Page 64 of The Final Cut

Nash says, “Three minutes.”

Reva smiles and clenches again, and I come hard enough to see God, Aunt Mildred’s china, and all the stars in Texas. From Louisiana, of course.

My arms lock around her. My face buries against her neck. I hear Ever laugh once, low and stunned. Nash makes a sound that might be approval. Deacon mutters something in Spanish that I choose not to translate because my dignity is already face-down in a ditch.

Reva pats my shoulder. Actually pats it.

I lift my head slowly.

She looks pleased with herself. Much too pleased.

“I believe that was two minutes and fifty-eight seconds,” she says.

“You are a menace.”

“You’re a minute man.”

My pride returns from the dead with a sword.

I stand.

She squeaks and grabs my shoulders as I lift her with me, still wrapped around my waist. My pants are somewhere around my thighs, which makes the first step a logistical insult, but I manage.

“Shiloh,” she says, laughing now.

I kick one leg free enough to move. “You want to discuss stamina, Yank? We can discuss stamina.”

Nash leans one elbow on the island. “Careful. Your pants are losing.”

“I hate every person in this kitchen.”

Ever’s mouth curves. “You’re welcome.”

Deacon steps aside as I carry Reva toward the hall. “Try not to damage the furniture.”

I point at him without looking. “You lost the right to speak after Nash’s desk.”

Reva laughs harder, face tucked against my shoulder, her body shaking around mine in a way that nearly makes me stumble.

Worth it. All of it.

The fear, the fight, the ugly little insecurity Nash sliced open because he is a bastard with good aim. Reva is laughing. The sound follows us down the hall, bright and cracked and real.

My pants slide down my other leg another inch, and I stop to kick them all the way off.

“Graceful,” she whispers.

“I am a goddamn gazelle.”

“You’re waddling.”

“I am conserving power.”

“For what?”

I kick my bedroom door open.

“For round two.”