“Luca, don’t worry about me, okay? I’ll be fine,” she says. “I can take care of myself.”

As Sarah taps her short, unpainted fingernails on the screen of her smartphone, my gaze is drawn to the black dress that’s clinging to her body, tracing the curves of her seated form.

Nobody could accuse Sarah Ellis of causing scandal at her own brother’s funeral. Her dress is demure. Perfectly appropriate for a funeral.

And yet, I can see hints of the sexy body underneath, and that’s enough to fire up the neurons in my brain with excitement. My mind recalls a certain memory . . .

My rock-hard dick was drilling deep into her naked figure, which was bent over the faux-leather surface of my tattoo table. I wanted her to stop moaning before my neighbors started pounding on the door, demanding we put a stop to our dirty debauchery. I put one hand over her mouth to shut her up, but she sucked my thumb into her mouth instead, and . . . fuck.

I avert my eyes. I’m going to hell for this. It’s my best friend’s funeral, and here I am, ogling his hot sister.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“Yeah.” She’s putting on that weird, fake smile again. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some things to take care of at the clinic.”

A security system is the last thing I need. But it seems like there’s nothing I can do to change her mind.

“I’m sure you do,” I say, stepping aside to let her pull the car door shut.

Sarah appears different. Yes, she’s a full-fledged adult now and not the eighteen-year-old who left Ashbourne five years ago. But it’s not that.

She moves like water—not like these damn raindrops, but like a little, clear stream of water flowing serenely over mossy-green rocks, meandering gracefully around lush green fields. She has poise where there used to be self-doubt and awkwardness.

After turning on the ignition, she twists in her seat to wave me goodbye. Her long hair tumbles over her shoulders and somehow rearranges itself into yet another visually pleasant form. She’s just so . . . put together.

I don’t know why I’m surprised. She is a lot like her brother, but unlike him, she doesn’t appear to have given up on life.

I give her a nod, and she smiles before she drives away. I could be wrong, but she doesn’t seem too happy to see me.

I scratch my head.

Ah, women. I don’t know what I did to get her mad, or if she was mad at all. Maybe she blames me for how Peter acted in his last days. Or maybe she just plain doesn’t like me.

Sure, technically, I’m planning to commit a crime in her place of business (and home), but she doesn’t know that. As far as she knows, I’m just trying to look out for her.

I close my eyes, look up at the sky, and let fat drops of water pelt my face.

Don’t worry, Peter. I didn’t expect her to be an easy nut to crack. She’s your sister, after all. I’ll come up with something.

* * *

By the time I get home, it's dark.

My clothes no longer sweat rain when pressed, but everything’s damp. Almost automatically, I start toward the bathroom.

But as I peer outside a window, I notice the skies have cleared. There's not even a drizzle, and the streets are quiet because everyone's huddling for warmth at home.

A deep longing jumps to the forefront of my mind and refuses to let go. My feet itch, and my leg muscles recoil in preparation for exertion.

Fuck it, I’m going running. I feel like shit, and that's the only thing that’ll help—if I rule out illegal substances, of course. It's been a while since I had some ecstasy. I’ll bet it wouldn't take much to make me feel like I’m on top of the world.

It's a tempting thought. I know exactly where and how to get any drugs I want.

But years ago, I decided to stop using drugs altogether. I don't even have weed in the house these days. And I limit my use of the three most beloved legal drugs in America: alcohol, nicotine, and caffeine.

I peel my black pants off my legs. It feels good to step out of them, and not just because they’re heavy and sticky with water. They just remind me too much of death. I literally never wear those pants other than to funerals.

Also, I’m usually more of a jeans-and-sweatpants guy. Luckily, I set my own dress code at my tattoo shop. I’d hate having to wear a business suit to work every day.

I take off my button-down black shirt—which I also never wear, except to funerals—and put on a pair of dry sweatpants. As I slip my feet into a pair of running shoes, my brain comes up with a good excuse to fuel my addiction.

The clinic’s a little out of the way, but that’s a good thing. On a shitty night like this, I need all the endorphins I can get. And the longer the distance I run, the more intense the natural high I get.

Also, I can check on Sarah while I’m there.

Two birds, meet my one stone.

The moment I open the door, the crisp night air fills my lungs with anticipation. My whole body tingles. I feel like a glutton at an all-you-can-eat restaurant. There’s so much for me to consume it’s almost overwhelming.

The clinic is three miles away. Six miles there and back. That’s going to take about half an hour at my usual speed. I expect runner’s high to hit toward the end of the run.

My feet start to pound the pavement. Take it slow and don’t rush into it, I remind myself.

There are only two things in life I get this obsessive about: my art, and my addiction.

I used to weigh nugs precisely too, and I always, always brought my own syringe. I was a drug user, not an idiot. Some would insist a drug user is automatically an idiot, but I’d beg to differ.

The thing is, most people are addicted to something. Sex. Porn. Movies. Video games. Books. Work. Religion. Fucking sugar. Salt. Oh, and here’s a good one: gadgets.

Most people have ignored their families in favor of something else. Most people have an obsession or two.

The trick is to direct the focus of that obsession on something that won’t fuck your whole life up. I check my speed on my smartwatch. The clinic’s signage should come into view in a few minutes.

Peter made the mistake of using nicotine to replace the harder drugs he’d used to enjoy. In the end, it took more than a decade of smoking for the toxins to poison his body with cancer.

If I were being optimistic, I’d say he could’ve died even younger if he’d stuck with the other kinds of drugs.

Twenty-eight.

Damn. Peter died young.

Funny how when I was a little boy, twenty-eight seemed ancient. But now, at thirty-one, I look at any twenty-something and see someone who has a lot of life to live.

My chest burns as I put one foot in front of the other. That’s it. Left. Right. Left.

Life’s a lot like running. A personal apocalypse may have obliterated your world, but time doesn’t stand still. It never does. You still age the same, and to the rest of the world, nothing’s changed. All that’s left to do is keep going.

As Ellis Animal Clinic comes into view, I stare at the front door, remembering the first day Peter and I talked.

We were at my shop, and I was giving Peter his first tattoo. Sarah wasn’t too happy about it—but that was exactly the reaction Peter was hoping to get.

I did feel weird talking to Peter after having just banged his sister on the same tattoo table he was sitting on. But I also thought he was pretty cool. And then he started showing me pictures of his artwork, and he became the coolest person in town.

He may have worked as a veterinarian, but that man was an artist through and through. His confident strokes and bold colors were intriguing, even though I was just looking at tiny versions of them on his phone.

I remember saying, “These must look amazing in person.”

“Want to see them?” Peter asked right away. Later, I learned that he’d been trying to find someone who shared his interest in Ashbourne, to no avail.

“Yes,” I said, as quickly as he’d made the offer. I didn’t realize Sarah was glaring at me until it was too late.

Still, I didn’t think it was going to be a big deal because Sarah had made it clear she’d only wanted a one-time, no-strings-attached thing. It wasn’t like we were going to ever bang again.

Besides, I was just going to see some art, right? Peter and I probably didn’t have much in common beyond that.

There was very little chance I was going to keep either one of them in my life, or so I thought at the time.

I chuckle as I slow my pace, my gaze fixed on Ellis Animal Clinic with its white, back-lit sign and a Peter Ellis original as the logo. It’s a clean, simple, black-and-white design, incorporating the silhouettes of a dog, a cat, and a horse.

Sarah was telling me the truth about having to take care of some stuff at the clinic. The light upstairs is on, which means she’s home.

It looks pretty safe here, of course. As usual.

I wonder if she really bought the bald-faced lie about my security concerns. The truth is, I’m probably the only person in town who’s trying to break into her clinic.