks of it. Colby said something to him and then glanced toward Georgia’s house. Instinctively, she ducked back. All he’d be able to see between her blinds was the ambient light from the television, but even so, Colby was already heading her way.
“Shit.” She scrambled off the couch. She was still in her jeans and favorite pink cashmere sweater. Stupidly, she’d gotten a little dressed up for the night, even putting on some makeup. Of course, she probably had raccoon eyes at this point from rubbing them. She strode to the mirror above the small table in the entryway and ran her fingers under her eyes to clear the smudged mascara right before the knock hit the door.