A Photo Finish: Chapter 5

I GROAN as I stare at the screen of my phone. Am I really about to try this again? It’s so fucking lame. I’m so fucking lame. Just because I’ve decided I can’t show myself to anyone doesn’t mean I don’t still want things.

And the photo is so . . . ethereal? I don’t know. I could get lost in it. I can’t look away from it. It’s so different from living in my head. Light pink nipples on flawless pale skin. I imagine running the palm of my hand up her body, right up the center line from belly button over sternum, before coming to rest on her throat and thumbing those pouty, soft lips.

The way they’d part as I rasped my thumb over them, the little sighing noise that would escape past them.

It’s been way too long, you old perv. You’re getting hard just imagining touching a woman’s lips. The ones on her face, no less.

Not to mention a girl who looks like that isn’t going to be interested in me and what little I have to offer her.

But what the fuck. Why not? What have I got to lose? I look around my lonely West End apartment. The place is basically a shrine to a grown ass man who’s let every opportunity for the past several years slip through his fingers. A living shell.

I haven’t even tried to be better. To get past my hang-ups around my body. To do more. I want all the things. The white picket fence. The 2.5 kids. The wife who kisses me with a little tongue every morning when we part ways. But I haven’t done shit to get there. And it’s probably too late for me now.

It’s just me, myself, and my protein shakes. And my creepy fucking internet persona. Might as well embrace it.

My thumb taps the message icon, and I quickly type before I can change my mind.

Then I walk away and get in the shower to wash away how fucking dirty I feel. But I can’t stop thinking about that creamy skin sliding against my own. I imagine running my tongue up the inside of each thigh. Really taking my time to taste her, to feel her writhe beneath me. My hand curls around my cock, but I pretend it’s her pillowy lips, opening up wide for me. Wrapping around me. Her cheeks hollowing out as her silky blonde hair bobs in a steady rhythm while she sucks me off. Then she’d look up at me. Fuck, I love that. Big, wide eyes and my dick in her mouth.

I wonder what color her eyes are as I spill myself against the cold tiles.

For a moment, I wish I wasn’t alone.

Something that I’ll never let happen.

“HEY, BIG BRO.” Billie stands under the yellow glow of the porch light above my front door, hands on her hips, and blows a strand of hair off her face. I don’t know what she’s doing here. But I know I don’t like it.

It’s 11 p.m. on a Saturday night. Is this what people do in small towns? Invade each other’s privacy? I’m about to ask her as much when I see another set of headlights turn down the driveway. Vaughn parks beside her truck, and I notice now that she’s left the back door open. A shadow shifts inside, and I lean forward a bit to peer past her.

“Is someone lying in your back seat?” I ask.

She glances over her shoulder. “Oh. Yeah.”

My eyes shift back to hers. “I don’t like you enough to help you bury a body.”

Billie grins, her teeth coming off a little vicious in the dark of night. “Fair. I won’t come knocking once I kill Patrick Cassel.”

“Patrick?” I ask, confused, as Vaughn bounds up the stairs. I already hate Patrick’s smug ass. If I had to help her with a body, it would be his. Maniacal laughter streams out of the truck, pulling me away from that thought. “You guys, what the fuck is going on?”

“She might actually kill him, you know?” a hysterical voice cackles out of the dark back seat.

“Is she okay?” Vaughn asks, slightly breathless as he comes to stand beside Billie.

“Yeah, yeah. She’s just really high.” Billie replies casually.

My teeth grind. This is so like them. Talking a lot but saying nothing at all.

“You. Guys.” I bite out. “What. The. Fuck. Is. Going. On?”

“Patrick Cassel took Violet and DD down tonight, and her leg is all mangled.”

Adrenaline courses through me as Billie’s words process in my head. If I didn’t already hate Patrick Cassel, I would now. I see dirt. I hear hooves. I taste bile. I rub at my leg anxiously.

“What do you mean, took her out?” My molars grind against each other as I’m transported back in time. To another day entirely. To a seventeen-year-old boy watching his dad ride a race he’ll never finish.

“Cut her off and bumped DD’s shoulder. It was muddy.” Billie sniffs. Her voice sounds brittle, and I don’t miss the hand that my brother snakes around her waist.

I feel like I could suffocate on my tongue as I forge ahead. “And can you elaborate on what a ‘mangled’ leg means to you?”

Vaughn’s eyes dart up to me, going slightly wide. Usually, that means my tone is too brusque. Trixie is always asking me how I think other people perceive me. I keep telling her I don’t care. She just ignores that and tells me to look at body language for clues. I think this wide-eyed look might be one thing I’m meant to watch for. Vaughn doesn’t like the way I’m talking to his fiancée.

“Hairline fracture on her fibula and a strain in her knee. It’s mild, but she’s kinda beat up. Recovery won’t be that long. A month if she’s lucky.”

I force a deep breath down into my lungs, willing them to fill and empty evenly so that I don’t start gasping with the ache of my memories. This could have been so much worse. I’ve seen worse. I was seventeen when I waved goodbye to my dad, my idol, as I clung to the railing at Bell Point Park. I watched him load up into the gates. I cheered and whistled and yelled until I was sure my voice would be hoarse the next day. I watched him closing in on the lead horse. I saw the grin on his face. And then I watched him go down. A simple trip and the crush of his mount’s body over his. I watched the horse get up and gallop away, its eyes wide with terror.

I watched my dad’s still form on the dirt track. I willed him to get up. But he never did.

This could have been so much worse.

“Is she okay?” I keep my voice cool, but even I can hear it brimming with rage, pain that’s had years to fester.

“Yeah,” Billie replies. “But she’s not supposed to do stairs. Which means she can’t get up to her apartment above the barn. We were going to let her stay at our cottage, but the bathroom is on the second level. And the whole place is pretty small for three people . . . ” She trails off, shooting big wide eyes up at me like a little kid who’s about to ask for something they’re not supposed to have.

I guess this is body language that I can read as well. This look has pleading written all over it—seen it before. I’m just not sure why she’s giving it to me, other than to irritate me and make me want to put Patrick in a choke hold more than I already did for the stunt he pulled last year.

So, I fall back on my default expression. I stare blankly at my brother and his fiancée, not sure what it is they’re expecting me to do or say here.

Vaughn groans and drags a hand through his hair. I don’t miss him mutter something about me always making things difficult. The feeling is mutual, little brother. “Can Violet stay at the farmhouse with you? There’s a spare bedroom and bathroom on the main floor. It’ll just be a few weeks.”

They can’t be fucking serious.

I keep my fists shoved under my biceps, hoping that if I look angry enough, they’ll both back off and come up with a different solution. My chest rises and falls heavily as my agitation grows, snaking out into every joint and muscle. They both just keep looking back at me expectantly. Like puppies.

And no one likes a guy who kicks puppies.

Violet bursts out laughing in the truck. She’s laughing so hard she can barely breathe. Let alone get her words out. I can hear her gasping for air between guffaws. I’d often wondered what her laughter would sound like. A year of talking and then another of forcing myself to recall her dainty little face . . . I hadn’t imagined the hyena howl she’s currently emitting.

“I told you guys he would never go for this,” she blurts out. “Look at his face!” She dissolves into another fit of giggles. “I know him. This will never fly!”

Okay. I need to put a stop to this. Now. The last thing I need is Mr. and Mrs. Bigmouth knowing my personal business. And the path of least resistance to ending this interaction is . . . Fuck my life.

My legs move before I process what I’m doing. I shove myself between Billie and Vaughn and approach the truck. Violet is laid out across the back seat, feet toward me and back propped against the opposite door. Her leg is wrapped in a plastic walking cast and is supported by rolled up horse blankets. Her pupils are dilated, and fat tears of laughter stream down her muddy cheeks.

“Hey! It’s Butterface!”

I growl as I reach into the truck. “Violet. Shut up.”

She throws her head back and bursts out laughing again. Like spilling our personal history is the most hysterical thing in the world. Comedy gold, everyone. My jaw pops under the pressure of my bite. All I can think about is getting her away from prying eyes and ears, so I lean in and reach for her waist. I don’t miss the way my hands wrap almost the entire way around her as I pull her across the leather seats toward me.

When I slide my arm under her knees, she winces.

“Are you okay?” I rasp so only she can hear me. I should have been more careful with her.

“A bit sore.” Her glassy eyes gaze up into mine unsteadily, wide and lost and so fucking pretty. My lungs constrict at the sight of her, the girl I haven’t been able to shake.

Never mind Billie. I’m going to kill Patrick Cassel. I move slowly now, less agitated and more concerned, and wrap my other arm around Violet’s narrow back. She feels small and vulnerable against me, and for all the times I let myself imagine meeting her—it was never like this.

Her head lolls drunkenly into my armpit as she announces, “Isn’t he so strong!” One tiny fist knocks against my bicep. “Look at these arms!”

I blink once, slowly, working hard at keeping my cool, as I carry her limp body up to the front porch. No one this small should feel this heavy. I fight the dread crawling up my spine, the memories of carrying my friends’ limp bodies under the cover of darkness. The weight. The dry heat.

I take a deep inhale of the thick, humid air to remind myself where I am. “What the hell did they give her?”

Billie pulls a small orange container out of her back pocket and offers it up. “I don’t know, but they probably should have given her a child’s dose instead.”

I just grunt. I’ll look at it later. “I’ve got this,” I bark, as I push past them and into the old farmhouse with Violet held firmly against my chest.

“He’s so romantic!” Violet giggles, and I roll my eyes. In the past, Violet had been one of the few people I actually enjoyed talking to. But that girl is definitely not here right now. This girl is high as a fucking kite.

“Violet, are you okay with this?” Billie looks concerned, but I kick the door shut behind me, right in her face, done talking about this.

“Isn’t he rude?” Violet shouts back through the closed door. “All those times you complained about what a dick he is—”

Now it’s Billie’s turn to shut her up. “I’ll bring you your stuff in the morning, Vi!” Billie calls back. “If you need me, just call!”

My cheek twitches. Take that, sis.

“Don’t worry about me, B! I told you. I know him!”

A deep sense of dread fills me. All I can see is my privacy slipping away. A part of my life that was always meant to be kept separate is now going to be sleeping in the bedroom below me, and probably blabbed about with my brother’s fiancée. Which will inevitably get back to my brother. Nevermind the fact that I’ve been pining for her—a girl I’ve basically never met—for the last couple years.

Nothing good can come from this kind of forced proximity.

I groan as I carry Violet to the spare bedroom. Feeling my meticulously organized life slipping through my fingers like fucking sand, and I haven’t even been in Ruby Creek for twenty-four hours. This place is cursed. It took my dad down, and now it’s going to take me down too.

The room is dark, but the spare bed is already made. Like it’s been ready for her this whole time. Like this is some sort of huge cosmic joke.

Leaning down, I gently place Violet on the bed, not wanting to hurt her. She’s even more beautiful than I remember, soft and feminine, and soothing without even trying. Getting to know Violet was like discovering a medicine I didn’t even know I needed.

“Why are you staring at me?” she asks quietly from where she’s sprawled, her voice not so giddy anymore.

“I’m not,” I grumble, jumping back into action, not wanting to talk. I pull a pillow from the headboard and prop it under her braced knee. How I know it feels best. When I lean over her to pull the covers down, I sneak a look up at her face, something I’ve avoided doing since that first day I saw her at the track, but I can’t seem to stop staring now. It’s like the mere sight of her has short-circuited my brain, opened the floodgates to me gawking at her like some sort of slack-jawed neanderthal.

I expect those almost too-big blue eyes to be staring back at me. But her long lashes are casting shadows over her high cheekbones and her heart-shaped mouth has fallen just slightly ajar, shallow quiet breaths whispering past her lips.

Knocked right out.

Which means I can really look. I stare at her openly—every line, every angle, every heavy rise and fall of her chest—my eyes adjusting rapidly to the low light filtering in from the living room, knowing she won’t catch me now.

Is her breathing too light? Too slow?

I lean in closer to listen, a little concerned with how hard these painkillers are hitting her. Another thing to worry about. Just what I need.

Shaking my head, I leave the room. How did I get roped into this? I should pay someone to run the new company and head back into the city. Fuck the board. I’m a thirty-six-year-old man who can barely take care of himself. I need a woman to take care of like I need a fucking hole in the head.

Back in the kitchen, my hand shoves at the tap, making water shoot out as I reach up to grab a glass from the cupboard above the sink. The water out here stinks. Vaughn swears it’s safe. Something about no added chemicals like in the city, but one of the first things I’m buying tomorrow—provided this water doesn’t kill me first—is a flat of bottled water.

Turning to walk back to the room, I see my phone light up on the counter. Missed calls from Vaughn and Billie litter the screen. Must have missed those while I was working out. Before this all went to shit. I stare at my phone so much all day for work that I like to turn it to silent in the evenings. Then no one bugs me.

Except now.

Apparently in Ruby Creek, if someone doesn’t answer their phone, it means you show up at their door.

I swipe my phone off the counter and flick through my notifications. Most recently, there’s a text message from Vaughn.

I roll my eyes. You’d swear Violet was a child on her deathbed or something. Is this level of micromanaging normal for adults?

I’m not even going to dignify his implication about me taking care of her with a response. Does he think I’m not capable? I don’t know when Vaughn became so totally pussy-whipped, but it’s definitely new.

I toss my phone back down onto the counter, trying some of that deep-breathing shit Trixie is always going on about, and head back to the spare bedroom with the glass of water I poured for Violet.

I set it on the bedside table, letting my eyes trace over her sleeping form again. Soaking her in, warring internally over how I should feel about this. About her.

There’s a part of me that wants to crawl in beside her, to hold her and watch her all night. To run my fingers through her hair. Make sure she’s okay, to ease the tension in my gut and assure myself that she’s really alright. But the other part of me knows she wouldn’t want that. That it would be way over the line, especially considering how we ended things.

So I walk out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar, and sink to the floor against the opposite wall. “Only for a little while,” I mutter to myself, shaking my head as I settle in to keep watch.

Deep down I know that’s not true. I know I won’t be able to walk upstairs and leave her tonight. But I’ve been lying to myself and everyone else for years.

Why stop now?