“Have you had any?” She doubles down on the weird question, and it takes me a minute to figure out why she’s asking that.
“You’re trying to help with the boner, right?”
“I don’t wanna torture you tonight.”
She pushes herself up until her upper body is over mine, hands resting on my chest, chin propped above them, positioning herself so she can look at me while she talks. “Sooo, have you had any?”
“One. A broken arm when I was seventeen. We were stealing a car, and Carter tripped down some stairs, pulling me along with him. The bone was sticking out of my skin—that’s how bad it was. He had to drag me to the car so we wouldn’t get caught. I have quite an impressive scar I covered with a tattoo.” I pull up my arm, showing her what I’m talking about, and her fingertips brush the ridged flesh. She’ll eventually notice the few other scars hidden from sight, but notfrom mind. My father made sure I’d remember them.
“The flames look like stairs,” she notes. “Why the fuck were you stealing a car?”
“We lost a bet.”
“What about this half-clock, half-compass?” She taps at one of the tattoos on my chest.
“Time and space. To remind me our time is finite, and we shouldn’t waste even a second. One day you’re here, the next you might not be. All my friends have one like this.”
Summer taps on another tat, silently asking me about it, but I have a question of my own.
“Broken bones?”
The corners of her lips curl. Will she give me another piece of her convoluted story?
“Two. A broken toe when I was fourteen. I tried to kick my brother for the wholebeating up the boy who kissed mething. He moved, and I kicked the wall barefoot, hard enough to break my big toe.”
I shouldn’t laugh. But I do, anyway.
“That’s not funny! It hurt like hell,” she protests, pouting, and there it is—one more adorable thing about her.
“Sorry, love.” I pull her in, kissing her forehead while clearing my throat from the laughter. “And the other one?”
“At sixteen. My best friend and I were alone at her house and decided to try alcohol for the first time. We got so drunk, I don’t remember how I broke my finger. See?” She shoves her left index finger so close to my face I go cross-eyed. “It’s crooked. I have slim to no memory of that night. My friend remembers everything, and when she told me about it... Let’s just say, I’m not much into drinking nowadays.”
“Now you’ve got to tell me what happened.”
Her head shakes adamantly.
Taking her left hand from where she tucked it underneath her chin, I pull it to my lips, landing a gentle kiss on her index finger.
“Is my toe next for a kiss? I think I gave you a choking kink, so why stop at that? A foot fetish is what follows.”
Her words extract another chuckle out of me. Making me smile or laugh is so effortless for her.
But I want harder truths now. Would she reveal them to me? Does she deem me deserving of divulging to me things she wouldn’t tell anyone else? Not about her family or what happened to them. I don’t think she’s ready for that. But another topic she left the door open to conversation.
“The night of the party, I asked you if you had shot or killed anyone. Were you being honest in your answers?”
Her gaze shifts away from me.
“You went from broken bones to murder? Real smooth!” she scoffs when she finally decides to answer.
“Were you truthful?”
“I was.”
“If I show you my skeletons, will you show me yours?” I ask, ready to tell her dark secrets nobody but my brothers know.
Her lips press in a line, making it clear she doesn’t want to go there. But I hope... No. I know she’ll trust me back.
