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A hot-ass mess scraped off a cruel griddle.
I’m destined to be a grease monkey with a chip on my shoulder the size of a hundred-year-old oak tree—nothing more—and I’d better remember it.
That chip will always be there.
There’s no redemption.
Not in Shel Simon’s arms, or her kiss, or even in her heart.
15
Pigs Get Fat (Rachel)
There are still no lights on at Weston’s place and I’m about to eat my own liver.
I’m wearing out the carpet pacing in front of the window, looking across the field, waiting to see a single flickering porch light. A sweep of headlights. Anything.
I sent him a text earlier, asking him again to join us for supper.
On a tow up the interstate. Won’t be back till late.
That’s what he said when I check the text again.
Be careful, I’d sent back.
I can’t help being on edge since leaving Faye’s place with Drake’s news about the latest prowler. And because I could read something on his face he wouldn’t say, right behind that rare smile that still seems like a treasure.
Flash forward.
It’s late, raining, and almost eleven o’clock.
My nerves flick hot as I sit down on the chair by the window, watching for a light to come on.
The October cold arrived tonight in force. I shudder at the moan in the wind.
But when I replay the last twenty-four hours, a smile tugs at my lips.
I hadn’t drowned when I seized my chance to swim.
Oh, and we were both rewarded dearly for our courage.
Letting Weston take me over in the back of his truck was one long, unexpected fever dream.
My body remembers too well, strumming with desires only he can satisfy. I’ll be exhausted and sore tomorrow, no matter how late I turn in, and I still want more of him.
Even so, I hope I didn’t make anything awkward at the end.
Did he just need his space when I left because he was worried about Faye and the intruder? Or was something wrong in that gorgeous head of his thanks to me?
I hope he gets it.
Hope he understands there can be an us, if only for a few weeks. Yes, I know I’m the brat who never stopped crushing on him. Not even when he made me madder than a hornet.
I also hope that before I leave, some small part of him knows he can open up with me.
He can tell me things about himself, his life, his dreams, and his agonies...
...and if he’s ready, he can give us both closure. I won’t judge him harshly if he just tells me why I never heard from him for seven freaking years.
