“You seriously believe that?”
“Yeah, I seriously fucking believe that. You’re better off without her, and you’ll make more money at the Moose anyway.”
“That’s the other reason I’m mad at you.”
“What?”
“The Moose! I don’t want to work there.”
“Because you’ll make more money? Gee, that’s truly a fate worse than death.”
“Don’t be like this,” she replied, her voice almost a sigh. “Let’s not play games, okay? We have history and that makes me uncomfortable. I don’t want you throwing it in my face.”
“You’re the one who spied on me in my own apartment, not the other way around, Becs. Like I said, you got a problem with me living there, now’s the time to speak out. Otherwise I’m moving past this.”
“Don’t call me Becs.”
“Why not, Becs?”
She glared at me, practically vibrated with frustration. Fair enough, because I was pretty frustrated myself. Not just about our verbal sparring, either. Hearing her pissed-off little voice made my dick harder, which shouldn’t have surprised me because everything about her made my dick harder. Now instead of focusing on what the Reapers might need from me, my mind was torn between two images. One was her naked, spread wide and screaming in pleasure while I pounded her.
The second was that exact same picture, only this time it was Collins fucking her.
I squeezed the steering wheel tighter, then shot her another look. Her fingers tapped against her thigh, full of suppressed energy. Guess Joey-boy wasn’t man enough to tire her out. The deep breaths she took made her tits rise and fall underneath a T-shirt thin enough to show the outlines of her nipples.
Little Becca was all kinds of bothered.
Goddamn, but I wanted to fuck her.
Right, like that was a surprise—I’d wanted to fuck her every minute of every day since that night five years ago. Hell, she’d wrapped herself around me all the way from Southern California to Callup, hands clutching at my stomach. The only time I’d lost my boner the whole trip was when the bike numbed me out, and even then I was still hard. Just couldn’t feel it anymore.
“I want us to get along,” she said suddenly, eyes darting toward me. “I know it’s no secret I’m uncomfortable around you. But we live in the same town and it’s time to move forward with my life. Part of that is letting this go. Maybe we can be friends.”
Friends? Un-fucking-likely.
“And what do you mean by ‘friends’?” I asked, keeping my voice neutral.
“Well, you’re giving me a ride to school,” she replied. “That’s very . . . friendly . . . of you. We’re going to be neighbors now. Why can’t we just get along, you know? That seems less weird than what we are now.”
“What are we now?”
“Nothing,” she said, and my gut clenched. “We aren’t anything. But maybe we can be friends. We’re neighbors, so maybe we can act like neighbors. I can cook you dinner or something, thank you for fixing my car.”
That startled me, but I didn’t react. At least, not by saying anything. My dick was trying to punch its way through my pants, which wasn’t particularly helpful under the circumstances.
“You dating Collins?”
She shrugged.
“We went out last night. I’m probably going to see him again. Are you dating Carlie?”
I snorted.
“I don’t date.”
“Okay . . .”
Silence fell again, and this time I didn’t feel like breaking it. Not if she wanted to talk about Carlie—that wouldn’t end well for me. I sure as fuck didn’t want to talk about Collins. I reached over and turned on some music, catching the way she visibly relaxed out of the corner of my eyes. Funny, but despite the tension, having her in my truck like this felt good.
Half an hour later I dropped her off in front of her school, promising to come back and pick her up after five. Hopefully I’d be able to keep that promise, despite whatever shittastic job Picnic Hayes probably had waiting for me. Knowing my luck, it’d be a body to bury.
Guess I’d keep my fingers crossed that body would belong to Joe Collins. Unlikely, but a man can hope.
BECCA
When we hit cell service, my phone lit up with a missed call from my mom. Like always, her name sent a thrill of perverse hope through me. Maybe this time she was calling to say she’d done it—she’d actually left Teeny. For years now I’d been trying to convince her to walk out and come live with me. Twice she’d said she was doing it, then backed out at the last minute. This devastated me, which is hard to explain, given how terrible she was as a mother. Hell, as a person. But that’s the thing about parents—you love them despite everything, because they’re yours.
I stole a look at Batma . . . Puck and wondered how stupid it would be to call her back in front of him.
Probably pretty stupid.
We’d never talked about my mom, but it wasn’t a stretch to assume he wasn’t her biggest fan. Hopefully the call wasn’t urgent—I’d have to wait until my break at school to get back to her. Generally our conversations fell into three categories:
1) “I’m leaving Teeny for real this time, Becca. I just need some money for a bus ticket and I’ll come up.”
2) “I love you, baby,” drunken slurring. “I’m so sorry for what I did. You’ll see. We can fix it. Be a family.” Barfing noise.