Keep

I was shaking, and I had no idea why. I had this sick need to know more, to compare myself to two dicks I didn’t even know! For absolutely no reason.

“And the other?”

“We met at band camp.” She said with a straight face.

“You’re shitting me.”

She shook her head. “He was first drummer.”

“Why the hell is it always the drummer? Is it because they have two sticks?”

Fallon ducked her head. “He had good hands.”

I clenched my own into fists and glared. “Good hands?”

“For music.” She grinned. “You know, for pounding things.”

With a groan I tore my gaze away from her face, I only had so much self-control and I’d never been good with temptation—which is why I never put myself in situations where I’d get physically attached to someone.

Until now.

“I have hands.” Oh good, Zane. Great, you have hands? Really man?

“I see that.” Fallon reached for one and interlaced her fingers in mine. It felt natural, sitting with her on the beach, holding her hand. She had no way of knowing that the last person who purposefully held my hand—held me.

Was dead.

Or, that I’d been spending the last twelve years of my life, trying to make a ghost proud.

Chapter Fifteen

Fallon

FRIENDS. I THINK I hated that word. Maybe he did too? I couldn’t read him, and I’d always thought I was good at that, reading people, observing, watching. He tensed at the strangest moments, hunched his shoulders in crowds as if he was afraid someone was going to shank him, and he was more comfortable naked than with clothes on.

Four days in, and I wasn’t any closer to figuring out Zane Andrews, if anything, he was getting more and more complicated, like a maze that twisted every time you thought you had the way out decided.

“I need food.” Zane said a few minutes later, we’d been sitting on the beach holding hands in silence for ten minutes.

I had no idea what it meant.

To me? More than it should.

To him? I was probably just a body, a hand, a small hand that fit in his gruff hands. Calluses from playing guitar rose over his rough palm, they kissed my soft skin, causing a friction that reminded me too much about who he was compared to me.

He was like a shark, claiming he could play nice with his fish. At some point, the fish pushes the shark too far and gets eaten. I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. Yeah, I would probably enjoy that process more than I’d care to admit.

Zane stood, pulling me to my feet, and then reached into his pocket and glanced at his phone, letting out another string of curses that had my cheeks heating. I had to give him points for creative use of the F-word.

It made me uncomfortable.

I had trouble saying ass.

Ugh, great, now I was the sheltered girl.

Not that I’d ever pretended to be anything else.

“Everything okay?” I chanced asking.

“Agent. Not happy. World. Not happy. What are the chances that the apocalypse happens before my album drops?”

“Uh, do you want it to happen?”

“Sorry,” He shook his head, as though he was trying to snap himself out of a stupor. “I’m just stressed.”

“That’s what you pay me for, right?” I elbowed him in the ribs, “You’re personal tour guide slash assistant slash marshmallow dealer.”

He burst out laughing and reached for my hand again “And a chapstick supplier. Don’t forget the chapstick.”

I should pull away.

Already I was getting too attached, but I justified my behavior. I would regret not spending every moment with him, right? Because already, I missed him, even if he drove me insane half the time.

We walked hand in hand to the boardwalk and made our way into Maggie’s on the Prom. It was one of my favorite spots because they always had blankets for their customers and often had an amazing array of hot drinks and happy hour appetizers. There was nothing better than hearing the ocean crash while sipping coffee snuggled in a blanket.

Before I could sit down, Zane was already grabbing me one of their wool blankets and wrapping it around my body before tucking in the edges, so I had no use of my hands. Smirking, he grabbed his own and placed it on his lap then started reading the menu out loud.

“What sounds good?” He winked. “Oyster shooters? Salad?” His eyes narrowed. “Let me guess you want fish?”

I frowned. “I like fish.”

“Because you hate meat.”

I couldn’t hold back my smile. “You figured it out.”

“Who doesn’t like burgers?”

“Me.”

“But it’s meat.”

“I think I know where burgers come from.”

“Is this all meat?” His wicked smile had me squirming in my seat as he leaned forward. “Hey, you like science. Should we conduct an experiment?”

“Nope.” I shivered, but I was hot—from his look, from the way the shadow of fresh beard growth had his smile looking more wicked and dirty than it should. I wanted to feel the scruff against my fingers tips, imagined it against my cheek as we kissed, my thighs… Whoa, whoa, whoa! I mentally slapped myself.

His face had literally been plastered against so many female parts that I would probably catch something and have to go to the free clinic.

It was an unfair assessment, but probably true.

He couldn’t help but scream sex with every word that came out of his mouth, the way he walked, even the way he touched me, nothing about it was friendly, but I think he had good intentions. I don’t think he could help it or knew how to pull back.