“Chad and I didn’t even go out,” she admitted, misery brimming in her dark eyes. “It was just … one of those things. A mistake I don’t want to make again.”
Dylan knew what she meant. She regretted what she’d done with Chad, and she regretted what she’d done with him. The foolish hope he’d been entertaining since she walked through the door died a swift, painful death. Angel hadn’t come to tell him she was wrong, or that she’d changed her mind. She didn’t want a boyfriend. She didn’t want him.
No one ever had.
Her eyes softened with sympathy as she read his disappointment, and he hated her for that. She nibbled on her lower lip, drawing his attention to it, and he hated himself, too, because he still wanted her.
“I don’t think I ever thanked you for helping me fight off Travis.”
His gaze lingered on her mouth. “You thanked me enough. Although I wouldn’t mind getting thanked a little more.”
It was meant to be an insult, but his delivery was off. Maybe because he was more eager than angry. Her lips looked glossy and ripe, as if she’d put some shiny girl-stuff on them, and her chest rose and fell in agitation. Or anticipation.
The ache in his groin returned with a vengeance, reminding him not to risk his heart. Too many of his important parts had been crushed lately. Besides, she’d made it clear she wasn’t interested in being his girl, no matter how many fuck-me looks she gave him.
No meant no.
He pulled his attention from her lips and stared down at the melting ice at his feet, trying to channel cool energy.
“Did you hurt yourself?” she asked.
“I ran into Deputy Snell. He hurt me.”
“Where?”
“Same place you hurt Travis.”
She frowned at his lap. “Are you all right?”
“I will be,” he said, his stomach muscles tightening. If she kept staring, his blue nylon basketball shorts wouldn’t be able to conceal the proof of how well he was recovering. Everything seemed normal down there, if a bit tender, so he figured he was in better shape than Travis. His overzealous friend had screamed like a little girl when Angel kicked him. He’d also vomited, but that might have been from the beer.
“Come on,” he said, standing. “I’ll walk you home.”
“You don’t have to.”
Ignoring that, he picked up the bag of ice water and took it to the sink, wishing it didn’t seem like a metaphor for the cool-off between them. Why did he inspire lukewarm emotions? Everyone he’d ever been close to had disappeared too soon; every feeling of affection had melted away.
Angel couldn’t think of anything to say as they walked down Calle Remolino, side by side, the gulf between them as wide as the Anza-Borrego Desert.
Since discovering that he liked girls in general, and her in particular, Dylan had been nervous around her. She’d always thought it was cute. Now it was she who felt tongue-tied when they were together, she who blushed every time he looked at her a certain way, and she who kept stealing furtive glances at his whipcord physique.
Qué loca!
This was Dylan Phillips, not Brad Pitt. He wasn’t built. He wasn’t suave. He wasn’t even gorgeous.
Okay, so he was kind of hot, if you liked quirky white boys, and he had some muscles here and there. He’d be a real heartbreaker when he filled out, but right now he was just a trouble-seeking teenager, all angst and hormones.
She wasn’t sure why she came to apologize. He’d acted like a jerk earlier and she’d given him a proper put-down. She supposed she felt guilty for encouraging him in his bedroom, and responsible for the rift between him and his lame friends.
He had fought with both of them to protect her.
She’d also known him her entire life and considered him a friend. The least she could do, before she left, was clear the air between them.
“Do you want to come in my room?” she asked when they arrived at her doorstep.
That eager, almost desperate expression flickered across his face, then his eyes became shuttered and it was gone. “Sure,” he said anyway, probably just to be polite.
Feeling unsettled, she opened her door and turned on the lamp, bathing the room in a pale yellow light. With its small desk, large bed, and single armoire, the space was cozy, but cramped. And although it was clean, she was embarrassed by her Spartan quarters. Why had she invited him in?
“Do you play?” he asked, nodding toward the guitar case on the bed.
Maldiciónes. She’d forgotten to put it away. “Um. Yeah. A little.”
“Cool,” he said, sitting down next to it. The bed had once belonged to her parents, and it dominated the tiny room. His long, rangy body seemed well suited to the space, and her mind manufactured several inventive ways they could put it to good use. “Play something.”
Angel looked everywhere but the bed. Which was hard to do, with him sitting on it. “Oh, no. I’m not that good and I haven’t been practicing enough and you wouldn’t like any of the songs I know …” She snuck another glance at him. He arched a brow.
Her choices were to stare at the wall or play her guitar, so she stopped stammering and picked up her acoustic. Like the armoire in the opposite corner, the guitar was an art piece, one of a kind, and hand-carved. Both were from Paracho, Mexico, famous for woodwork. Her mother’s hometown.
She pulled the ladder-back chair away from her desk and sat facing him. The style of music she played differed greatly from the kind he preferred. She liked to listen to a wide range of genres, from punk to pop, and although she was especially fond of some of the furious noise Dylan favored, what she played was more forlorn than angry.
Too self-conscious to break into one of her originals, she decided on an older ballad by Shakira. The song was pensive and soulful, with a folksy sound she often tried to emulate. If the lyrics hit a little too close to home for comfort, at least they were in Spanish, so that felt safer.
Mis días sin ti son tan oscuros, tan largos, tan grises …
She stumbled through the first few verses, in which the speaker describes how dark her days are without the one she loves. Her voice was pitchy and her fingers fumbled for the right chords, and then she just sort of … found her rhythm. Found herself.
It was always like this with music. She got lost in the melody, and the rest of the world faded away.
When she was finished, she let the last chord ring out and slowly came back down to earth. By the way Dylan was staring at her, she knew the song had been a poor choice. Foreign language aside, the emotion of the piece must have been written all over her face.
“That was beautiful,” he said.
Her insides warmed as though she’d taken a sip of brandy. “I didn’t write it,” she said unnecessarily. Of course he wouldn’t think she’d written such a lovely song. “It’s called ‘Moscas en la casa.’ That means ‘Flies in the house.’”
He smiled. “I know. Everything sounds so much more poetic in Spanish.”
“You understood the words?”
“All but ahogándome en llanto. Drowning in tires?”
It was her turn to smile. “Drowning in tears.”
His look of confusion cleared. “Ah.”
She shouldn’t have been surprised that he knew Spanish. He was Dylan Phillips. He knew everything. He probably spoke her native language as well as she did. Now she felt completely exposed, as if she’d shown him a piece of her heart.
“Do you play an instrument?” she asked, scrutinizing him in return.
His brows rose. “Me? No.”
“Why not?”
When his eyes darkened with sadness, she regretted the innocent question. Dylan may be gifted, but he was also wounded, and it was clear the subject disturbed him. “My mother played the violin,” he said, which was explanation enough. “Her music was … strange. Sorrowful. Haunting.” He swallowed visibly. “It was one of the only things she seemed to enjoy … near the end. I think playing kept her well, for a while. She wanted me to
take it up, but I was too antsy. Too impatient.”
Angel smiled, remembering how hyperactive he was as a little kid. Like his mind, his arms and legs had never stilled.
“Reading music was easy for me. That part I understood immediately. I just couldn’t get my fingers to cooperate.” He made a stiff claw with his right hand, as if trying to force it into a more elegant position. “I should have tried harder.”
Her heart broke for him, for the boy he’d been. All of seven or eight years old when his mom died, and here he was, thinking he could have made a difference.
Angel had gone around that bend herself, many times. She and Dylan had a lot in common—none of it good.
“Now, a basketball,” he continued, reshaping his hands around a phantom ball, “that always felt right.”
Her tummy tingled as she imagined his hands on her rounded parts. Yes, she could certainly attest to the fact that his touch felt right.
Their eyes met and held. He dropped his gaze, and his hands. “Your voice is incredible.”
“No,” she protested. “It’s all scratchy. Not appropriate for singing.”
“That’s what I like about it. It’s unusual. Sexy.”
The sensation in the pit of her stomach deepened into a dull ache. “I want to be a songwriter, actually.”
“Really?” His eyes brightened with interest. “Play one of yours.”
Qué horror! Why had she said that? “You don’t want to hear—”
“I do,” he said, wrapping his hand around the neck of her guitar. “Please.”
Reluctant to deny him, after he’d just shared that painful memory of his mother, she reached into her desk drawer and found a crumpled piece of notebook paper. She knew the words by heart, but it comforted her to have something to look at besides Dylan’s too interested, too earnest face.
Although she found Spanish easier to work with, and much more pleasing to the ear, “Deserted” was in English. The words just came to her that way, raw and edgy and unromantic. The harsher sound fit the dark subject matter, but her raspy voice softened it, made something layered and lovely out of the twisted, often ugly emotions inside her.
After the song ended, she flattened her palm over the strings of her guitar, silencing it, and glanced sideways at him, awaiting his reaction.
“You wrote that?” he asked, sounding impressed. “You should record it. Send it in to a radio station or something.”
She laughed, shaking her head.
“I mean it,” he insisted, grabbing the paper from the desk. “That part about the desert sky at night was awesome—”
Panicking, Angel tried to take the lyrics back, but he moved them out of her reach. “Don’t read that,” she warned, shoving her guitar back in the case hurriedly so she could attack him with both hands.
Thinking it was a game, and obviously enjoying the wrestling match, he stood and held the paper over his head. When he got a glimpse of the words on the page, he started laughing. “Do you write in code? This is indecipherable.”
Shaken and humiliated, she let her hands fall away. It was too late.
Unlike her, Dylan was no dummy. The smile slipped off his face. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay, Dylan. I know I’m stupid.”
“You are not stupid,” he said, his brows slashing downward. “These lyrics are brilliant. You just need a little help with … spelling.”
She tore the paper from his hands and shoved it in the desk drawer. What an awful joke she was. A songwriter who could barely write. Trying to prevent him from seeing the tears that were building in her eyes, threatening to spill down her face, she crossed her arms over her chest and looked down at the ground, blinking rapidly.
“You’re not stupid,” he repeated. “I go to high school, so I know stupid. You’re twice as articulate as the kids there.”
Sniffling, she swiped at the tears on her cheeks. “I don’t even know what that means.”
“It means that you express yourself well,” he said, reaching out to put his hand on her upper arm. Her skin prickled with sensation, and when she looked up at him in confusion, his gaze cruised over her face like a caress. “It’s a talent I can appreciate, because sometimes my tongue is as clumsy as my feet. Especially around you.”
She stared back at him, moistening her lips. “Not always,” she whispered.
Although she meant those words in a nonsexual way, his eyes darkened, and she knew the direction his mind went. And when he stepped forward, she knew the direction his mouth was going. Her palms flattened against his chest to ward him off, but when he touched his lips to hers, she stopped thinking about what she should do and starting doing what she wanted to do.
He didn’t ease into the kiss slowly, like she’d taught him. Instead, he jumped straight into a full-on, open-mouthed, tongue-stroking kiss.
It was kind of scary how good it was, considering his lack of experience.
She stood on her tiptoes and threaded her hands through his hair, plastering her body to his and kissing him back with matching enthusiasm. Her breasts crushed against his chest and he made this sound, low in his throat, like a wounded animal. Before she knew it, her back was against the wall and his hands were on her butt, lifting her to him.
Uh-oh. This was happening way too fast. This wasn’t supposed to be happening at all. “Wait,” she gasped, tearing her mouth from his. “Stop.”
“Sorry,” he said, breathing heavily. “I’ll go slower.”
She knew he would promise anything to keep her in this position. Or to get her into an even more compromising one. “No,” she said firmly, pushing at his chest. “I can’t.”
He let her down with a strangled groan.
“I can’t see you anymore.”
He gaped at her incredulously. She stared back at him in silence, her heart pounding, every muscle in her body taut with tension. When he saw that she was serious, his jaw hardened and the hot look in his eyes cooled. “Don’t act like you didn’t want me to kiss you,” he said. “I’m not Travis. Or Chad.”
His insinuation that she was a tease stung, but it strengthened her resolve. “I want a lot of things. That doesn’t mean I should let you do me against the wall.”
“I wasn’t going to do you!” he sputtered. “You can tell me to stop anytime.”
She regarded him with skepticism. “You want sex.”
“So? I didn’t think I was going to get it.”
He was probably telling the truth, but it didn’t matter. “I’m sorry,” she said, opening her bedroom door and letting in the cool night air. A coyote howled in the near-distance, its plaintive cry sending a shiver down her spine. “Good-bye.”
After he left, she wanted to lie down on her bed and indulge in a good, long cry. Instead, she took the bus schedules out of her desk drawer and studied them, wishing the idea of leaving didn’t tear her apart inside.
12
In the dark, she was running. Behind her, she could hear labored breathing. Heavy footfalls and the rustle of tall grass.
The hanging tree loomed before her, dark branches against moonlit sky. She knew she was running toward it. But what was chasing her? A lion wouldn’t have made a sound.
Fire exploded before her eyes like a cloudburst, illuminating the scene. On the ground in front of her, Hamlet crouched, mouth wet with blood.
She stopped and blinked and he was gone.
Everything was gone.
She stood alone in the quiet dark at the Graveyard, hands clenched at her sides, searching for her pursuer. She looked behind her warily. There was no one there.
A strange sound, one that was oddly familiar, whispered from above. The creak of wood. Swaying weight on a taut length of rope.
Fear crept up her spine, making the little hairs on the nape of her neck stand on end. Slowly, very slowly, she turned around.
Mama was there. Swinging. Her chin was down, tucked into her chest, a fall of wavy hair hiding her fac
e.
Shay cried out, clapping her hand over her mouth.
Mama’s head snapped up. Her eyes were wide open, dark as wine. “Don’t look back,” she said, lifting one slender white arm to point.
Of course, she looked. And saw only the glint of metal as she was struck.
She woke up, gasping for air, clutching the blanket to her throat. The ground was hard and her surroundings strange. The dark shape of a man wavered into focus. Instinctively, she covered her head and screamed.
“What is it?” Luke asked, taking her hands away from her face.
Shay stared up at him in blurry-eyed confusion. The fire had burned down low, but she could see him, all hard lines and sharp angles. She could feel him, rock solid and just as cold. “I had a nightmare,” she said, moistening her lips.
“What about?”
“I don’t remember.”
He released her hands but didn’t move away.
“You’re freezing,” she murmured, touching his shoulders. They were as if sculpted from ice. “Why didn’t you get under the blanket with me?”
Every part of his body tensed further, including his mouth. He said nothing.
Shay pushed off the blanket and came to her feet, shivering as she added the last logs and the remaining palm fronds to the fire. It sparked up, blazing bright for a few moments then settling into a slow burn.
Luke watched her, motionless.
Already chilled, she returned to her place on the blanket. Not asking or inviting, she just pulled him close and covered both of them, wrapping her arms around him and pressing her face to his chest, trying to generate body heat.
“My knee,” she whispered after a moment. “It would feel better if I, um, elevated it.”
Without a word, he insinuated his leg between hers, lifting her knee over his hip and fitting into the notch of her thighs as naturally as any man had ever fit against a woman.
Shay shivered again, but not from the cold.
As the time passed, it became obvious that neither of them was suffering from the effects of the cold any longer. With the fire at his back, and her at his front, Luke warmed up nicely. His skin felt like heated marble beneath her palms. The night wind rustled through the palm trees and the burning logs crackled, and, under the blanket, things got downright toasty.
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