Page 14

What was even the point of that?

To stuff my face in front of some guy I hate and his friend?

Trey Arnold-Davis has his reasons for everything, but I can’t wrap my head around why he’d invite me for dinner, of all the people in this town to invite. It sure wasn’t to just return a jacket. I could’ve brought it any other time, left it on his front porch, and been done with it.

No. Trey wanted me to see Bridger.

To hand the jacket to him.

Did he expect us to make up? To hug it out? Fight it out? Get drunk and laugh it out? None of that Kumbaya shit happened. As I figured it’d be, this whole night was a colossal waste of time, and all I’m left with is this stupid empty can and no trash bin to throw it into. Not that I’d make the shot. I’m a shitty aimer, apparently.

I never called his face pretty.

Where the actual fuck did that question come from?

I can still salvage this night. Go out dancing with Juni. Hit up a late-night movie. It isn’t too late. But I call her twice, and there’s no answer. So annoying. I can imagine her sitting at her vanity, all dolled up in pink everything, and her phone is buried under a pile of dirty bras, dresses, and perfume-drenched feather boas.

“Not safe to go out walking in the dark, y’know.”

I stop by the curb, about to cross the street, and turn.

Bridger stands there like a school chaperone, full of authority and self-importance, wearing that damned denim jacket, the one I just brought back to him.

The one I slept on all last night.

Probably drooled on, too.

Fuck, that was such a good night’s sleep .

“The hell are you following me for?” I spit back at him.

“And you’re … tipsy. Someone should make sure you get back home safely.”

I could almost laugh if I wasn’t so annoyed. “So what? Are you gonna hold my hand?”

“Need me to?” he asks right back.

It’s so annoying, how he makes that question sound sincere rather than mocking. He seriously thinks I’d hold his hand? That I can’t take care of myself? Between this guy and my dad, I’m so fed up with people thinking so little of my capabilities. “I don’t need my hand held. I don’t need you following me. In case you haven’t noticed in your short time here, there ain’t a lick of crime that ever happens in this town. What are you afraid will happen to me? Huh? Someone gonna pop out from behind a tree and shout ‘boo!’ at me? Gonna get mugged by a scrawny thirteen-year-old hitting up the arcade to break his Pac-Man record? Shoot, I’m the one who lives here, not you. You’re the one who needs an … an escort .” I snort, having made myself laugh, then hop off the curb and head on across the street, figuring us to be finished.

Apparently, we’re not. “Sure you don’t just want company?”

“Not yours,” I throw over my shoulder.

I can hear his footsteps on my heels like they’re my own.

I don’t know what it is, but something inside me is boiling and I can’t stop it. Ever since he laid eyes on me. Ever since he dropped into this town like a brick from the sky. He even looks like a brick. A big brick wall, standing in my way all the time, waiting for me to run into him and break something, my nose probably.

His presumptions about me. Even his calling me tipsy now. He probably just thinks I’m the messed-up town drunk with no hope.

I stop at the next intersection and spin around on him. “The hell’s your problem?”

“Just want to make sure you get home.”

“I said I’m fuckin’ fine, I meant I’m fuckin’ fine, so fuckin’ fuck off already.”

“You sure cuss a lot.”

“I must have inspiration, then. You must be my muse.”

“You mean your fuckin’ muse.”

I stare Bridger down.

Hard.

Is this when I’m supposed to laugh? To thank him? Accept his offer of being my bodyguard, protecting me against myself?

“I am the permission-askin’ type,” I blurt out instead.

He squints at me, confused.

Okay, that was kind of an abrupt shift in topic, but it’s on my mind just as much. “You said I …” Suddenly I feel stupid. “Back at the restaurant. In the men’s room. You said …” Is it even worth it? Bringing this back up? “You said I wasn’t a gentleman.”

“Because you grabbed my ass.”

Everything goes weird on my face. “Doesn’t sound right when you say it so bluntly like that. I didn’t grab it like a … like a lech .”

“How’d you grab it then? Politely?”

“I didn’t grab it at all. I just … It was a joke. I—You know what? Never-fuckin’-mind, forget I said anything. I don’t need an escort. I don’t need your appreciation. Don’t need your respect. I know I say nice stuff at dinner sometimes. I’m a nice guy when you get to know me. I’m a fuckin’ ball of sunshine.”

I go to cross the street.

Then come the lights of a truck, blinding me.

My shirt is grabbed and I’m yanked out of the road just as a truck of teenage boys whizzes by—hooting and hollering, country music thumping loud from their windows.

My heart beat is stuck in my throat.

My eyes are full of denim.

My face against a firm, muscular chest.

Arms are wrapped tightly around me, a cage of warmth.

I slowly straighten up, in shock, bringing my wide-open eyes level with his.

With Bridger’s.

He looks stunned, too, as if pulling me back and wrapping his arms around me was a reflex he didn’t intend to do.

This close up, I can see every detail in his face. His bright blue eyes, brighter and deeper than my own. The way his nostrils flare from the recent effort of yanking me out of the path of that death truck, breathing deep. His plush and parted lips, showing a row of annoyingly perfect teeth. The slight flush in his cheeks.

It’s disarming, how Bridger looks at me. I noticed this before. He never looks at you half-assed. He looks at you fully. Allowing you his pure, undivided attention. Seeing you completely, seeing you with all his might, capturing every word you utter.

And the ones you don’t.

“The … fuck just … happened?” I say. Or at least I think I say it. I might breathe the words. Or just think them.

“Almost got hit by a truck,” he replies in a calm, gentle tone, confirming I did just use my mouth to make words.

“Feels like … like my fuckin’ soul’s still out on the … the road. Hasn’t c-come back to my body yet.”

“That’s fine,” says Bridger. Why is his voice so soft and tender like that, giving me chills to hear it? “You can stay right here ‘til that soul comes on back.”

My face wrinkles up. I fight an instinct to tell him I don’t need to be in his arms, he doesn’t need to hold me so tightly, this is too close, too intimate, too weird.

But every cell inside my petrified body says something else.

It reminds me how comfortable I felt last night at the church when I passed out—in Bridger’s arms. I felt safe then. Safe enough to drift into the deepest sleep.

I feel just as safe right now.

Except I’m not drifting off to sleep on the hard-ass floor of a church. I’m wide awake .

“I was serious,” I tell him. “About … the permission thing. I’m a good guy. Would’ve asked permission, had I known.”

Bridger’s face is so goddamned close. “Had you known what?”

“That you’re …” My tongue can’t talk to my teeth, which can’t talk to my jaw, which can’t talk to my stupid throat. All my words sound funny. “That you’re into guys.”

Bridger doesn’t say anything for a minute. This close, I notice every detail of his face when it moves, even his eyebrows when they tick up the tiniest bit, maybe with curiosity, but most likely amusement. “So do you ask your girlfriend for permission, too?”

I frown at him. “Who?”

“Your girlfriend. The one you were at Tumbleweeds with.”

“Huh? Wait, you mean Juni?” Suddenly I laugh. It’s awkward to laugh this close to someone’s face, by the way. It comes out like a muffled noise through my nostrils. “Juniper isn’t my girlfriend. She’s my bestie.”

“Bestie?”

“Yeah, bestie. Ain’t you had a—” Fucking Christ, our faces are so close, I can count his eyelashes . “—a bestie before?”

“Not really.”

And when you’re this close to someone, you can’t look away. There’s nowhere to put your eyes except on their face, right there, like all of my attention is trapped.

Yet I don’t mind at all.

I want to be trapped, right here where it feels safe—safe and a little weird. I think I’m starting to like the weird. Is that weird?

“What do you mean you’ve never had a bestie?” I ask, quiet. “Don’t you have any friends?”

“Not really.”

“Who’s Pete then?”

“My brother in arms.”

“And you don’t consider him a friend?”

“It’s different.”

“Why don’t you have friends? Do you scare them all away?”

Bridger’s eyes go somewhere else, even while he continues to look at me. “What if I do?”

I stare back at him.

Thinking of all the so-called friends I scared away myself.

Not that I think I scared away Cole or his boyfriend.

Or Jimmy and Bobby with my behavior in the past.

No one in town looks me directly in the eyes anymore. Not in the fearless way Bridger is right now.

“Is your soul back in your body yet?” he asks, and only he can make such a ridiculous question sound so fucking sincere.

And then I mortify myself by answering: “No.”

Why did I say no? Why would I do that? Why am I —

“That’s fine,” he says.

And holds me a little tighter.

What in the fuck is happening right now?

“Whenever my soul flies outta my body,” he says so genuinely, I could believe this same exact thing happens to him, too, “I need a good minute to feel like myself again, to rediscover my calm.”

Calm?

I’m so stupidly far from calm right now.

“What’s going on?” I blurt suddenly. “This an excuse to touch me? You getting off on this?”

“Asks the guy who grabbed my ass.”

I shut my eyes, annoyed. “I didn’t grab your—”

“I have done plenty of squats to get it nice and firm, like you were so quick to point out. Proud of my ass. Worked hard on it.”

“Shut up.”

“And it’s okay to want to be held,” he says, still frustratingly gentle. “Doesn’t put me out at all. Maybe this is … something you need more of. Being held. No shame, saying that.”

The hell is he getting at? “Why are you so weird suddenly?”

“Why did you call my face pretty?”

The question, asked yet again, sobers me right up, right to the bone. I step away from him back into the street, his arms dropping to his sides. “What’s with that again?” I let out a laugh that gets swallowed right back up into my throat the second it leaves it. “Pretty? When the hell would I have said that?”

Bridger’s hands slide into his pockets. “Last night.”

“When last night?”

“Before you fell asleep in my arms.”

Fell asleep in his arms. A flash of his face, yet again.

The touch of soft lips against mine …

“At the church? When I was totally fuckin’ out of it?” I blurt out suddenly, probably to push away those random-ass visions yet again. “Shit, how can … how can I be held responsible for what I might’ve done or said when I’m—That ain’t fair. Besides, even if I did say it … it’s stating a fact. Simple. You are a good-lookin’ guy. Like callin’ the sky blue. Big deal. Who gives a fuck?”

“I gave a fuck.”

I shake my head and turn to cross the road again—then freeze to belatedly check for traffic, nearly having forgotten to learn my damned lesson. “Fine,” I throw over my shoulder, “so you like to be flattered. What a surprise, with a head as big as yours.”

“You think my head’s big?” He comes to my side. “Should look both ways before you cross the street, y’know.”

“Thanks, Daddy.”

“You find any other guys’ faces pretty? Or just mine?”

“Fuck off.”

I head across the street and continue my way down Apricot. When I peer to the side to check if he’s following me, I realize with a start that the guy’s walking right next to me. We might as well be on a cute nighttime stroll, the two of us, walking off our Italian meals and enjoying the fresh air. Trey would be beaming now.

Forgive me if I can’t seem to enjoy this guy’s company.

I can’t stand the silence. “Why’d you lie for me?”

“Hmm? What do you mean?”

“You told them you actually ordered a well-done steak.”

He shrugs. “Guess I forgot how I ordered my steak.”

“Bullshit. You lied for me.”

“Did I?”

“And you said I grabbed that habanero sauce by mistake. You know damned well I did that on purpose.”

“So you wanted to broaden my taste buds,” he suggests. “That a crime?”

I stop and turn on him again. “Is this some kinda trick?” It’s in front of Patsy’s Pastries & Pies I’ve got him, and when I advance on him, he backs up. “This your way of gettin’ back at me? Chasin’ me out of Trey’s, puppy-doggin’ me around town acting all nice to me suddenly? Is that it?” I poke my finger into his chest. He keeps backing away—and it’s frustrating beyond words how unaffected he looks by my temper, even the manner in which he’s backing away, with a stoic expression, totally calm, unafraid, as if his act of backing away is done in politeness , giving me room to have it out. “What’s next in your scheme, huh? Once you got me lulled into a false sense of security? Is that when you strike? Get your big revenge?” I jab my finger into his chest again. I would swear that Bridger’s holding back laughter if his face wasn’t so damned blank. “You’re not gonna get one over on me.”

His back is against the banister of the outdoor seating area of Patsy’s, a step away from casually leaning against it, elbows up on the smooth wooden railing behind him.

He looks so fucking smug right now. So infuriatingly calm.

I don’t know how this guy can disarm me so fast by pulling me out of the street from the path of a truck, making my heart race, bringing my face in front of his, and drawing all of my breath out of my lungs like I’m staring at goddamned art in a museum—then make me mad so fast the next second.

He tilts his head, eyeing me. “What’re you doing tomorrow?”

I squint at him. That sure didn’t answer any of my questions. “Why?”

“Busy with one of your around-the-town odd jobs?”

“Why are you asking? Why would I tell you?”

“Those’re two different questions. Which one would you like me to answer?” Now it’s Bridger who’s slowly coming towards me as I back up. “Why am I asking? Well, because I’m free tomorrow and wanted to see if you’d like to hang out. Why would you tell me? Because I think some part of you deep, deep, deep down … is curious if I’m really the asshole you thought I was.”

“Once an asshole, always an—an asshole,” I stammer.

“Is that your running theory for why everyone in town looks down on you?” he asks. “Because everyone’s got an idea about you and no one’s opinion ever changes?”

“The fuck?”

Suddenly it’s me with my back against the big Patsy’s sign by the road, the one with all the specials listed. Not that I can see any of them, because my view is nothing but Bridger in front of me—a brick wall of confidence, cocky smirk, and his assertive blue eyes.

“Well, I don’t believe that,” he tells me. “I think someone can prove to be more than they seemed in their first impression.”

“This is a really … really longwinded …” I hate how close he’s standing to me. “… and roundabout way to … t-to apologize.”

He comes even closer somehow. “Is that what you think this is? Is that what you want? An apology?”

“I don’t want anything from you.”

“Why don’t I believe that?” He lets out a breath as he looks me over. “I’m not trying to take down any of your walls. I have no strategy. I just …” His gaze drifts down to my lips in thought, then snap back to my eyes. “… want to get to know you better. The real you. The Anthony who fell asleep on my arm in the church … the real Anthony.”

The real Anthony? Who the shit is that?

“I am the—This is the … the real …”

“How about this …” He shifts his weight and tilts his head the other way. “Let’s hang out tomorrow. You pick the time and place. Pete and Cody have their own stuff to figure out, and I don’t want to be in the way of that, so I’m free all day. That is … if you don’t have to put on that big hairy costume and dance for kids in front of that burger joint again. How do you see out of it, by the way?” he asks with a sly smile. Is that a dimple popping out of his cheek? “Are there holes in the nostrils or something?”

“I … There’s … I’m not …” I slip out from between the sign and the smoldering look on his face right now. My heart is trying to fly out of my ears for some reason. “I’m busy tomorrow.”

“How about Friday?”

“I’m busy every day, all the days.” I’m backing away from him, leaving him in front of Patsy’s. “All the rest of ‘em.”

“I think it’d be good for us.”

“You and I … whatever this is you’re tryin’ to do … it … it ain’t gonna happen.” Then I’m running off, putting his pretty face and terrifying kindness behind me for good.