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Close behind her.
Leo wasn’t sure which of them was more surprised by his sudden appearance, but Lily let out a soft “Oh, hi” and now he was stuck there in his self-inflicted moment of machismo. But the heat of her, the awareness of her body so close to his, made it impossible to move away. He rested one hand on the yellowed glass of the machine and ran a finger down the list of songs.
“This one,” he said, tapping the plexiglass over “Rock You Like a Hurricane.” “All the boomers say it’s a banger.”
With a mischievous laugh, Lily clicked F and then 4, and the opening notes of Fleetwood Mac’s “Go Your Own Way” warbled out of the tinny speakers instead.
“Ouch,” he said, mock-wounded. “Burn.”
“It seemed more fitting.” Her little smile down at the jukebox told him she meant this with more of a wink than a slap, and he found himself staring at the tiny freckle on the back of her neck. She had two freckles: one there, another just above her left hip bone.
A memory speared him, of a sun-soaked afternoon off, with Lily splayed naked across his bed. As if it had happened only hours before, Leo recalled the sunbeam through the window, warm along the backs of his bare thighs, the feel of Lily’s hip bone under his lips as he kissed that tiny mark.
His heartbeat was suddenly too heavy for his body.
Leo didn’t think she realized how close they were when she bent forward, pressing her ass to his crotch, but on instinct he reached for her hips, gripping her with a quiet “Lily.”
She straightened, startled, turning to face him and leaning back against the jukebox. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What are you doing, Leo?”
He glanced back over his shoulder. The bartender was behind the bar and watching them with a dickish smirk on his face.
“Came over to see if you were okay. You seemed frustrated with the map and riddle.”
“Because you remember how much I love it when someone asks me if I’m okay?” she asked, staring straight at him.
No.
“Or,” she said quietly, “is it that you didn’t want me standing alone at the jukebox?”
She could see it all over his face, and there was nothing Leo could do to reel it in; the memories were flowing now in a rush through his mind: the nights he’d spent lying in bed at the ranch—before she’d given him the time of day—wondering what she would feel like against him. He’d close his eyes and imagine kissing her, touching her skin, tasting the water that ran down her neck when she emerged from the bank of outdoor showers. And, just as sharply, he remembered the dizzying relief of that very first touch: her palm sliding under his T-shirt, pressing like a branding iron to his stomach.
They were all covered in dust, they had a dead man in their wake and were about to descend into one of the most dangerous places in the United States in search of a treasure that might or might not be out there, but Leo hadn’t felt this alive since Lily’d slipped that hand under his shirt and pulled him into the shadows with her. With a startling slap of clarity, he decided right in the middle of a nothing bar in a nowhere town that he would not let go of her so easily this time. If there was a one percent chance that she would take him back, he would try.
“Yeah, you’re reading that right,” he said, meeting her eyes squarely. “I didn’t want you alone at the jukebox.”
She put a hand flat on his chest and hesitated for a conflicted handful of seconds before forcing him back a step. “Well, knock it the fuck off.”
Lily stepped around him, but to his relief she didn’t walk to the bar; she went to her backpack, digging for more quarters. Slowly, he exhaled. That could have gone much worse. He knew better than to follow her again, though, and figured it couldn’t hurt to cool down. With Bradley’s knowing smirk trailing after him, he moved past the table and toward the men’s restroom.
It was dark inside the cramped room, from the heavy grained wood to the dim bulb that glowed overhead, and it took his eyes a few seconds to adjust. An exposed pipe sagged from the buckling ceiling. The sink leaked and stood crookedly in the melancholy half-moon of a rust-colored stain on the floor. The urinal was in a disconcertingly damp corner, looking like it could be dislodged from the wall with only the vibration of a heavy truck rumbling past, with a lone framed photo above it. He’d take a moment to appreciate the luxury of indoor plumbing, but he wasn’t all that confident it actually worked. With his tangled thoughts full of Lily and the renewed, familiar fire burning in his blood, he stared, dazed, at the wall in front of him.
