I pull my arm back and smash my fist into the side of the truck bed.
Wow. That went so much worse than I had anticipated.
I yank my hand back before it can become impaled, clutching it to my chest, and I stare horror-stricken at the truck.
Instead of getting onto my bike and riding home, I’m standing in the centre of Phoenix Falls’ town square in a piss-pouring thunderstorm, the college-prep books that I just borrowed from the library tucked safely into my tote (and, therein, tucked safely inside of a water-proof carrier bag), because some asshole has parked their truck directly in front of my bike, blocking me in so that I can’t escape the ever-growing crowd beginning to infiltrate into the town’s diner.
It’s dark, my glasses are smudged, and I failed to realise that this truck is a thousand years old. The panels are peeling metal in small exploding sections. I don’t even want to look at my hand. I glance at it anyway and gag a little.
That looks like a lot of blood. Even though I pulled back quickly I can feel sharp stings all over my fingers and knuckles. I’m going to need to run my hand under a cold tap for the next ten years.
“Are you okay?”
I startle and whip around upon hearing the voice, but the sharp subsequent waft of air awakens my injury anew. I hiss and frown down at my hand, my black hood shielding my face from the rain.
“Shit, is that blood? You want me to drive you to the hospital?”
Something about his tone stirs like honey in the bottom of my stomach and I feel a slow trickle of lava begin to course through my bloodstream.
Deep and husky.
Concerned.
Familiar.
I look up, allowing the rain to finally lash against my skin as my hood falls backwards, and I suck in a quick sharp breath.
Not only am I about to lose my hand, I’m going to have an aneurism.
Streaks of water are gushing down his tan cheekbones and his hair is plastered, dark and tousled, to his forehead. Rain is running over his lips in a way that feels explicit.
And his eyes are on mine.
“Riv… River?”
Eyes. Lips. Eyes. Lips. His gaze flicks between them like he can’t choose which deserves his attention more.
I stumble one step backwards, puddle water spitting up my calves, and it snaps him out of his reverie.
Good. He doesn’t get to daydream about me anymore.
Tate. Coleson.
The best friend that I ever had.
Who then became the worst friend that I ever had.
He squares his shoulders and his voice becomes stiff and strained. “River. If you would like I can take you to the hospital, and we can go and get your hand checked.”
If I would like. What a concept. It’s a bit too late for that now, isn’t it Tate?
“It’s fine,” I snap, even though by this point an at-home amputation is likely. His shoulders flex when he hears my voice and he moves like a shudder just ran down his spine.
“River, please.” His voice is so much deeper than it used to be, and his body has doubled in size. He was always tall, but now I’m snapping my neck just to get a look at him. I wonder if I could wrap my hands fully around the thick base of his throat. “What happened here?” he asks, eyes lingering momentarily on my mouth, before they drop back down to my hand. “What were you doing?”
What am I doing? What is he doing? And, more importantly, what is he doing here? Tate’s family left town just after he turned sixteen, but now that he’s almost nineteen and a high school graduate I guess he could have moved out. He could have moved back.
He could have been back for a while.
“I’m leaving,” I say and I turn back around, ready to scrape the shit out of the truck bed whilst I extract my bike. I hope the spokes are extra spiky today.
“Wait,” he says, and his tone is suddenly lighter, entertained almost.
I narrow my eyes in suspicion.
“Did you punch this truck?”
I turn around and see him looking at the sight of the crime. Evil metal nubs sticking out of the panel. I don’t think that I even dented it.
A pity.
“It almost crushed my bike,” I say.
Why am I even talking to him? Rot in Hell, Tate.
I can hear him laugh softly as I try to squeeze between the truck bed and the bush behind it to access my bike for retrieving.
Asshole.
But then an engine revs and I’m no longer being juiced as the truck drives three feet forward. Tate puts the truck into park and then steps out of the driver’s side, leaning his bicep against the door with a playful glint in his eyes.
“I’m glad that I got over here before you slashed the tires.”
What an excellent idea.
He rounds the other side of the bed and pulls up the tarp, squinting up at me against the beating rain. “Put the bike in the bed. I’ll take you to the hospital.”
“Uh, no way,” I say and I give him an as if eyebrow raise as I mount my bike.
Suddenly he’s in front of me, gripping the handlebars in his big drenched fists.
“You can’t be serious,” he says, his voice hard.
I look up and I wish that I hadn’t. He’s so close to me that I can almost taste the rain radiating off his warm skin. His jaw is so tense and his eyes are so hard that he’s practically vibrating.
“Riding a bike. No helmet. In a rainstorm.” He glances down at my bloodied fist. “One handed.”
He looks furious, which fills me with evil glee.
I ring my little bell.
“Move, please.”
His hands grip tighter, jaw flexing. His white knuckles are making me sick with pleasure.
Why do you care so much, Tate?
“Don’t do this, River.”
I push off the ground to get my foot on the pedal, which is, admittedly, concerningly slick. The front wheel shoves into the leg of his denim jeans and reluctantly he takes a step back. He thrusts his hands in his pockets and pierces me with a deep, molten glare.
I’m almost shimmering with satisfaction.
“Stay away from me,” I warn him with narrowed eyes, and then I kick back off the blacktop and speed away as fast as I can.
*
As soon as I rounded a few corners I was off my bike, washing my wounds with the remnants of my water bottle and fixing my knuckles with four plasters. Yes, I am a plaster-carrier – as it happens, a danger-prone girl like me can never be too anal.
I throw my bag in my room and I look out of the window. It’s pitch black except for the street lamp, completely obscuring the view of the house in front of me.
Good.
I meet my mom in the kitchen as she’s putting potatoes in the oven. When I go to wash my hands so that I can start making the salad she notices my hand and sucks in a breath.
“Jesus, what happened?” She asks. Then, “Did you spray perfume on it?”
Perfume on a wound is our home’s answer to disinfecting injuries. I don’t think my mom has taken me to a hospital since I bust my lip at the age of seven. She’s made me very DIY.
I completely omit telling her about the incident with Tate’s truck. I never want to think about it again, purely because I never want to think about him again. I skirt around the subject and tell her that I’ll give it a spritz later.
Once our dinner is ready we sit down at the table, café jazz playing softly from my laptop on the counter.
“So this Friday,” she starts, and my stomach sloshes with unease because we don’t usually have plans. I do school. She does work. That’s the routine. My mom is a professor at the college campus that’s a twenty minute drive from here and, as her miniature, it’s the same vision that she’s been grooming into me since before I was born. Work hard, stay in a regimented system, and you’ll always be protected. Bonus points if you secure a fortune from an Ivy League billionaire – if not, revel in your chastity, daughter, ’cause that’s what mama wants.
All the more reason why I don’t mention Tate. My mom has literally no idea what went down between us – hell, I don’t think she even knew that he existed – and he definitely doesn’t prescribe to the future she’s mapped out for me.
If only he didn’t prescribe to the secret future I had mapped out for myself.
“I want you to meet him,” she finishes.
Okay, I may be a killjoy in my own life but I’m not about to screw up my mom’s new secret boyfriend situation. He’s been taking her out for dinner, and walks, and more dinner every weekend for three months straight, and I’ve never even met the guy. I don’t stalk-watch them from my bedroom window as they disappear from the driveway. I don’t look out of my window full-stop.
“I want to meet him,” I agree with a nod, although my tone sounds a little offended because I hate the fact that she’s thinking that I would put an obstacle in the way of her happiness. “What time is he coming over?”
“Hmm,” she says, her mouth suspiciously full of my sliced-to-perfection lettuce. I narrow my eyes on her and stop her wrist when she goes for another forkful.
“Hmm?” I inquire.
“We’re going to his place,” she says quickly, and then she rams in the forkful that I was preventing, smug with speed.
I can handle this, I can handle this. I don’t want to embarrass her by being her untrusting hermit daughter so I say, “That sounds lovely,” even though I think that she just triggered my IBS.
“I hope so,” she says, her eyes trained on a potato. “Wear something nice, please,” she adds.
My stomach sinks a little.
“Yes mom,” I murmur, and I shut up for the night, my chest constricting tightly.
*
“That’s the house,” my mom says, pointing.
It’s the same as all of the others. Cute porch. Clean lawn. Only this one also has a hot tan lumberjack smiling at us from the garage entryway.
My mouth falls open but I quickly snap it shut in case he can see us as visibly as we can see him. No way am I going to inflate his ego.
He’s over six foot, and I mean he is well over six foot. His skin is so tan that it leaves no doubt in my mind that he must work outdoors. From the stretch of his shirt I can tell that he’s ripped. The only negative thing about right now is the fact that he’s wearing a shirt at all.
I spin a full ninety degrees in my seat to face my mom. “That’s him?”
Her mouth tilts up into a little self-satisfied smile as she manoeuvres into the driveway. I can’t help but notice the fact that the drive is empty, meaning that this man purposefully moved his ride so that his girlfriend’s would have an easy fit. My heart squeezes.
I mean, I’m practically jealous. From one look at this guy-slash-god I can tell that he is everything my mom has ever told me to stay away from. I’m being presumptuous but the initial vibe that I’m getting is: outdoorsy; wears a suit no more than once every three years; and owns a cowboy hat un-ironically. Why can’t I have one?
When I glance back at him again, this time I peep the contents of his garage. My brow creases. “Why does he have so many saws and shovels?” I ask.
My mom laughs as her eyes flick over to the garage. “He owns a joinery company. He’s as normal as they come.”
Now I’m really jealous. He closes the garage as my mom puts the car in Park and he comes over to open her door for her. I’m frozen in wonder as he helps her out and gives her a peck on the cheek, saying something to her in a voice like maple syrup.
I take a few deep breaths but somehow they make me feel even more anxious, so I decide to fuck the breathing and just get out of the car.
Once I close my door I’m met with sparkling oceanic eyes and deep bedded dimples. High-five mom.
“River,” he drawls, a handsome smile playing on his lips, “I’m so happy that you’re here.”
Wow. Me too.
He points at himself and says, “Mitchell, but call me Mitch. Or Mitchell. Whatever’s your preference.”
One of his arms is wrapped around my mom’s shoulders and he ushers me with his free hand, saying, “Please, come inside.”
Mitch and my mom are inside the doorway by the time that I make it to the top of the steps. It’s still light out, but there’s a welcoming glow emitting from the entryway, not to mention the smell. No way can a guy this hot also cook. I glance at my mom again and wonder if she did witchcraft to summon this man.
“I hope you’re hungry,” he says as he takes my mom’s coat. His accent is so thick that I could pour it over pancakes. “My son insisted on making the food tonight and he’s kind of awesome when it comes to cooking.”
He glances over to the kitchen and calls, “Tate, get out here!”
Instantly I pause.
Tate?
What?
My eyes flash to the direction of the kitchen and I watch as Mitch’s son steps out. He holds a kitchen towel in one hand and he’s sweeping tousled hair out of his eyes with the other when his gaze meets mine. His body instantly stills and his expression turns to pure shock. He clutches the towel in his fist with renewed vigour.
Mitch smacks him on the back and grins at me. “I hope you don’t mind having a step-brother!”
My stomach drops and I swallow hard.
Oh.
My.
God.
