I can’t help but pause at the thought, knowing that the opportunity to get my hands on any alcohol around here tonight is low at best.
“You know you want it.”
“Yeah, but the company…not so much.”
“Come on, we’re both out here for a reason. If either of us stayed in there any longer listening to everyone’s clucking, the police would be marking the club up in crime scene tape by now.”
I want to kick myself for the slight smile that pulls at my lips. “True.”
“I know you think I’m the spawn of Satan or whatever, but let’s face it, there’s far worse company inside.”
The pitch is hardly enticing, but between the humidity and my desperate need for some liquid courage, I drag my feet back over to him and take the bottle he offers. “Thanks.”
The cool amber drink feels like heaven going down my throat, and the taste turns sour as Jase gestures back to the waterfall upstream. “It really is a sight, isn’t it?”
“It was always my favorite place to go.” My smile isn’t just humorless. It turns brittle, and he doesn’t miss it.
He lowers the bottle from his lips, the statement lingering in the air. “Was?”
I take another drink, gulping down just a little too much, a little too fast. “I haven’t been to the Falls in years.”
I can feel his eyes on me, challenging, but I can’t bring myself to meet that stare.
“It ended up having a bit of a negative connotation. Couldn’t bring myself to go back.”
A solid minute passes without either of us saying anything. Only when I finally force myself to look over at Jase does he dare ask, “When was the last time you went?”
“The last time we were supposed to meet.”
He goes so utterly still that I’m not even sure if he’s breathing.
Yep, that’s right, asshole. I was there, and I saw everything.
You’re every bit worthy of my hatred, and now you know it.
The laugh that slithers its way from my throat is low and cruel. “I suspect you had a far better time than I did.”
I don’t care that my drink is still half-filled. I set the glass bottle on the stone banister, the harsh clatter serving as my mic-drop as I turn back for the café doors.
CHAPTER 19
NOTHING LASTS FOREVER
PRESENT
Hours later,I still feel an invisible taint from where Patrick had been touching me. Hell, just having Trent’s eyes on my body was enough to leave its mark. As soon as we got home from the country club, I practically rubbed my skin raw in the shower, trying to wash it away, but even as I lie in bed at two in the morning, that violation is still there.
Thank God the temperature dropped, because a gorgeous lakefront breeze comes right through my window. Sadly, though, it also emphasizes the crackling and scuffles coming from outside. A raccoon had recently taken up residency in the tree next to the house, and I spotted the critter lurking in a lofty branch the other night, screeching and shrieking for no other apparent reason than to be a nuisance.
Thankfully, it’s not up to those same antics tonight, but the recurring bumps and thumps sound awfully loud for a relatively small animal. Even with my earbuds in, I can hear it over the Korean horror movie I’m watching on my laptop. I also realize the genre probably isn’t the best choice given the current situation, not to mention my overactive imagination.
A harshthudhits the side of the house a few feet below my window, forcing me to sit upright and yank the earbuds out.Unless I’m dealing with a suicidal raccoon that decided to end it all by jumping from the tree and throwing itself into the side of the house, something’s wrong.
Surveying the room, I look around for something I can use for protection. I frown at the tennis racket propped up against the front of the nightstand beside my mattress, realizing it’s my best line of defense. I really need to invest in a baseball bat or something. Maybe a samurai sword.
Yes, I know I’m overreacting. It’s likely just a tree branch that snapped and struck the siding of the house. Hell, it could even be a bird. Grabbing the handle of the racket, I can’t help but feel like an idiot. The raven in my bedroom wasn’t my only bird-related fright fest. When I was eight, an owl had flown smack-dab into my locked window during the night. Its impact had broken the glass, not to mention scarred me from ever watching Hitchcock’sThe Birdsagain. Sure, a bloodied-knife-wielding psychopath always comes to mind when things go bump in the night, but I tell myself to implement a little logic. There hasn’t been a break-in on Royal Boulevard for well over a decade, and I can’t ever remember somebody being attacked, let alone murdered. What are the odds now?
That reassurance is obliterated, however, when a masculine set of fingers suddenly grapples at the ledge of the windowsill, and the bottom half of the glass eases up completely with the help of another hand. The fullest of my scream gets caught in my throat, resulting in something between a gasp and a shriek. Practically falling out of my bed, I scramble to my feet and race for the door when Jase announces, “It’s just me.”
