Evolve Series Box Set

by Hall, S. E.

  What a dog.

  Evan: Don’t worry about breakfast. I’ll grab it while we’re out. You want anything special?

  Sawyer climbs back in the truck, having walked Portia to her door, which shocked the shit out of me really.

  “I told Whit we’d pick up breakfast. What do you want?”

  “Whatever you see first is fine with me.”

  Whitley: There’s a place called JoJo’s right on I-9. They have the best breakfast burritos.

  “We’re having breakfast burritos. We on I-9?” I ask.

  “Hell if I know.” He’s looks around for signs. “Right there,” he points, “get back over.”

  “Look for a place called JoJo’s,” I tell him as I navigate back across traffic, “Whitley says they’re the best.”

  “So, no Whitley for you, huh? That surprises me.”

  “She’s great, don’t get me wrong. But I told ya, I think I’m reading things into it and will end up hurting her. Doesn’t it seem a little too easy that Whitley, the first girl I meet here, ends up being the one? You know, when things seem too good to be true, it’s usually because they are…”

  “Whatever you say, man. I think maybe you think too much, but it’s your call.”

  We pull through JoJo’s, another random, grim-looking eatery (Whitley’s specialty apparently), and Sawyer thankfully lets the subject drop, inhaling his burrito straight from the bag.

  “Don’t eat ours, Saw,” I warn him with a laugh.

  “I won’t, crybaby,” I think he says, his mouth full.

  “So,” he finally comes out of the bag for air minutes later, now speaking legibly, “we gonna go parasailing?”

  “Don’t know yet.” I climb out of the truck, snagging the bag from Sawyer as I go, salvaging Whitley and I some breakfast. “Depends on what Whit wants to do.”

  He’s still bugging me about it as we walk in. “Whitley, you wanna go parasailing?” he asks her.

  “I don’t think I was invited,” she glances at me, “but you guys go ahead. I just downloaded a new book. I’ll be more than happy laying out and reading.”

  Not happening.

  “Cool,” Sawyer shrugs, “oh and Whit? Don’t get drunk alone with guys anymore, okay? Evan here about kicked my ass for leaving you alone, even though I assured him you weren’t hammered when I left you. Not safe, sugar.”

  “It wasn’t his fault,” she says pointedly to me, “Tyler had a flask of whiskey I got carried away. Sawyer didn’t know.”

  I nod briskly; I’d already settled it with Sawyer and he’d now issued the warning I wanted to, so no need to rehash it.

  “I’m gonna hop in the shower, then we’ll head out. Cool?”

  “Nah,” I answer him, “you go ahead. I’m gonna hang with Whit.”

  “Evan, you don’t have—”

  “Hanging with you,” I cut her off sternly.

  “You guys settle it,” Sawyer laughs, “I’m going with or without ya.”

  He leaves to take his shower and I get up and gather the trash from breakfast, Whitley fixing an imaginary problem with the bottom of her shirt, a small smile hinting at the corners of her mouth

  “So, what do you feel like doing?” I ask.

  “Well, I know a really good spot to go fishing. We have poles in the garage I think.”

  My eyes pop and I look at her suspiciously, one brow raised. “You fish?”

  She full-on smiles now. “I do if you teach me.”

  “You know where to get worms?”

  “Um, the ground?”

  I laugh at her innocent but correct answer. I was thinking of a Vendabait machine, but yes, the ground works too. “I don’t know if we’ll find enough that way, but we can sure try. Go get ready, I’ll check the garage for poles.”

  “Okay!” She bounces all the way down the hall; I know this because I watch with a grin plastered on my face.

  It’s gonna be damn hard to find people to date when I get home.

  ***

  Whitley is the best accidental squirrel hunter I’ve ever met. Her hook has been up in the trees, which aren’t exactly right on top of us, more times than not, so she must be trying to hook herself a squirrel. She apologizes profusely every time I have to put down my pole and help her, but I really don’t mind. It’s fun to watch her keep trying, her little tongue popping out in determination with every attempted cast.

  Has she caught a fish? No.

  Has she actually caught a squirrel? Still no.

  Is being here, fishing, just what I needed? Yes.

  Have I won the battle with myself to ignore the memories and comparisons? Damn near.

  “I think I need an intermission,” she says, propping her pole against a tree. “I’ll just watch you for a while. Catch me a big one.”

  “We can go if you want.”

  “No way!” she gasps. “I’m having a great time, really. I’m just taking a break. Go on,” she motions with her hands, “keep fishing.”

  “Don’t worry, it won’t be too much longer. I’m almost out of worms.”

  It’s gorgeous here, the water calm and a bit clearer than back home, and no crowd; this back cove to a small lake Whitley’s great little secret I guess . The air isn’t as sticky as home, either, which is a blessing. Now I know everybody says there’s nowhere as muggy as South Carolina, and maybe it’s just me, but you sit by a body of water in a Georgia summer, your shirt’s soaked in ten minutes. The breeze today may be helping, but this spot seems pretty close to perfect. It also doesn’t hurt that sweet Whitley has been humming “Fishing in the Dark” by The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band quietly behind me since she started her intermission. It’s a favorite of mine, and I’m shocked she knows it. It’s all kinds of cute…another example of her “mood music.”

  I haven’t gotten a single nibble the whole time I’ve been daydreaming, so I reel in, seeing I’ve been picked clean. When I reach down to grab another worm, the cup is gone. So is the humming.

  “Whitley?” I lay down my pole, walking around to search for her. “Whitley?”

  “Over here!” I hear her call from my right.

  Pushing aside the tall grass and snipping off two flowers, I tromp over to find her crawling around on her hands and knees, dirt flying up around her.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, dumbfounded yet amazed at what I’ve stumbled upon.

  “Digging you some more worms, of course.” She turns her head to answer me, pushing the hair out of her face and leaving a smear of mud across her forehead. “I’ve got eleven,” she says proudly, offering the cup to me.

  I take the cup and trade her the two flowers with a big smile. I look down—she really did find a whole pile of worms. That’s true fishing dedication.

  “Evan,” she snickers as she smells the flowers, “I think these may be weeds.”

  “Even if they are, you pretty ‘em up by holding ‘em.”

  I gotta say—women look real nice in dresses, bikinis, or of course less, but when a little blonde is on her hands and knees, her tank top gaping down in the front, perky ass up in the air, her face smeared with mud, AND she’s holding out a cup of worms she dug for you… This is the stuff country boys dream about. I’m so turned on right now, I want nothing more than to scoop her up and kiss the lips off her, but I just can’t. It might ruin everything, and I can’t lose another great friend because I misread things. One thing I’ve learned the gut-wrenching way—I’d rather keep the friend forever than have a month of two of “more.”

  I offer my hand to help her up. “This is a good look on you, Whit. You may have to trade in those pretty nails and fancy clothes for some cutoffs and boots.”

  “I have a pair of boots,” she says proudly, “and cutoffs. But I like my nails. Even though there’s dirt trapped under them right now.” Her nose wrinkles just a smidge.

  I can’t resist playing with her just a little. “Well then, next outing, you’re wearing them. You owe me since you dressed me like a preppy clown.”

/>   “Deal,” she squeezes my hand, still holding hers for some reason, “and I won’t do that again, I promise. I didn’t know a gathering at Dane’s house would be so informal. For what it’s worth, I thought you looked very nice.”

  “I looked like Tyler.”

  Why did I just say that? Here I am, deciding to stay on the friend path with this girl, and then I go spouting off shit that makes me sound jealous.

  “About that,” she starts, dropping my hand and wrapping her arms around herself protectively. “I’m sorry about last night. I don’t feel anything for Tyler, really. We were just talking and I drank too much. I know it’s not a good excuse, but I just have a lot on my mind. Thanks for taking care of me, though,” she lifts her head slightly from its bowed position and smiles apologetically, “and I’m sorry.”

  “Let’s talk about that.” I take her hand again, leading her through the brush and back to the clear spot where our poles rest. I sit down on the bank, pulling on her hand for her to so the same. “I know you’re worried about your parents’ stuff, but you said some other stuff, too.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re worried about being able to afford school, having to leave.”

  “Oh!” she gasps and draws her knees up, wrapping her arms around them. “I don’t want to leave Southern; I like it there.”

  “You need to call your parents, Whit. Ask them about it so you can stop worrying. Either way, it’ll be fine. It may not even be a problem, and if it is, you could get student loans, a job; you’d have options. But you just need to make the call and figure it out, clear your mind.”

  She falls backs in the grass, laughing, her blond hair splaying out around her.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You,” she answers simply. “You make everything so easy. That makes perfect sense and I’ve been driving myself crazy for nothing. From now on,” she sits up again, tapping the end of my nose with her finger, just as I’ve done hers, “I’m just gonna run everything through the Evan Think Tank before I get all worked up.”

  “Brilliant plan,” I agree with a wink.

  It’s dark when we finally leave, and that’s only because Whitley can no longer see to dig more worms. I never brought up any of the other stuff she had said the night before—about me loving Laney, or her taking care of me… The line is dangerously close to blurry and doesn’t need any help.

  When we pull up to the house, it’s immediately obvious Sawyer has company. I glance at Whitley, guessing she’s going to be upset about it, but she just smiles brightly at me. I walk around and open her door for her, then unload all the gear, stalling for time, apprehensive of what we may be walking into; with Sawyer, you never really know.

  Okay, so maybe not the worst possible case scenario, but damn close. Sawyer is currently hosting Amber, Nikki, Sasha, Tyler…and Portia. Awkward to have both “his girls” here? Not half as awkward as the fact that all the girls are half-dressed. Looks like Sawyer finally got some takers on his Strip Poker idea. And because he is completely naked, I’m thinking he should pick a game he’s better at.

  “Want me to make them leave?” I whisper to Whitley, who’s grabbing my shirt and ducking her head behind my back.

  “N-no, it’s all right. It’s Spring Break and all, and I’m not their mother.”

  “Oh, hey!” Sawyer finally notices us standing on the outskirts, and all the other heads turn to us. “Where y’all been? You want dealt in?”

  “Fishing.” I reach behind myself with one hand and find Whitley’s, heading for the hallway. “We’re beat. Gonna take showers and go to bed. Don’t mind us, though. Carry on.”

  “Wait, Evan!” Nikki runs up, pink bra-clad breasts bouncing. “Come play with us. I’ve been waiting all day for you to get back.”

  “Really?” Whitley’s sneer is hilarious, but I say nothing, curious as hell what she’s going to say next. “He’s tired, and we have to take a shower. Run along,” she “shooes” Nikki with her hand, “Evan’s too good for that.”

  Alrighty then. I follow Whitley’s lead and turn, letting her pull me down the hall, leaving a gape-mouthed Nikki standing alone, staring after us I’m sure. Whitley’s mumbling something about STDs, desperate, and I think lopsided as she drags me along, finally letting go of my hand at my door.

  “Are you gonna go back out there, Evan?” she asks, fighting desperately not to tug her lower lip between her teeth and not meeting my eyes.

  “Nah, I think I’ll clean up and go to bed. All that fresh air, I’ll sleep great. You?”

  “Me too,” her face lights up and she nods, “night.”

  “Night, Whit.” And before I can help it, my lips are on her hair, kissing the top of her head.

  Last time I checked, I was still a red-blooded American male, and part of me is dying to go out there and look at naked chicks, but I remain in my bed, staring at the ceiling. The light knock at my door better not be any of them, ‘cause I’m trying real hard to stay put here and be the man my mama raised. When I open the door, the visitor is indeed pleasant—dressed, for one thing, and looking subtle, classy…and sweet as sugar in a light pink pajama shorts set, hair damp from her shower.

  “Were you asleep?” she asks nervously, her eyes locked on my bare chest.

  I like that she’s looking; just another mixed up feeling that I’ll have to talk myself out of later. And dammit, I all of kinds of like the timid way she slowly lifts her gaze to mine, silently asking if her looking was okay, if I’m going to invite her in.

  “No,” I scoff. No way could anyone sleep with the racket coming from the living room.

  The silence now is palpable, she’s waiting for me to step back and open the door wider, to ask her in. I’m waiting for her to convince me that my doubts are okay and she wants to explore “us” anyway, see how it goes, and that she’s positive it won’t hurt her.

  Neither happens, and eventually our locked gaze, blue on blue, becomes awkward.

  She pulls her hands from behind her back, one holding a bag of cookies, the other a DVD. “Wanna watch a movie?”

  “Yeah,” I smile, moving back and opening the door wider, “sounds great.”

  I pull a t-shirt over my head quickly and fiddle with the TV and DVD player, getting things ready as Whitley grabs extra pillows out of the closet and situates them on the bed just right. I flip the lights back off and tentatively climb back in the bed, making sure to leave space in between our bodies. There’s an uncomfortable stiffness to the air as we lay in the bed waiting for the movie to start, broken only when Whitley aims the open bag at me.

  “Eat a cookie and relax, Evan.”

  It doesn’t take very long into the movie for me to lose control. What is this girly shit?! I give it another ten minutes, and then I can’t hold my tongue any longer. “Whitley,” I turn my head to her, the lights of the TV flickering over her profile, “what the hell is this movie called?”

  “Moulin Rouge. Don’t you love it?” her voice is breathy and wistful.

  “This isn’t even a movie, it’s a musical.”

  “I know, aren’t the songs wonderful?” She still hasn’t looked at me, unable to break her attention from the catastrophe playing on the screen.

  “No,” I grumble, “it’s driving me crazy, woman. One more song with guys dancing around and it’s going off.”

  “Evan Allen.” She pauses the movie and finally looks my way, giving me a quick poke in the ribs. “Broaden your horizons a little! This movie is artistic and wonderful.”

  “This movie is noisy crap.”

  “Fine,” she crosses her arms, “what do you want to watch?”

  “Die Hard.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she rolls her big blue eyes at me, “I don’t have Die Hard. I have…” She climbs over me and walks to the armoire, mumbling something about men not appreciating musical genius.

  Maybe I’m spending too much time with Sawyer, or maybe the Laney haze really has lifted, because I have
zoned in, while in almost complete darkness, and am positive she is not wearing panties under those shorts.

  “How about Shawshank Redemption?” She turns back to me, and I jerk my eyes up to hers, praying I haven’t been caught, but her smirk tells me that prayer was wasted. “That’s a good compromise. Will that work?”

  “Perfect,” I clear my throat, “that’s my favorite movie.”

  “I like it too.” Her warm smile is glowing even in the darkened room.

  “You sure about that? There’s no fairy dudes in nightclothes jumping around singing.”

  I duck just in time to dodge the movie case aimed at my head.

  ***

  “Evan,” I hear a voice through a fog and feel my body being shaken, “Evan, wake up.”

  “Mhm?” I open my eyes, slow to realize where I am. In bed. And Whitley’s snuggled up beside me. “What is it?”

  “Your phone is going crazy,” she says. Her voice is sleepy and raspy, her legs tangled with mine…and it’s morning, so my body already has a head start on what my mind is registering. “I think you should check it; seems important.”

  I roll over, grabbing my phone off the nightstand, and see that I have five missed calls from my parents, all just minutes apart. Whatever it is, it can’t be good, and my palms sweat as I push the button to call them back.

  “Evan?”

  “Hey, Dad, you called? What’s going on?”

  “Ah, son,” he groans, “got some bad news.”

  I sit up, my stomach clenching, throat tightening. “What is it? Is Mom okay?”

  “Your mom’s fine. It’s Dale. He’s gone, son.”

  “Gone?” I croak out, feeling Whitley’s small, warm hand move to my shoulder. “What’s that mean, gone? What happened?”

  “Angie found him out in the field. Looks like he had a heart attack. He passed, Evan. He’s gone.”

  Dale Jones is, was, I guess, my best friend Parker’s dad, and a helluva man. Parker, Laney and I were closer than close growing up, practically raised on the Jones’ farm. Dale gave us each a calf every year as our own to raise there. We fished every pond a hundred times. We had cow patty fights. Dale taught us all how to drive a tractor. Parker and I put up hay every year and Dale always paid us in crisp, brand new hundred dollar bills. I know I’m crying, and Whitley can see it, but I don’t care. I’m fucking sad. I loved Dale like a second father, an uncle, a mentor…and this sucks.