“Out? Lane, it’s just after midnight on a rainy Saturday. You’ve never seen this place busy until now.”
He yanked upward on the handle and slid the door sideways, opening his world to me.
15
CONNOR HAD BY NO MEANS used the word “busy” in a hyperbolic sense. The warehouse hummed with activity, overflowed with people and smells and intensely focused scowls. Five of the easels were occupied, each artist wielding a different medium, each looking a hairbreadth from total insanity. The beadwork room sparkled with nimble hands and scattered stones. The fiber room was a mess—a woman crouched in a sea of yarn and fabric, winding two skeins into a single length around her bent arm, while a pale, sweat-stained man worked the spinning wheel like Rumpelstiltskin’s bitch. Metal screeched on metal. Chisels met wood. The air reeked of fixative and sawdust and the sting of turpentine. No one even looked up as Connor led me through the chaos to the living space, past the crates and materials and the hum of the wheel.
Paul waved at us from his footstool, then refocused his energy into coaxing life from a block of wood almost as tall as me. I shed my coat, pulled off my muddy boots, and perched cross-legged on the futon, accepting the hand towel Connor tossed my way.
He settled next to me, blotting rain from his hair and face as I watched Paul work, mesmerized by the lines that emerged like magic with every tap of his chisel.
“He’s great, isn’t he?”
I turned toward the voice and met Connor’s grin, returned the nudge of his shoulder with my own.
“Incredible. How do people learn to do that?”
“Skin-clawing obsession, coupled with years of practice. Here, check it out.” He sat forward and shrugged out of his shirt. “My parents used to call me their little angel. I’m sure this isn’t quite what they had in mind … but then again, neither am I.”
His back was a canvas. Skeletal wings sprouted from his shoulder blades—scraps of shredded, ragged skin, strung and hung on a mosaic of bones. Rendered in such perfect detail, they threatened to launch him into sudden flight. A finger appeared on the line of a phalanx, brushed over the curve of a scapula—my finger, bold against his skin.
“Oh my God, this is beautiful. And Paul drew it?”
“He did. Talent like that can’t be taught. Mmmm.” His head rolled to the side, shoulders flexing at the drag of my fingernail. “Keep doing that.”
“Oh. Are you sure?”
“Very.”
“Okay.” I continued sketching over every joint and shadow, forced normal-sounding words out around the catch of my breath. What the fuck, Lane. “I remember you from back then, you know.”
“You remember me? Shit. I’m afraid to ask.”
“Vaguely. You were that church kid from the public-access channel. Had that Hall family accent: ‘Y’all should come out to our youth group.’ Et cetera.”
“The ‘y’all’s and the youth group. Christ.” His laugh was low and soft, ending in a sigh. “In reality, that family was done with me the moment I said ‘atheist.’ My father had me out the door within the hour—haven’t seen him since.”
“I’m sorry.” I stilled my fingers, pressed my palm against the space between his shoulder blades. “You don’t have to talk about it.”
“Doesn’t bother me. The road here sucked, but it made me tough in a way they’ll never understand. Made me learn how to prioritize, and go without. Taught me to fight. This”—he reached over his shoulder and tapped the tattoo—“is my way of owning who I am: not the me they wanted, but the me they got. So, do me a favor and forget Church Kid existed, huh? He was about as real as these wings.”
“Should I be worried about Sadie?” I hedged. “She seems happy enough, but—”
“It’s not as bad for her. She’s a true believer—one of them, in a way I’ll never be. Plus, if she leaves, they lose face in the church, and they lose their control, so she gets away with the wild hair, and the attitude, and the whole pagan boyfriend thing.”
Right. That. The evening returned in bits and pieces—Grey’s hand, strong around mine; Sadie’s smile in my mirror, juxtaposed over her later, rain-streaked fury; Connor’s face, furrowed and focused, as he carved his pumpkin; his hair and mouth, wet with raindrops; his ink-lined spine, warm and steady beneath my palm.
He turned to face me, lips quirking as I gazed back, every one of those thoughts buzzing through me in a hornet-sting swarm, and why. Why was I such an utter car crash.
“Don’t look at me like that, Lane.”
It was a challenge, not a request—a dare, demanding the opposite of everything it had meant to us before. I tried to stare him down. I failed so hard.
“Don’t you look at me,” I breathed.
“Is there a better view in this place?”
“Depends on what you’re trying to see, Connor.”
“Okay. I can’t. I simply cannot, for even one more second of my life.” Paul’s outburst yanked us back into the warehouse. We watched, wordlessly, as he stowed his chisel and made a beeline for the door. It swung shut behind him, then opened again, just enough to admit his leer. “I love you, Laney, but not enough to sit here and watch you eye-fuck my boy straight on into November.”
The door slammed on his cackle, sucking the air, and my will to live, right out of the room. My eyes slid closed, tried their best to dissolve into my skull, so I’d never again have to look another human in the face. Maybe, if I stayed perfectly still, the world would do me a favor and cease to be.
“He has quite a way with words, huh?”
So. Connor still sitting there, existing beside me—flame and stardust, caught in the fabric of space—that was still a thing. Fuck. I steeled myself, cracked a lid, and peeked sideways; he was staring at the place where Paul had been, smirk gone weary with resignation.
“Connor, I swear, I wasn’t—”
“Yeah.” He turned to me, and it was every near miss and broken glance. Every time we’d almost touched, seething in the space between us. “Are we still doing the total honesty thing?”
“God. I—don’t know. I don’t know what we’re doing.”
“I know I’m not the McIntyre type.” He took my hand and ran his thumb over my knuckles, as if tracing an invisible thread mark. “But you’ve been on my mind. Ever since that day.”
“Mine too. I mean—” I swallowed the end of that blunder, floundering for something more coherent. Something safer. As if the thought of his scars against my skin hadn’t already knocked Grey to the edge of the world. “You’re my friend. If we let this happen—what would it be? What would we be?”
“It’s your call. We could be nothing, or everything. A one-night thing, or the start of something more, or—”
“There is no ‘more’ for me,” I snapped. “I told you, I don’t do relationships.”
“I remember.” He gave me a wicked smile, wild and lovely as the shiver it sent across my shoulders. “You do distractions.”
His words swept the wind from my lungs. He’d listened a bit too closely that day in the parking lot, kept that detail stored at the ready, even all these weeks later. Threw it back my way, waiting to see if I’d bite.
“I also mind my business, Connor.”
“Fair enough.” The smile re-formed into half a smirk, pursed and pensive. My eyes dropped to our hands, still twined together on my knee, as he spoke. “Look, Lane, I know you have your feelings, and your reasons and all, but honestly? That kid couldn’t handle you even if he was free to try.”
“And you think you could?”
“That’s a question that goes both ways.” His thumb left a trail of sparks along my cheekbone. “How badly do you want it answered?”
I searched his face, seeking and finding that steady, reassuring familiarity. Connor knew my issues; he wouldn’t expect a commitment. He wouldn’t pout, or get jealous, or any dumb shit like that, so what did it matter if we carved a slightly skewed facet into our friendship?
It wouldn’t have
to change a thing.
So, I let my eyelids drop and my eyebrow quirk, let the corners of my lips tilt upward, slow and sultry. Let myself trip on the answering curve of his mouth as I leaned in.
It wasn’t a kiss so much as an ignition—the sun lost behind the moon, the white-hot melt of flame and silver. It was the world flipped sideways, tilting us into chaos.
It was working. Grey was far away, finally fading. Finally stumbling off the edge of my thoughts.
“Hey.” The word was a gasp, raw in the airless space between us. “You’re okay with this, right? We don’t have to—”
“Connor.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t stop.”
His answer trailed off to a low, wordless hum around the edges of my lips—a hum that turned to a growl as I rose to my knees, dragged my fingers through his hair. Descended upon him.
Shoved Grey McIntyre into oblivion.
I barely noticed the buzz of the warehouse, or the creak of the mattress beneath our shifting weight; didn’t notice anything beyond Connor’s hands moving over my jaw, through my hair, down my neck, pausing at the top button of my cardigan. I drew away, caught his eyes. Slid that button free, and then the next, and then I was on my back.
It wasn’t even a question. There was no more doubt or hesitation, not in the drag of my fingers across his shoulders, or in the way he breathed against me as the world fell in splinters around us. And yes, it was a distraction, offered and accepted; it did begin, and end, as nothing. But as we lay together on his shitty futon—as he drew back to look at me, somewhere between a kiss and half a ragged breath—in that instant, for me, it was that much closer to everything.
In that moment, he was all I saw.
16
WE SAT CLOSE TOGETHER ON the warehouse steps, just out of reach of the rain. It was well after three a.m., so when I’d finally texted Grey—Come get me whenever you wake up. No rush—I’d fully expected to wait out the night on that futon. His almost instant reply, Still awake, on my way, sent a surprising flare of disappointment through my belly.
“You can go crash if you need to,” I said as Connor stifled his third yawn in as many minutes.
“I’ll sleep after you go. Actually, I think I’ll make coffee, and maybe some art. I’m suddenly feeling inspired.”
“Shut up.”
He laughed, pushing to his feet and pulling me with him as the Forester ambled toward us. We faced each other in the sudden glow of the floodlights, breath turning to haze in the air. He tucked my hair behind my ear, wiped a stray raindrop from my cheekbone.
“Lane. Tonight was …”
“It was, wasn’t it?”
“It so was. Can I text you later?”
“You’d better.” He smiled at that, and leaned in, and I let him kiss me, slow and deep and obvious. “Bye, Connor.”
He headed inside as I dropped into the passenger seat. Grey stared at me, then at the warehouse, then gunned the engine in reverse, careened out of the parking lot, and blew through a stop sign before speaking.
“Tell me you didn’t actually sleep with him.”
“Wow. So is the boundary thing canceled in general, or just on your end?” His huff got lost in my short, dark laugh. “How about you let me know when Sadie finally gives it up, and then we’ll trade stories. It’ll be a whole family-bonding experience.”
“What the fuck, dude. I can’t believe this. Even someone like you wouldn’t—”
He bit down on that one, exhaling the rest of it through his nose as my head swung slowly around to face him. Something flared inside, stung by the backhand of his existence.
“Someone like me? Finish that sentence, Grey McIntyre. I fucking dare you.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
“Like if you keep saying that, I might believe you.” I fixed my eyes on his profile, hating the habitual flicker of longing in my chest. I wanted to flatten his soul. “Guess we can officially put that whole gay rumor to bed, huh? So to speak?”
“Stop it, Elaine. Just—forget it.”
I winced at the squeak of the windshield wipers as he smacked them to a too-high setting, slapped his hand back to grip the wheel, and what the fuck was he so mad about, anyway? What right did he have to even look at me with those furious, guilt-rimmed eyes?
The ride home was a silent, seething mess. I was out of the car and on the porch, digging for my house key before he even shut off the engine. The trick-or-treat candy bowl was empty, the jack-o’-lantern candles misshapen stubs in the shadows of our four faces. The carved edges curled inward, dry and dead.
I opened the door to a living room tinged with shadows and silence, yanked off my boots, and padded to the kitchen. I prepped the coffeepot and set the drip cycle for seven a.m., dreading the first whiff of morning. Grey and I were scheduled to open the market booth bright and early, regardless of how pissed we were at each other.
His disgruntled steps sounded on the kitchen tile, stopping right behind my back.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was out of line, and your point about boundaries has been noted. But I still want to say that you dating Connor is a bad idea.”
“Who said I was ‘dating’ him, Greyson?”
I couldn’t help but smile at the sheer volume of his silence, broken by the buzz of my phone.
Total Honesty Mode?
I snickered at Connor’s timing and replied, ignoring the huff at my back.
Sure, why not?
Miss you already.
“Well, isn’t that sweet.”
My elbow bumped his chest, he was that close.
“Mind your own fucking business, Grey. Last warning.” I focused on my phone, let him see I was sending another text while blocking the screen from his view.
Miss you, too.
Everything okay?
Everything’s fine. Just dealing w/ stepbrother bullshit right now.
Tell Grey hi from me, and also to go fuck himself.
Total Honesty Mode: Way ahead of you.
Damn right you are. Goodnight, Lane. I wish you’d stayed.
Me too. Goodnight.
“Connor says hi, and that you should fuck yourself.” I set my phone on the counter and turned to meet Grey’s eyes, reaching for the slow thrill that particular shade of green had sparked in my heart for years. Nothing. “I’m going to go ahead and second that.”
“Whatever.” He spun on his heel and headed for the door. “Excuse me for caring.”
“I’m not sure why you do.”
That stopped him dead in his tracks. He started to speak, then swallowed the words and shook his head.
“Yeah. I’m not really sure either.”
A thousand replies gathered behind my lips, ready to explode all over him, but I bit them back. He stood there for another moment, my silence building between us, finally prodding him toward the doorway. I turned back to the counter, braced my hands against the cold surface. Pressed away the tremble in my fingers before it infected the rest of my world.
* * *
The scant few hours spent barely sleeping did nothing to boost my mood. Morning found Grey huddled at the table, looking like eight flavors of hell. The kitchen reeked of coffee and eucalyptus oil, undercut by burnt sage—his smudge stick again, clearly not quite doing the job, if his exoskeleton of negative energy was any indication.
“Is Skye okay?”
“What?” He squinted at me through bloodshot eyes. “She’s still asleep, I think. Why?”
“The eucalyptus.”
“Oh. That’s me. Migraine.”
“Oh. Well, at least take some real medicine. Your mom’s great, but we both know that aromatherapy shit doesn’t touch a migraine.”
“Whatever, Elaine. Let’s just go.”
I glared at him and he returned it, I’ll give him that. He glared right back, pathetic as it was. But he could barely keep his eyes open.
“Yeah, whatever, Greyson. Whatever.”
The drive in didn’t net an improvement—if anything, Grey’s attitude only got worse. By mid-shift, I’d banished him to the folding chair with his fourth cup of ineffective coffee, taken his mood and turned it back on him. My own head throbbed from lack of sleep, my muscles ached, and I was right on the brink of my period; I was having absolutely none of his bullshit that fine November morning, and matched him snarl for snarl, until we could hardly look at each other.
I didn’t see Sadie until she was practically in the booth with us. Her hair glowed as she bounced over for a hug, then swooped in on Grey, hovering and cooing and coddling, apparently over the whole Samhain versus Jesus debate from the night before. Connor followed in her wake, quiet, his confident half smile tempered by hesitant eyes.
Something broke loose in my chest at the sight of him—something odd, which lit me up. We stood there grinning at each other, trying not to grin at each other, trying not to let those grins dissolve into laughter. I reached for his hand, remembering halfway there that I’d never deliberately held it before—outside of utterly fucked-up situations, of course, like that time we’d literally knotted ourselves together, or when he made me cut through it with his art knife. He closed the distance, however, and linked his fingers with mine.
“I promised myself I wouldn’t make this weird,” he finally said. “Or, you know. Awkward.”
“Really. Fail much?” I giggled at his weary sigh. “Get over here.”
His arms were warm, his kiss sweet and appropriate, cut short by Sadie’s gleeful, inevitable shriek.
“What?!? What is this? Connor Hall, why didn’t you tell me something happened with Lane?”
Well. This was awkward.
“Did you want me to, like, text you during?” he answered her as we broke apart. “Consider this your official notification.”
“Is it why you had her go home with you last night?” She clapped a hand over her mouth, a shitty attempt to mask a gasp. “Have you been secretly dating this whole time??”
Together We Caught Fire Page 11