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***
“Ross?” The house rises out of the bushes and scraggly trees as the earth turns to marshy ground, the raised porch quiet and still. “Are you there?”
I climb the creaking steps and half-expect to find him in the rocking chair, asleep like last time I was here, but the porch is empty, the old rocking chair and the bench littered with dead leaves.
There’s an air of desolation around the place, of abandonment and neglect. The garden is drowning in weeds, the paint is peeling off the wooden slats and the walls. The house door stands ajar, and inside there’s a sliver of darkness.
>
Is this where Ross’s dad killed his mom? Where he attacked him and tried to kill him, too? The thought sends a chill into my bones even as I push the door wider and step inside the house.
“Ross? You here?” My steps make the wooden floor groan and I stop, uneasy. “I just want to make sure you’re all right.”
The old house grinds and squeaks around me, and I’m sure I hear the skittering of mice—or rats?—in the walls and ceiling. I sweep cold sweat from my eyes and decide it’s time to head back out. This was a bad idea, anyway. Maybe Josh only thought he hit Ross with the rocks, and since he’s not a corpse in the woods, he must be okay. Right?
Uh God, if only I could stop caring—
“Luna.”
“Oh my god!” I stumble back, pressing a hand to my chest as Ross appears through a door I hadn’t noticed on my left. “You scared the crap out of me. Christ.”
He’s standing a few feet away, in his black T-shirt and worn jeans, his feet bare. He’s holding a towel in one hand.
“You’re skittish,” he says quietly, that rough, low voice of his that sends such mixed signals through my body—anger and fear and lust. “Is it the house or is it me?”
“The house,” I tell him truthfully. “It gives me the creeps.”
“Yeah. Come on, let’s get out to the porch.”
Numbly, I turn and follow him as he ambles past, unable to stop myself from staring at his broad back, his tight ass, his long legs. I never knew a man barefoot in jeans could be so sexy.
Ugh. I need to stop.
The light is fading outside. He grabs a camping lantern and switches it on, places it on the wooden floor so that it casts golden light.
“The lamp doesn’t work?” I glance up at the dusty bulb.
“Electricity’s been cut since Dad went to prison. Water, too. I never went to pay the bills.”
“But then how do you live?”
“I told you. I don’t live here.” He sits on the bench and lifts the towel to his head.
That’s when I notice the blood darkening his hair. “Holy crap. Did Josh do this? Let me have a look.”
“Why were you at my house?” I ask, just for something to say, but also curious.
He doesn’t reply, quiet as I get up to check the wound, parting his bloody hair to see the extent of the damage.
Why was he there?
He hisses when I poke at the gash but doesn’t flinch away. “Josh is your little brother?”
“Yeah, the very same. Sorry about that. He thinks he’s protecting me or something.”
“Maybe he is.”
I let that slide, refuse to bite and ask what he means. “He got you a good one. You’re lucky he didn’t crack your skull.”
