One Week Later

“Tell me you are not seriously parking here.” Juliet hit the door lock button as I killed the engine and cut off the lights.

“What? It’s not that far of a walk. And it’s free.”

Juliet glared at me. “Great. That just means there’s more money in your pocket for the muggers and rapists to take.”

I swatted at her, missing on purpose. “Nobody’s gonna rape us!” I pointed straight ahead to a figure slumped against an apartment building, silhouetted by a nearby streetlight. “If you give Old Willy there a couple of cigarettes, he’ll watch your car for you and make sure you get down the street okay.”

Juliet’s drawn-on eyebrows rose, and a giggle percolated from her chest. “Please tell me you’re fucking kidding.”

“What? It’s a win-win.”

Juliet’s laugh turned into a full cackle. “How are you still alive? Like, seriously.”

I swatted at her again, connecting with her arm that time. “Whatever. Like your decisions are any better.”

I had to bite my tongue to keep from adding the word Mom at the end of that sentence. Juliet fucking hated it whenever Goth Girl or I called her that.

Juliet lifted the sleeve of the hoodie she was holding in her lap, pushed the top of a bottle of wine out of the opening, and unscrewed the cap. “Speaking of bad decisions.”

“Ugh! Wine? That’s all you could find?” I wrinkled up my nose.

“I’m sorry. Maybe, if your twenty-two-year-old boyfriend hadn’t gone back to jail, we’d be drinking Perrier right now!”

I laughed. “It’s Dom Pérignon. Perrier is water, dumbass.”

And I’m pretty sure your twenty-five-year-old baby daddy got locked up first.

Juliet was a bitch, but she was my bitch. We’d been best friends for five years even though we were polar opposites. Juliet was snarky and introverted and tough while I was bubbly and extroverted and naive. She had dark skin; I had freckles. She had long black braids; I had a short blonde pixie cut. But we shared a love of eyeliner, cigarettes, booze, and boys. Juliet even more so than me, which was how she’d ended up with a one-year-old at the age of seventeen.

Juliet took a swig from the sweatshirt-wrapped bottle and passed it to me. “I can’t believe I let you drag me to a heavy-metal concert. I must really fucking like you.”

I drank a few swallows of sour, piss-colored wine and winced, passing the bottle back to Juliet. “Or you just really needed a break from Romeo.”

Juliet laughed. “Yeah, that too. God, that little fucker is into everything now that he’s walking.” She chugged a quarter of the bottle after that statement.

“Oh shit, I almost forgot,” I said, turning around and grabbing a T-shirt out of the backseat. “Hans said I was supposed to wear this.”

I unfolded the shirt and held it up between us. It was black with a white Phantom Limb logo on the front.

“Uh, that thing is gonna look like a tent on you,” Juliet said, curling her lip in disgust. “Give it to me. I’ll fix it.” She snatched the shirt from me and dug around in her cavernous purse until she found a pair of baby fingernail scissors. “Yes!” As she went to work, hacking away at the hem of the T-shirt with the world’s tiniest pair of scissors, she asked, “Isn’t it, like, super uncool to wear the shirt of the band playing to their concert?”

I laughed and took another sour gulp of wine. “Right? That’s what I thought too. But when Hans and I were saying goodbye last Sunday and he invited me to the show, he dug this shirt out of his trunk and said I had to wear it.” I shrugged and kept drinking, trying to calm the gang of violent, mutant, bodybuilding butterflies that took flight every time I thought of Hans. Of his pretty denim-colored eyes that looked like they were rimmed in kohl. Of his little dimples and his little half-smiles. Of his arms around my shoulders and his chin on the top of my head.

“He’s fucking claiming you, BB. Like a caveman. He wants everybody to see you in his shirt and know that you’re his.”

I snorted. “I’m not fucking his though. Beth is.” I rolled my eyes and hiccupped, already beginning to feel a buzz.

“Fuck Beth. Where is she?” Juliet looked around at the crumbling bungalows and burned-out streetlights around us. “I don’t see that bitch. And Hans sure as fuck didn’t see her last weekend because he was with you the whole time. He even took care of you while you were wasted! That’s boyfriend shit, B.”

I took another sour gulp and felt the embarrassment of that night wash over me. I was suddenly right back there in my mind, staring into my own puke on the sidewalk. Wanting to crawl under Hans’s BMW and die. I relived the sequence of events—at least the ones I could remember. Hans picking me up and carrying me against his chest, to Steven’s door. Steven letting us in and gesturing toward the hall bathroom in annoyance. Pigtails cutting up lines of coke on Steven’s glass-top coffee table. Where is Goth Girl? Did they get into a fight like Hans had said they would? Hans rubbing my bony back while I heaved into the toilet, handing me my phone so that I could call my worried parents and tell them I was crashing at Victoria’s house again. Hans bringing me a large cup full of water and a small cup full of mouthwash. Hans unlacing my boots and peeling off my tight pleather pants before tucking me into Maddie’s twin-size bed. Hans curling up behind me on the mattress, his front to my back, his slow, sleepy breath on my neck.

Hans’s erection against my lower back in the morning.

“Then why didn’t he make a move on me?” I pouted, about to tip the bottle up and finish it before Juliet snatched it from my pathetic, boy-crazy hand.

Juliet shrugged and polished off the last of the wine. “Let’s go find out. If we don’t get murdered on the way, that is.”

As I laughed at her joke, the wine making it seem extra funny, Juliet tossed my new T-shirt at my face. I pulled off my tank top and slipped my new shirt on over my head, careful not to fuck up the spiky-chic hairdo I’d spent an hour trying to make look effortless. Juliet was right; the shirt had been too big for me, but she’d hacked the bottom half of it off, right below the logo, and widened the neck so that it would hang off one shoulder. I rolled up the sleeves and nodded. It would have to do.

 

Good Old Willy kept his word, and in exchange for two Camel Lights, Juliet and I made it safely to the box office of the Masquerade.

To anyone but a local, the Masquerade would have appeared to be nothing more than a condemned old factory that had once specialized in manufacturing splinters and sadness. But, to alternative-rock lovers, it was heaven. Well, technically, it was Heaven, Purgatory, and Hell, as the three sections inside the building had been affectionately nicknamed.

Hell was home to the techno crowd, fetish parties, and eighties night. Purgatory was the bar on the second floor, and upstairs, on the third floor where all the live music happened, was Heaven. Fitting, considering that was where I’d get to see Hans again.

Just as my feet hit the top stair, a bass line began to rattle the floor. I didn’t recognize the song, but something inside me recognized the source. Juliet and I walked out of the stairwell and into the dark, smoky, sweltering confines of Heaven. The crowd was larger than I’d expected for Locals Only night, filling up most of the warehouse-sized space.

When my eyes swept over the crowd and up to the stage, there was a brief moment where the rest of the world fell away. Hans was all I could see. It wasn’t that he commanded attention. He wasn’t wearing a fishnet shirt or vinyl pants or leather-studded gloves or any of the other dramatic bullshit his bandmates had on. He wasn’t even looking at the crowd. But there was something about him that shone.

Maybe it was all the contrast. Hans’s features were dark and hard, but his spirit was soft and light. One arm was completely tattooed in blacks and grays; the other was a blank canvas. His low-slung, baggy slacks were black, but the tight wifebeater clinging to his hard chest was white. Hell, even his Adidas were black and white.

But his bass? His bass was red, red, red.

Hans didn’t see me when I walked in, but Trip did. He pointed at us from behind the mic stand just before growling the opening lyrics to one of Phantom Limb’s original songs. The crowd turned their heads in our direction briefly, which prompted Hans to look up as well.

And smile.

“Fuck, B. That’s him?” Juliet shouted over the music.

“Uh-huh,” I said, entranced.

“The bass player?”

“Uh-huh.”

“That Jared Leto-looking motherfucker with the tattoos?”

I swallowed and nodded, never breaking eye contact.

“Girl, I don’t care if he’s fucking married. You have got to hit that.”

Juliet took me by the arm and dragged my leaden feet through the crowd, shamelessly shoehorning us into a gap right at the front of the stage. I was so fucking uncomfortable. Why was I so fucking uncomfortable? I’d spent the entire weekend with this guy. I’d slept in the same bed with him. Twice. He’d seen me barf. Like, thirty times. But for some reason, I felt shy. I wanted to run to the bar and take enough shots to tranquilize the batshit-crazy butterflies in my stomach, but the black Xs on the backs of my hands made that an impossibility.

So I did what I always did when I felt awkward. I smoked. And I smoked. And I smoked.

Every time Hans’s eyes landed on me, I smiled like a dumbass. Every time his eyes weren’t on me, I pouted. It wasn’t until their fourth or fifth song that I even realized that people were singing along. Phantom Limb had fans. Actual fans.

After the sixth or seventh song, Trip paused to have a little banter with the audience. For a scrawny little thing with an unfortunate haircut, I had to admit, Trip exuded some kind of weird sex appeal up there. He was charismatic, oddly confident, and could command the crowd’s attention with a flick of his wrist.

After asking how everyone was feeling, Trip announced that it was his favorite part of the show. “Would all the sexy ladies wearing Phantom Limb shirts in the house please come on up?”

I glanced at Hans in confusion, but he just gave me a one-dimpled smile and beckoned me onstage with a flick of his fingers.

Me?

I looked down and realized that I was wearing a Phantom Limb T-shirt. I had totally forgotten.

Sneaky motherfucker.

Juliet gave me a shove toward the side of the stage, and I ascended the stairs on autopilot along with about ten other girls.

Holding Hans’s amused stare, I mouthed, What the fuck? as Trip instructed us to line up in front of the drum set.

Sorry, Hans mouthed back, cupping a hand to his ear, I can’t hear you.

I flipped him off as I took my spot in line just behind him, pursing my lips to hide the girlish grin threatening to blow my cool.

“Now, now, BB. That will have to wait until after the show,” Trip admonished me, eliciting a laugh from the crowd. “Okay, folks, you know the drill. The Phantom Girl with the best high kick gets to kiss any member of the band she wants.”

The fuck?!

I swear I think I saw Hans blush as the band picked their instruments back up and began playing a hard-rock version of the classic French cancan song. Right on cue, the girls on either side of me threw their arms over my shoulders and lifted their knees high into the air.

Right knee, right kick. Left knee, left kick.

I picked up the rhythm and was about to kick my big-ass combat boot into the air when I remembered that I was wearing a skirt—a little black-and-red plaid skirt with safety pins holding it closed. I never wore girlie shit like that, but I’d wanted to look pretty for Hans. If I did the fucking cancan, everybody in the audience was going to see my panties. If I didn’t do the cancan, I would disappoint Hans, who’d asked me to wear that shirt specifically so that I would do the fucking cancan dance onstage.

“What’s a matter, BB? You freeballin’ tonight?” Trip goaded me. “Come on, show us that pussy.” Then he turned to the crowd and started chanting, “Show…us…the pussy! Show…us…the pussy!”

I was going to show them my pussy anyway until Trip decided to make a thing out of it. Now I couldn’t give him the satisfaction. Emboldened by all the attention, fueled by my hatred of being told what to do, propelled by my desire to look badass in front of Hans, and encouraged by Juliet, who was glaring at Trip like she wanted to strangle him with his mic cord, I turned around, lifted my skirt, and showed everybody my bare ass instead.

Okay, so it wasn’t completely bare. I’d worn my favorite leopard-print thong that night. You know, just in case Hans decided to ravage me backstage or something. A girl has to be prepared.

I glanced over my shoulder at Hans, and the look of awe on his face made me feel like a motherfucking champion. He stood there, slack-jawed, mechanically playing the cancan song on his bass, while the crowd screamed and whistled and cheered in front of him.

Dropping my skirt, I turned back around and found Trip on his knees before me, doing the We’re Not Worthy bow from Wayne’s World. I laughed and pulled him up off the stage as the other girls stopped dancing in defeat.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Trip yelled into the mic, pulling me to the front of the stage by my hand. “This is a Phantom Limb first. The winner of the high kick contest didn’t kick one fucking time. I hereby crown”—Trip lifted my hand above my head and twirled me around so that I was facing backward—“BB’s booty!”

I laughed and turned to look at Hans, who was smiling like he’d won the contest. And, in a way, I guess he had.

“Oh shit. Do you guys see what I see? It looks like our winner has already picked her poison. LDH, you ready, man?”

Hans spun his bass around so that it was hanging upside down on his back and spread his arms apart in a silent invitation. He was cool, calm, and collected on the outside, but I saw his throat bob as I began to walk toward him. Saw his tongue dart out to wet his lips. Saw his pulse throbbing in his neck, just as fast and hard as mine.

Hans wanted to kiss me too.

“Uh-uh-uh,” Trip said into the mic just as Hans’s hands reached for my hips and mine wrapped around the back of his neck. “I didn’t say BB won. I said BB’s booty won.”

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

The crowd went insane as Hans dropped his forehead to mine. Taking a deep breath, he gave me an apologetic shrug, then used his hands on my hips to rotate me away from him. I was now facing Trip, who was laughing his goddamn ass off, as Hans’s hands ghosted down my arms. I shivered despite the steamy, sweaty air. When they got to my wrists, they disappeared, reappearing on my calves, just above my boots. I held my breath and glared at Trip, trying not to let him see how much Hans’s touch affected me, as his fingertips danced lightly up the sides of my knees, my thighs. You could have heard a fucking pin drop as Hans’s big, rough hands disappeared under my skirt, sliding up my hips, inching the plaid fabric up with them. My panties were soaked. My cheeks were on fucking fire. And my heart shuddered to a stop as soon as I felt the hot, humid air caress my exposed ass. Squeezing my eyes shut in mortification, I held my breath as Hans fucking Oppenheimer pressed his perfect, pouty lips against my right cheek.

And then my left.

As soon as my ass was covered and Hans was back on his feet, the crowd exploded into hysterics, and my face exploded into a supernova of a smile.

Hans wrapped his arms around me from behind and whisper-yelled into my ear, “Sorry about that. I’ll beat his ass for you later.”

I giggled and was about to tell him I didn’t mind having his lips on me anywhere when Trip’s voice boomed through the speakers. “How does it feel to have your ass kissed by a rock star?”

Hans and I flipped him off in unison as Louis, the drummer I’d met at the monster-truck rally, stomped on his kick drum pedal three times and banged his sticks together in the air. The guys responded immediately, grabbing their instruments and joining the intro of “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails.

I gave Hans one last longing look, then hauled ass to get offstage before Trip decided to torment me further. I got plenty of high fives and unwelcome ass grabs as I made my way back to Juliet. She smiled bigger than I’d ever seen and pulled me out of the clutches of some greasy douche bag with an undercut and a ponytail.

“Holy shit, that was hot!” Juliet screamed in my ear. “I can’t believe that just happened! I need to leave the fucking house more!”

I pouted. “I still didn’t get to kiss him though!”

Trip’s voice rumbled through the floor beneath our feet as he humped the mic stand and snarled about wanting to fuck someone like an animal.

Juliet looked at him and then back at me. “Why the fuck is he so sexy?”

“Right?” I cackled.

Trip must have known we were talking about him because he pointed right at Juliet and hissed that he wanted to feel her from the inside.

She rolled her eyes as I laughed and elbowed her in the side. She was trying to act hard, but I saw the grin threatening to break free from her scowl. For possibly the first time since she’d gotten knocked up, Juliet was having fun.

I glanced over at Hans, ready to engage in some serious eye-fucking, but the look on his face doused my libido in ice water. His jaw was clenched, his eyes were narrowed to slits, and he wasn’t even looking at me. He was looking at someone behind me.

Glaring actually.

I turned and saw the source of his sudden anger—the douche bag with the undercut who’d grabbed me. I hadn’t even given him a second thought. I’d been to enough concerts and clubs to know what to expect. Guys touched girls whether they wanted it or not. They came up behind you and rubbed their semi-hard dicks on your ass. They grabbed your arm and yelled in your ear with their stank beer breath. They followed you to the restroom and cornered you as soon as you were separated from your friends. That’s just how it was.

As soon as the song was over, Hans unplugged his bass and walked offstage while Trip announced that they had one more jam for us. Evidently, it was their big hit because the second he spoke the title, “Apparition,” the crowd went nuts. Hans was back just in time to start a deep, ominous bass groove that the rest of the band layered their clanging, industrial sounds on top of. I loved it. I absolutely fucking loved it. It was heavier than what I typically listened to but somehow beautiful and catchy at the same time. I was so into it that I hadn’t even noticed that a jacked-up bouncer had grabbed Undercut Guy and hauled him off until I saw him being escorted through the fire-escape exit to the right of the stage.

I snapped my head back to Hans, who was watching me again. A hint of a smile played on his lips. Then, a wink.

A crackling warmth roared to life in my stomach and spread through my extremities like wildfire.

Hans might not have used his fists or his boots or a baseball bat, like Knight would have. And he damn sure hadn’t pulled out a gun, like Harley. But he’d protected me. His way.

I liked his way better.

 

After the show, Juliet and I sat on the rusty fire-escape stairs behind the building, smoking and watching the band load their gear into the back of Baker’s dad’s panel van. Baker—Phantom Limb’s stocky guitar player who liked to hide behind his Kurt Cobain-esque shoulder-length blond hair—was the quietest and quite possibly most essential member of the band. He drove the van. He booked the shows. He played some mean guitar. And, most importantly, he was the only one old enough to buy beer.

Once everything was loaded up, Baker pulled a blue-and-white plastic cooler out of the passenger seat and opened the lid.

“High Life?” Trip scoffed, looking inside. “Bitch, you know I don’t drink Miller fucking High Life. Where’s the Korbel?”

Nobody laughed, except for me.

Trip pointed at me. “BB knows what I’m talking about. We’re all sophisticated and shit. Where’s my bubbly, bro?”

Baker peeked through the slit in his hair curtain as he plucked a can from the icy water inside. “It’s all the way at the bottom, motherfucker,” he mumbled. “Go fish.”

I decided I liked Baker.

I liked him even more when he handed the can in his hand to Juliet.

Hans reached in next, pulling out two cans for us. As he walked over to where Juliet and I were sitting, I began to panic. I was at a total fucking loss. I didn’t know how to greet him. How to act. What to say. I’d spent an entire weekend cuddling with this guy. I’d let him publicly grope my body and literally kiss my ass. But what were we? Friends? Even if we were more than friends, I wondered if I should pretend like we weren’t since he had a girlfriend. Although Trip didn’t seem to give two shits about her when he was telling Hans to stick his face under my skirt. Maybe Trip didn’t like her. The thought gave me hope.

“Hey,” Hans said, giving me his shy one-dimpled smile.

“Haaaay,” I said back in a stupid singsongy voice that I regretted immediately. “One of those for me?” I nodded toward the can in his left hand.

Hans’s eyes twinkled. “Yep.” He tucked the beer I’d been eyeing behind his back. “But you’re gonna have to come get it.”

Okay. Definitely more than friends.

As I stood, Hans held his right hand out to the side, welcoming me back into his arms. Dopamine flooded my bloodstream immediately, the same way a dog salivates at the sight of food. It had been exactly six days since Hans had fed my need for affection, and I was fucking starving.

Unable to play it cool for another second, I wrapped both arms around Hans’s waist and rested my cheek on his chest. I even inhaled the aroma emanating from his warm skin. Hans smelled like rock and roll.

Just as he pulled me in and rested his chin on the top of my head, the unmistakable sound of an entire cooler full of ice being spilled onto concrete crashed behind him.

Hans and I spun around to find Trip delicately plucking a no-longer-submerged bottle of champagne out from inside the no-longer-upright cooler. A sea of ice cubes and chilled water spread in all directions as cans of Miller High Life rolled to freedom across the cracked concrete.

“What the fuck?” Baker said, only slightly louder than his normal mumbled voice.

“That’s what you get, asshole.” Trip pulled the foil off the top of the bottle and shot the cork at least ten feet into the air with a flick of his thumb. A small volcano of frothy white bubbles followed. “You know the only thing I’d stick my arm elbow-deep into ice water for is Leonardo DiCaprio’s cock. And I’m talking Titanic Leo. Not some bullshit What’s Eating Gilbert Grape Leo.” Trip shuddered in disgust, then tilted his head to one side. “Now, What’s Eating Gilbert Grape Johnny Depp? Shiiiiiit. I’d go balls deep in a snowman for a piece of that ass.” Trip humped the air a few times for emphasis.

The entire crowd burst into laughter, including Louis and Baker, who usually looked like they were competing for the title of most apathetic. Hans’s chuckle was quiet and rumbled in his chest beneath my cheek. I felt the vibration between my legs and was considering wrapping them around his waist for a little more friction when Trip chugged his champagne straight from the bottle and belched loud enough to trigger a car alarm.

Leave it to Triple X to sufficiently ruin the mood.

I turned my face up to look at Hans and mouthed, Is Trip gay?

Hans shook his head. “No! That’s why it’s so fucking funny.”

I looked over at Juliet, who was laughing so hard, a black tear rolled down her cheek.

“Everybody fucking knows”—she sniffled—“that Romeo + Juliet Leo was the most fuckable Leo.”

“That’s true,” I said, snatching Hans’s hidden beer out from behind his back and popping the tab. “That’s just fucking science right there.”

Trip huffed and stomped his foot. “But I want him to draw me like one of his French girls!”

I spat my first sip of beer onto the ground. Holy shit, I laughed so hard, noises weren’t even coming out of my mouth, just convulsions and hiccups. While Juliet and Trip continued to argue about which of Leonardo DiCaprio’s characters’ cocks was most worth suffering a partial ice-water submersion for, Hans pulled me over to a crumbling three-foot-tall concrete wall on the edge of the loading dock. I was about to hand him my beer, sling my purse behind my back, and try to get a running start so that I could scramble up the side of it, but Hans did the honor for me. One second, his big hands were around my waist; the next, I was sitting on top of the wall with my feet dangling off the ground.

Hans hopped up next to me effortlessly. I don’t even think he set his beer down. He was surprisingly graceful for a big dude. And gentle. And funny.

“So,” he said, bumping my shoulder with his, “Romeo is the most fuckable Leo, huh?”

My heart skipped a beat at hearing the word fuckable come out of Hans’s mouth. Then it skipped three more when I realized that he might be a little jealous.

I smirked and rolled my eyes. “Duh. I mean, it’s Romeo. He would literally die for me.”

“So that’s your type? Guys who would die for you?”

Hans’s expression remained playful, but there was a tone of seriousness in his voice that I couldn’t quite get a read on. Surely he wasn’t insinuating that he would die for me. I mean, we’d just met. Maybe he meant someone else? Like an ex.

Knight would die for you.

What the fuck, subconscious? You’re gonna bring him up now? Really?

Sorry. My bad. He would die for you though.

Yeah, and he almost killed me trying to prove it, so…what’s your point?

No point. None at all. Shutting up now. Enjoy your night.

Oh shit. Hans is looking at me. Say something, dumbass!

“No.” I rolled my eyes. “My type is guys with tattoos who would die for me. I have standards, okay?”

“Okay.” Hans smirked and took a sip of his beer, but his eyes never left mine. “You’re wrong though.”

“About what? My type?”

“No, about Romeo being the most fuckable Leo. You’re wrong.”

He said it again!

I waited for my heart to sputter back to life before taking the bait. “Don’t tell me you’re on Team Jack too. Listen, I get it. He was adorable in Titanic, and yeah, I guess, technically, he did die for Rose, but you and I both know that door was big enough for two people.”

Hans’s pouty little mouth split into a two-dimple grin.

Damn.

He was all white teeth and black eyelashes and sweat-spiked black hair, and I had to stifle the urge to lick his skin just to find out how salty it was.

Hans held a hand up, laughing. “Dude. Don’t get me started on that fucking door. No, not Jack. Jim Carroll, from The Basketball Diaries. Hands down, most fuckable Leo.”

I threw my head back and squealed, “Oh my God! I totally forgot about that movie! A drug-addicted future rock star! You would say that! How perfect!”

“What?” Hans asked with a shrug. “You don’t have a thing for musicians?”

Hans’s gaze was too intense. His question too loaded. I broke eye contact and began digging around in my purse, trying to find a cigarette and a better response to his question than, I do now.

I popped a Camel between my teeth and looked back up at him with my cool partially restored. “Only musicians with tattoos who would die for me,” I joked.

Ooh. Nice save.

Hans smiled as he produced a black lighter from his pocket. When he sparked the flint, a tiny flame appeared between us. I leaned into it, noting the way the flickering light softened Hans’s harsh features. He leaned in as well. His eyes were on my mouth. His tongue darted out to wet his lower lip. Adrenaline shot out to my extremities. Hot smoke filled my lungs. Then, he pulled away.

Tucking the lighter back into his pocket, Hans said, almost to himself, “I can work with that.”

As I exhaled a shaky stream of smoke and tried to process what the fuck Hans had just said, the face of his wide black leather watch glinted in the streetlight, catching my eye.

“Shit.” I grabbed Hans’s thick wrist and turned it so that his watch was facing me. “I’m supposed to be home by midnight, and I have to drop Juliet off on my way. I have to go.”

Hans’s face fell, but he nodded in understanding. Hopping off the wall, he turned and stood between my legs. For the second time in twenty minutes, I had to resist the urge to wrap them around his waist. Hans put his big hands on my bony hips and blinked up at me with long black lashes. My panties were officially ruined.

“You want me to walk you to your car?”

No. I want you to lean forward a few more inches and fucking kiss me. I want you to pull my skirt up again and bend me over this wall. I want you to tell me I’m beautiful again and sleep in the same bed as me again and take me to Las Vegas and fucking marry me already.

“Nah,” I said, holding my cigarette above my head so that the smoke wouldn’t get in our eyes. “Old Willy on the corner has my back. We’ll be fine.”

Hans’s dark eyebrows shot up. “Please tell me you’re fucking kidding.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?”

Hans lifted me easily by my waist and lowered me to the ground. As soon as my feet hit the gravel, a pain sliced through my heart. The night was over.

Hans and I retrieved Juliet, who was already on her third beer and cheering wildly for Trip. He was moonwalking while balancing an empty bottle of champagne on his forehead. That guy was never not performing. Before we could drag her away, Baker, Louis, and Trip all came over to hug us goodbye.

Juliet was not a hugger.

Juliet was not a peopler.

But Juliet was full of surprises. Not only did she hug all the guys, but she also draped an arm around Trip’s neck and planted a big, wet kiss right on his cheek. Then she mumbled something incoherent into his ear.

I turned to Hans and whispered through my giggles, “Did she just say, ‘Stay gold, Ponyboy’?”

Hans chuckled along with me. “I fucking hope so,” he said, tucking me into his side. “He does kinda look like Ralph Macchio.”

I looked around at all four guys, overcome with appreciation. They had taken my brash, bitchy BFF and turned her into someone happy. Someone who didn’t hate everyone. Someone who quoted lines from The Outsiders.

The three of us walked arm in arm around the building and up the street as the lights from the Masquerade slowly faded behind us. The top of the hill was bathed in darkness. And free parking. Juliet swayed and stumbled on my right arm. Hans was solid as a rock on my left.

Juliet looked around me at Hans and slurred, “I liked your show. You guys were really good, but next time, you have to play me a Smashing Pumpkins song, okay? They’re my favorite. I’m pretty sure James Iha is my brother.”

“Her last name is Iha, and her dad is Japanese,” I explained.

“You guys do kind of look alike,” Hans said, trying to be supportive of her delusion.

“That’s racist,” Juliet blurted, sticking her finger in the air. Then she burst out laughing.

“Oh my God.” I cackled. “You are so wasted.”

“I’m sorry, Hansie.” Juliet pouted. “You’re not racist. You’re pretty and nice, and BB wants to sit on your pretty face.”

I groaned and pressed my forehead into Hans’s bicep. “Just stop talking. Jesus.”

Hans snickered. “Thanks, Jules.”

As we crested the top of the hill, Old Willy sprang from his perch on the corner and hobbled over to us, limping worse than usual.

He looked Hans up and down, then spoke to me. “Missy, I done saw somebody snoopin’ ’round your car tonight. Big fella, driving a truck with them big ole monster tires. He drove down the highway here”—Willy pointed out to the main street—“and I guess he spotted your car ’cause he done turned around right in the middle of the street and came flying down here.” Willy pointed down the side street where my car was parked. “Drove by real slow like, then pulled over down there and cut his lights off like he was gonna wait y’all out.”

My blood curdled in my veins.

Hans’s arm tightened around mine.

Juliet laughed inappropriately.

“Are you okay, Willy?” I asked through the suffocating lump in my throat. “You didn’t try to…”

“I’m fine, missy. I went and stood right next to your car and glared at the sumbitch till he took off. Y’all should be real careful though. That fella had eyes like a gotdamn demon or somethin’. I said ten Hail Marys after he left.”

Like a zombie, I thought, picturing the almost-colorless irises and eyelashes of one Ronald McKnight.

“Thanks, man,” Hans said, placing a hand on Old Willy’s shoulder and sticking a few dollar bills into his hand.

“Thank you, sir. Y’all have a blessed night now.”

We walked over to my car in a daze. Knight was supposed to be in Iraq. He had written me a letter after the accident, confessing that he was the one who’d caused it and said that he was signing up for a second tour of duty. Now he was snooping around my car two months later? It didn’t make any sense.

“That motherfucker is worse than herpes,” Juliet snapped as she headed for the passenger door. “He just will not stay away.”

“You know this guy?” Hans asked, searching my face as we came to a stop next to my car.

“Yeah.” I didn’t elaborate. There was no possible explanation that could make the situation sound anything other than worse.

We go way back. He was my first love, but we can’t be together because he’s mentally unstable and extremely violent. Oh, and thanks to the Marines, he’s now a trained killer, too. But don’t you worry about him. Just because he beat the shit out of my last boyfriend and ran us both off the road doesn’t mean he’ll do it again. He probably got it all out of his system.

“You gonna be okay?” Hans’s eyebrows were pulled together, creating a deep V-shaped wrinkle between them.

I nodded. “Yeah. It’s fine.”

Hans looked at me like he wasn’t convinced but wanted to avoid the topic of Knight about as badly as I wanted to avoid the topic of Beth. “Will you call me when you get home?” he asked instead.

I nodded again.

Hans pulled me in for a hug, but something was off. Something was very, very off. Even though we were touching, it felt like an invisible curtain of sadness had been drawn, separating us from one another.

“Thanks for coming out,” Hans said, smoothing a hand down my goose-bumped arm.

Then, he was gone.