Such a dork.
Inside the garage, Dad’s 1965 Shelby GT350 peeks out from beneath a gray tarp. He and Mom used to drive it in the Fall Fest parade. Past that is his 1964 Pontiac GTO. Either one would probably be a more responsible choice since I’m in charge of Ella, but I’m only interested in one vehicle: His 1959 Triumph Bonneville.
This bike is the reason I fell in love with two wheels instead of four. It’s not the rarest motorcycle or the most expensive, but I fucking adore this thing. He used to take me out on it to check out the changing leaves every fall growing up, then we’d cruise down Main Street and swing by Harringtons for a bite to eat.
I remember seeing Jade and her sister playing around in the window display on more than one occasion.
It’s been nice getting to reconnect with Jade. She reminds me of better times. When I’m around her, every part of me expands…and I meaneverypart.
Then, Nate had to go and tell her a bullshit version of the truth and take away the one person in Still Springs who I don’t mind talking to outside my family.
I give my head a quick shake. Jade is the last girl I should be thinking about right now, and the moment I get back to my apartment, I know I’ll be fixating on Jade. Unless I replace her with someone else.
Time to pull out my phone and bring up the number I scored easily the other day, shooting Cindi with an “i” a message.
Before I kick-start the bike, my phone pings.
Not only is Cindi up for a visit, but she sent the address too.
* * *
Whoever builtthis cabin down by the springs must’ve really loved cedar. I can smell the fragrant wood all the way from the stone driveway. All the windows are lit up like beacons in the night, but I can’t see anything inside, thanks to the closed blinds.
I leave the helmet on the seat and jog up the bowed stairs to the wrap-around porch. Before I can raise my hand to knock, the door flies open and a bouncy brunette who smells like liquor and roses gives me a blinding smile. “You must be the Dylan we’ve heard so much about,” she says, her gaze making an unabashed sweep from my head to my boots.
I’m not really sure what she would’ve heard about me since I barely spoke to her friend, but I decide to play along. “That’s me.”
Cindi slips beneath this woman’s arm to give me a hug. “Hey, you.” Her lips brush my cheek, warm and a little sticky from her lip gloss. “I’m glad you texted. I got so sad when I didn’t hear from you. Come on in. I want you to meet the girls.” She grips my fingers and drags me past the woman who answered the door. “You’ve already met Marsha, and this is Tory.”
She gestures toward a woman with dark eyes who’s sitting on the couch.
Marsha drops down beside Tory while Cindi leads me over to an olive-green recliner. A bottle of gin and a half-empty two-liter of tonic waits on the low coffee table beside three glasses. Some muted reality TV show flickers across the TV mounted above the fireplace.
“You want a drink?” Cindi asks me.
“Nah. I’m good.”
She bends over the table, presumably to make herself a drink, flashing me the top of her neon pink thong. For some reason, my body has zero reaction to the sight, and I usually love catching an eyeful of thong.
With the glass clasped between her manicured fingers, Cindi drops right into my lap. “You sure about that?” She shoves the glass beneath my nose.Holy shit.Pretty sure she forgot the tonic.
“Positive.” I don’t want to get stuck out here with no way home and end up having to call one of my sisters to pick me up. Their judgment is the last thing I need right now. They can cope with their grief in their own way, and I’ll handle mine.
From over Cindi’s shoulder, Tory’s soft brown eyes eat me up like I’m a thick slice of chocolate cake. “Sooo, Dylan, what do you do?”
I can’t tell if she’s slurring or trying to be seductive. If it’s the latter, she misses the mark. “I’m a photographer.”
“That’s so hot,” Cindi murmurs, playing with my hair as she sips from her glass.
“So hot,” Marsha agrees while Tory bobs her head.
“OMG, Marsha! You should show him your Insta.” Cindi turns to me. “She’s so talented. Like,sotalented.”
“So talented,” Tory parrots.
“You guys! I’m not going to show him my Insta.”
Thank god because I have no desire whatsoever to see her “Insta.” If I had a dollar for every person who wanted to show me shit pictures they’ve taken after they find out what I do, I wouldn’t need my trust fund.
