Page 23 of Within These County Lines

“This one’s for Bennie,” Whitley mutters, then pulls the trigger.

The shot breaks the forest’s stillness like a morning alarm. A flock of dormant crows erupts into the sky.

“I missed!” Whitley yells. She stands, then sprints toward the coyote.

“What?” I shout after her. “How do you know?”

“I saw him run away rather than drop dead. Come on!” She waves me along.

I follow Whitley’s trail. We come to a screeching halt where the coyote stood. Our heads spin in search of its escape route. My chest heaves and Whitley’s mouth is wide, sucking in air.

“I blew it,” she groans.

“Yeah, I don’t see it anywhere,” I say, shielding my eyes from the sun with my forearm.

“Dang it.” She kicks the dirt.

“It’s okay, Whitley.”

“It’s not!” She huffs, then pulls her hair into a tight ponytail. “At least we scared it.”

“We also have all summer to catch it, since you won’t leave Penango any earlier than August.” I force a sarcastic grin.

She shoots me a sidelong glance. “He better not stay free all dang sum—” She lifts her palm to my face. “Wait, do you see that?”

“Wha—”

“Paw prints! Come on!” She breaks into a sprint.

“Whitley, wait!”

I attempt to follow her but only complete a few strides before a set of familiar branches reaches above the next hilltop, then a line of neon words spray-painted across a cement pipe—the Ardor Tree.

“No . . . No . . . No,” I whisper, dragging my feet to a stop.

I thought this summer would be a celebration. I just turned eighteen, got into college, and graduated high school. My teachers kept telling me to prepare for new opportunities, asking over and over how I was handling all the excitement. I should be running toward the horizon, not away from it.

But this summer just feels like it’s going to be my last. Penango has other plans for me.

I turn to head back to Whitley’s house but slam into something warm and sticky. Blinking, I take a step back and realize it’s Xander’s bare chest, slick with sweat. His defined pecs rise and fall with each deep breath, swelling like overinflated balloons. The contours are impressive. Too impressive. My fingers twitch with the impulse to trace them, but I lock my hands behind my back instead.

“She’s quick,” he says.

“Do you ever wear a shirt?” I step around him, trying to focus on literally anything else.

“Not when it’s pushing one hundred degrees and humid. Usually, I don’t wear anything at all. No one has been able to see me. But now that you can, I’ve been rotating through my favorite swim trunks.”

My cheeks burn.

I wish he wasn’t in his trunks. But I don’t say that. I can’t even believe I’m thinking it. I’m attracted to a ghost. My taste in boys is horrific—they’re either emotionally dead or literally dead.

This is so sick and twisted.

“What do you think?” he asks.

I lick my lips. “Your body is hot, sure. Maybe I’ll have time for your workout routine when I’m not being chased down in the woods by a ghost.”

“Oh.” His bushy eyebrows shoot up. “I meant what do you think of my swim trunks.” He tugs at the purple waistband.