Chairs, a plushy-looking couch, and a couple glass tables sat under the cover of the extended roof. My head turned, catching an item on the far end of the porch that came close to fixing my frown.
Whiskey hugged into my chest, I moved toward it.
There were a bunch of buttons and knobs on the side, and I squinted at each one of them before poking the one that said ‘On.’
An engine kicked into gear and bubbles erupted along the smooth surface of water. The rustle of disrupting water consumed the air, washing all the way out to the throng of moonlight-stained trees pushing up against the back of the cabin.
I looked out to them, eyeing the slivered void of black nestled unevenly between each one and wondered how far back the darkness went.
The wooden floor warped with a creak just behind me. Not turning around and not needing to, I asked numbly, “Is there anyone around us?”
A heavy beat wrestled between us and the noise of the hot tub.
“Not for at least a mile,” James eventually answered, his voice lodged especially deep.
The rough notes of his voice crawled over my shoulder and tap, tap, tapped right over my heart with pointed stabs, wanting in.
I could warm you, it whispered.
Yes. James could.
But he wouldn’t.
He made that clear last night.
Even with the fire engulfing my nerve-endings and dust from my memories of Johnny choking my air supply, James stayed frozen across the room until he left it. I spent the night wrapped in flames, and James spent it at the bottom of a bottle.
Disappointment feathered around my ribcage as I sighed deeply, breathing stolen life and hating it. My eyes felt like weights in my skull as I dragged my stare across the gurgling water, watching bubbles rise and pop and disappear with such ease, jealousy cracked a punishing thwack right across my stupid beating heart.
It was so easy for them. There and then gone. Swelling and bursting.
“Do you ever think about how you wanna die?” I asked, lips barely moving around the question.
The wood beneath my bare feet shifted as James did.
“No. And you shouldn’t either.”
“Can’t help it. Whiskey always makes me extra sad. Or horny.”
Behind me, I think I actually heard his jaw crack.
“Well, you shouldn’t be horny since I’m sure you had sex last night.”
James’ storm-inspired temper lashed out with sharp winds as he spewed the accusation. I absorbed it, languidly flooding my lungs with his tiny, furious shockwaves and gripping the liquor tighter.
His rage felt good. Felt great.
Even if it was ill-conceived and proved James really was the master of his own torture.
Twisting towards him, I stopped with both feet flat and sturdy. He was leaned against the wall, quietly brooding with his burly arms folded over his chest. Menacing shadows stretched over the planes of his face as he eyed me and waited, looking the epitome of hauntingly beautiful.
“If you don’t think I’m horny, do you think I’m sad?” I asked more in challenge than sincerely.
But sincerity played across his expression anyway as light and darkness morphed it before my eyes. His black browline furrowed a bit deeper. His full lips flattened a little tighter. His golden irises lost a little color.
“I think you’re always sad, Scarlett.”
Blinking up at him, rushing blood filled out my cheeks at his unabashed honesty, and then a ghost of a smile did next. James frowned at my almost smile, looking even meaner and more gorgeous as I found relief in his truth.