Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 133511 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 534(@250wpm)___ 445(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133511 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 534(@250wpm)___ 445(@300wpm)
“Taz gonna be there for a while?” he asked, his voice low and quiet.
“Yeah, Jess said she’d invited him to stay over,” I replied, feeling uncomfortable. He frowned.
“Feel like a ride? I’m not ready to call it a night.”
“That sounds really good,” I whispered. Maybe I wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to be alone.
“Hold on,” he said. “It’s a beautiful night, despite what happened. We should try to make the best of it.”
• • •
We headed south, down toward Moscow and then turned off at Plummer to ride around the south end of the lake. I had no idea how late it was when he slowed the bike and pulled into a gravel parking lot surrounded by trees. The big Harley’s engine died, leaving us alone with the soft chirping of crickets and frogs.
“You wanna go down to the water?” he asked. “It’s right through the trees.”
“Sure.”
I slipped off the bike, and we walked down a grassy slope to a long, sandy beach nestled among the trees. The moon shined bright, painting a trail of silver across the lake’s gentle waves. Here and there, dark shapes broke the water. Took me a minute to figure out what they were—floating logs.
“You want to sit for a while, watch the stars?” Painter asked. I looked around, spotting a patch of grass sloping down toward the sand that seemed perfect.
“How about there?” I asked him. Silently we settled ourselves, close to each other without touching—I could feel him, though. Feel his heat and his presence and the unbreakable tension that ran between us all the time, whether we chose to acknowledge it or not. “I’ve never seen anything like that. I don’t see how a person can live through a bull jumping on them.”
He didn’t answer for a minute. “People can live through a hell of a lot. Didn’t look promising, though.”
There wasn’t much emotion in his voice, which threw me. My mind was swimming, images from the rodeo running through my head over and over again. I’d assumed Painter was as upset as I was . . . that maybe he needed to talk, too.
“You aren’t bothered by it?” I asked, my voice soft.
“I’ve seen a lot of shit, some of it not so good. I don’t take it lightly and I don’t enjoy seeing a man suffer, but you can’t afford to get involved emotionally.”
“You mean, in prison?”
“Yeah,” he said after a minute. “In prison.”
Neither of us spoke for a moment. I stared up at the stars, watching as a satellite blinked its way across the sky.
“And in the club,” he added softly. “Bad shit happens there, too. Although so far nobody’s started dropping bulls on their enemies.”
The words caught me off guard, and a little giggle burst through. I bit my cheek, feeling awful. “I can’t believe I laughed at that.”
“It’s okay—you have to laugh when things fall apart. Otherwise you’ll go crazy. Better not to think about it too much, at least that’s how I do it.”
Rolling over, I leaned up on my elbow to stare at him.
“So you just turn off your brain when something bothers you?” I asked, studying his face in the moonlight. His features were softened by the shadows, leaving him handsome but less intimidating than usual. He met my gaze, giving away nothing. “That must be nice—wish I could do that. Sometimes I lie awake in bed for hours, wondering why my mom took off and left me.”
“I keep my attention focused where it needs to be focused,” he replied, reaching up to touch the side of my face. It took everything I had not to turn toward his hand, rub against him like a cat. I felt breathless, expectant . . . Hold on. Why was he touching me like this? It didn’t make sense—he’d made it damned clear he didn’t want anything more than friendship.
“You shouldn’t be doing that,” I whispered. “We’re just friends, remember? You made that very clear last night.”
“Friends can touch,” he whispered back. The words hung between us, teasing me. I wanted to lean over and kiss him. Crawl on top of him and grind and writhe and hump and do things I was relatively sure qualified as molestation in the fine state of Idaho. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like you want to . . .”
He stopped talking, licking his lips as his eyes drifted to mine. He was going to kiss me. My eyes started to flutter closed. Then his phone chimed, breaking the spell.
Painter blinked—he’d been as lost in the moment as I was.
“I should check that,” he said. “Might be an update on Chase.”
Chase. How could I have forgotten about Chase? A man was dying, yet all I could think about was getting laid. A man I’d gone to school with. What was wrong with me?