Page 224 of One Wild Wish

Just my twisted luck. Another coincidence, this one as pleasant as chewing rocks.

Of all the bars in all of San Francisco, Mary Hamilton had to have set up camp where my twin brother now worked.

10

10 p.m., 26 Hours…

Gwen

According to August, the Blue-Eyed Raven was a Haight-Ashbury fixture, the sprawling bar once home to performing greats like Neil Young and Joni Mitchell. In its heyday, smoke had curled through the three-hundred-seat supper club, guitar licks rippling in the hazy air, weed and booze plentiful. Women had danced with women. Couples had swapped spouses.

Another of Mary Hamilton’s shocking hangouts.

“Is it still popular?” I asked as I parked near the venue.

“Yes.”

“Have you played there?”

“No.”

“Do you want to play there?”

No answer.

I turned off the ignition but didn’t release the key. We’d taken my car, and August had kept his hand at the back of my neck during the drive, his thumb rubbing mindless circles. As nice as the contact had been, the mindless part had been the antithesis of nice. The closer we’d gotten to the club, the quieter he’d become. The louder I wanted to scream.

I opted for confrontation. “What happened to your let’s savor our seconds pact? Because the imposter in this car is freaking me out.”

This entire situation was a giant pile of freak out. I’d shut down on him in my apartment, kept yo-yoing between the consuming desire to touch him and continuing my Popsicle routine, freezing him out. I wanted to thaw, but defrosting could end with me as a gooey, blubbery mess.

August released my neck and massaged his chest like it pained him. Streetlamps and passing cars cast buttery slices of light through the darkness. One spilled through the windshield, emphasizing the broody angles of his face. Without a word to me, he undid his seat belt, pushed open his door, and slammed it shut behind him. My seat vibrated. I vibrated. I wanted to be vibrating with August’s hard length thrusting inside me, not because I was a defrosting Popsicle.

My mind kept replaying how he’d felt, how my body still sizzled and swelled with want. On the drive here, I’d almost slipped my hand between his thighs, over his thick denim, to cop a feel of his girth. Fear had kept me fisting the steering wheel.

I sat immobile now, the car key clutched in my hand. I debated turning the ignition and tearing off as he rounded toward my side. I could leave right now, forget this journal and August and everything that had the power to break me, but I played my Popsicle game.

He opened my door and poked his head inside. “Come out here. We need to talk.”

His no-nonsense tone brooked zero argument. The dominance of it was kind of sexy, but mostly scary. We need to talk only ever meant heavy subjects, and I had all the heavy I could handle.

Instead of complying, I said, “Beetlejuice.”

August snort-laughed. The sound calmed a fraction of my panic.

Beetlejuice had been our safe word. When he’d pinch my underarm skin to distract me from his Monopoly cheating? Beetlejuice. When I’d twist his nipple until he’d give me the remote control? Beetlejuice.

Blurting the word now was easier than facing his ominous we need to talk .

He straightened slightly, taking his face out of view. He leaned his forearm on the car roof. “You don’t need a safe word for this conversation.”

“Says you.” But I could hear the smirk in his voice. I also liked the view.

The way we were situated—his crotch at face level, me strapped into my seat—I could undo his belt buckle, slip his zipper down, and take his length into my mouth. I salivated.

He backed away and crooked his finger, beckoning me. “Stop looking like you want to lick me, Possum. We need to talk. It won’t be a nice talk, but we can’t go into that club before it happens.”

“That’s quite the sales pitch.” It was downright alarming. Unfortunately, I saw no other options.