Pike’s End is a small-as-hell town. If I don’t tell him now, someone else inadvertently will. I can’t let him be blindsided like that. That was my intention when I suggested coming to The Hammerhead for beers. And now that we’re here, I’m out of reasons to keep him in the dark. He needs to know.
“Yeah, Rose got a week of in-school detention because of her latest stunt. But the vice principal was understanding about her situation.” I swallow. Hard. Setting my bottle on the bar top, I bow my head and drag in a deep breath. Now or never. And never isn’t an option. “Speaking of the vice principal… Jessie, there’s something I—”
“The fuck.”
His harsh whisper has my head jerking up. But he’s not looking at me. His wide gaze is fixed across the room toward the entrance of the bar. My heart thuds in dull, heavy beats, filling my head, echoing in my ears. The bottom of my stomach plummets, and I slowly follow the direction he’s staring, because in my soul, I know who will be standing there.
I know who’s placed that stricken, gutted expression on my friend’s face.
“India?” he rasps.
My eyes briefly close. It isn’t just her name that shivers through me like ghostly, skeletal fingers trailing down my spine. It’s her name in his voice. That serrated, hollow voice that contains an awful note of wonder… of hope.
As if she heard her name over the Friday night noise of the bar, she glances in our direction. And freezes.
Apologies to her, to Jessie—to God, to fucking everybody—tumble over themselves in my head. I had no idea she would be here tonight, but somehow, I’m flaying myself alive for unintentionally arranging this impromptu reunion.
Tearing my gaze from her, I take in the people gathered around her. The office assistant from the school—I’d recognize the combination of dreads and funky glasses anywhere. Lena. That’s her name. The men on either side of them, though…
A dark, ugly emotion stirs behind my sternum. An emotion I have no right to feel. But that fact doesn’t stop the stain of it from spreading like an oil slick across my chest, up into my throat. Jealously. Anger. An almost feral possessiveness that has me seconds from stalking over there, wrapping my hand around the back of her neck and slamming my mouth down on hers. Grinding my cock against her belly. Fucking rub my scent on her like a goddamn animal.
Jesus.
What the hell is wrong with me? She’s. Not. Mine.
She can never be mine.
And all I need to do is glance at the man next to me, take in his stunned, shattered face, and be reminded why.
“What the fuck? India?” Jessie repeats, rising from his stool.
I clap my hand on his shoulder, exerting enough pressure to still him. His head whips toward me, his eyes narrowed. As if he’s restraining the need to tear away from me and charge across the room to his ex-girlfriend.
“Jessie, wait,” I say, keeping my voice low, hopefully calm.
“Are you ser—?” His eyes flare wide, then narrow again. “You knew,” he growls. “You knew she was here, and you didn’t say one goddamn word. How long?” he demands. “How long have you been lying to me?”
Heaving a sigh, I risk releasing him, and thrust my fingers through my hair, gripping the strands tight until tiny spikes of pain punish my scalp.
“I meant to tell you, Jess,” I say. “I’ve been trying to for a week now.”
“Trying?” he snaps, lowering back to the stool and leaning into my space. His dark brows arrow down over eyes glittering with anger. “What the fuck does that mean? What’s so hard about saying, Hey, Jess. India’s back. Thought you should know.”
“Because it’s her. Because it’s India. That’s why it was hard.”
He stares at me for several long seconds. Even though the bar rings with chatter, laughter, and the rock music over the PA system, the silence between us blares, deafening me. Slowly, the fury ebbs then drains from his gaze and expression. A profound sorrow, so deep it’s hard to look at, etches his face.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, I get it.” Turning from me, he snatches up his beer and downs about half of it before smacking it back down. “Talk,” he orders, still not meeting my gaze.
“She’s Rose’s vice principal. She came back here at the beginning of the school year, but I didn’t find out until I went up to the school for the meeting last Friday,” I explain.
“Has she talked to you at all?” he grates out, eyes still trained on the scarred bar top. His fingers clasp the half-full bottle as if it’s a lifeline.
I hesitate, and that slick, grimy coat thickens. Because I’m going to lie. Even if it’s by omission, I’m going to lie to my best friend. But there’s no way in hell I can tell him about Wednesday night or the kiss afterward.
“She has a little. Like where she’s been the past two years. She went to Seattle and finished up her degree there. When the assistant principal position came open here, she accepted.”
“That’s it?” He clears his throat. “She didn’t ask…”