Until last night.
“Damn, Len,” she breathes. “Why didn’t you say anything? Let me be there for you? We could’ve driven down to L.A., hunted him down and busted out the windows on his car. Something.”
I stare at her, then snicker. “While I appreciate the thought, a gross misdemeanor isn’t necessary to express your love. And…” I shake my head, the murky, skeletal fingers of the past closing around my throat, and for a moment I almost choke on the memories. “And I was too humiliated to tell anyone. I felt stupid, foolish to have fallen for every one of his lines. God, he must’ve gotten such a kick out of how naïve and easy I was.”
Disgust roils in my stomach at the thought of how I’d begged him to talk to me, pleaded with him not to leave me in those last emails. It’s been years since I allowed myself to dwell on this; I’d shoved it into a dark, dusty drawer in my mind and refused to open it. Refused to revisit a time that had stripped me of my trust and faith in people.
I’d given King my virginity but it’d been his cruel deception and callous abandonment that had stripped me of my innocence.
“So I’ll ask again, and no lies this time,” she gently teases. “How’re you doing with him being back in town?” Lena murmurs.
I heave a sigh and rub a hand over my hair, fingers bumping into the bun on top of my head.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “Angry, which is a given. But also hurt, resentful…sad. The primary feeling, though? Fear? I’m so damn terrified.”
“Of him? Or,” she tilts her head, studies me, “of yourself?”
My lips part but my answer remains trapped in my throat.
I want to say,I’m afraid of the changes his presence will bring to this town and, yes, to my life. King Sullivan has never left anything but chaos in his wake.
But the half-truth tastes bitter and heavy on my tongue. Especially when, without the slightest nudge, my mind conjures an image of King from last night, standing byourcreek in grey sweatpants that should’ve been illegal on his long, powerful thighs, and a thin, black hoodie that clung to his wide shoulders and chest like a thirsty groupie. Of course, I’ve seen pictures of him through the years. I can’t live on planet Earth and avoid him or Bloody Sunday’s music. Still, glancing at images of him and being within five feet of him is the difference between sitting in the dim, cool shade and bathing in the bright, hot sun. He’s more vivid, bold, startingly sexual…so real.
From the cheekbones that could’ve been chiseled from marble by a master sculptor’s hand to the harshly carved line of his jaw that his short, full beard couldn’t hide, and the almost cruel beauty of his mouth… From the deep, raspy sexiness of his voice that has sold millions and millions of records to the wild scent reminiscent of a violent storm and fresh rain… King was—is—a virtual experience that’s immersive and overwhelming.
And I have zero plans of getting on that ride again.
That’s just it, though. My head acknowledges that keeping as much distance between us as possible is the best course. But my body is having the damnedest trouble getting on board that particular bandwagon. Last night… I briefly close my eyes, and without my permission, my mind waves a visual of King like the proverbial red flag. And right on cue, lust rushes through me, pinching my nipples tight, and I’m suddenly very thankful for the thick cable knit of my dress. It also conceals the instinctive clenching of my thighs against the bottoming out of my belly and the glide of heat pooling in a sweet ache deep inside my sex.
No, my body is definitely not with the “we don’t want” program.
Good thing I control my vagina and the greedy, gullible hussy doesn’t rule me.
And yet…
“I don’t know,” I quietly admit. “And that’s the scary part.”
Lena blew out a hard breath then stood and, taking a step forward, cups my hands between hers.
“Okay, babe, here’s what we’re going to do. Let’s make a pact.” She pops up two fingers, points them toward my face then back at herself. “You and me. Promise me, if you’re about to do anything with, to, or regarding King Sullivan, call me first. Let me be your sounding board, and if need be, your alibi. Just keep me informed.”
I choke on a burst of laughter that might be a little bit soggy from the emotion scratching at the back of my throat.
“What is your preoccupation with crime? Seriously, do I need to be worried?”
She shakes her head and gives me an earnest look. “Only a little. But a head’s up? If the police come around asking about a bag of flaming dog shit on Ben’s porch Monday night, I was with you, okay?”
“Holy shit.” I gape at her. “Lena, you didn’t.”
“Of course not.” She scoffs. “Plausible deniability is key here.”
I groan. “Lena.” It’s so bad to laugh, and God knows I don’t want to encourage her. But as I pull her into a hug, I can’t contain my wide grin over her shoulder.
Because, as “ride-or-die” as Lena is for me, I’m just as loyal to her. And let’s just say if her dick of a boyfriend was on fire and I had the only glass of water available, I’d drink it. Slowly.
A few weeks ago, Ben just up and left Lena, leaving only a Dear John letter, blaming her lack of motivation and ambition as his reasons for breaking up with her and going ghost. He, in the meantime, had absconded to Alaska to fulfill his dreams of crab fishing. You just can’t make this shit up. And I work with eight-and-nine-year-olds withverycreative imaginations.
It only took two weeks for Ben to show back up in Pike’s End. And that includes travel days.