by E. R. Whyte
For the remainder of the week we sat together, and I allowed him to charm me into a movie date by the end of the week. We dated until I caught him with Krystal in the stairwell of B-Hall right before Christmas break.
He wasn’t getting anything from me, he said defensively. What did I expect him to do?
Not that.
“I was hoping that might fall under bygones by now,” he says.
“It mostly does,” I assure him. “But I’m not interested in a repeat.” His face darkens and we stand and look at each other.
“Look, I’m sorry. Can I give you a lift somewhere?” he asks, stepping closer and placing a hand on my shoulder. Ignoring my start of surprise, he gives it a squeeze. I’m not sure if he’s copping a feel, trying to apologize, or what.
“No, thank you.” I move away from his hand under the pretext of turning to grab my phone from my car. “Someone is coming to get me. I have an appointment with a student’s family and he was right behind me. I called to let him know I’d be late and—”
“Student?” Shane’s voice elevates on the last syllable, and he takes another step toward me. I draw back, hoping Gunner arrives soon. When I speak, I’m careful to keep my voice professional.
“I have an appointment to speak with Gunner Ford’s father regarding tutoring Esme Ford.”
Shane looks thoughtful. “Esme Ford, huh? I have her in gym. She strikes me as a strong student. What does she need tutoring with?”
“Gunner said she was dyslexic and struggling.”
“Gunner. Same kid making you blush in a closet all those years ago?”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Shane. That’s old news. It was a dare.”
“Yeah, but he’s not fourteen anymore, is he, Shiloh?” Fifteen, my brain corrects. He was fifteen.
I squint up at him. “Are you for real?”
He laughs, low and dirty. “I’ve seen the way chicks look at him, Shiloh. You’re no different.”
“This has nothing to do with what Gunner Ford looks like. He said his sister needed tutoring—”
“That girl doesn’t need tutoring, trust me. Now, Gunner… I heard Coach talking to him about how he’d better get that grade up or he was going to have to bench him.”
“That’s… you’re wrong, Shane. And jealous—still—after all these years.”
“Just keeping it real, is all.” Shane rocks back on his heels, watching me closely. “You got it approved, right? It’s in our contracts to get all outside work approved by the school board. I don’t want to see you get in any trouble.” He puts his hands in his pockets. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do, but you need to think about what you’re doing here, Shiloh. Why don’t I give Gunner a call and let him know you will be rescheduling the appointment since your car is out of commission? I’ll get you home or back to the school, your preference.”
A headache throbs, and I rub my forehead. “Look, Shane. I appreciate what you’re trying to do here. But I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”
“Come on, Shiloh. Don’t be like that.” Shane takes my elbow in his hand. “Let me take you home.”
Pulling my elbow from his grip, I glance down at the phone in my hand. “Shane,” I say, “that’s the second time you have put your hand on me without my permission. I want you to understand that the next time you do it one of these heels is going to be up your ass.” As always, when I get upset or angry, the southern in the accent thickens. I used to try so hard to hide it, thinking it made me sound like a hick. I don’t even care at the moment.
Shane’s smile thins, and he pulls his hand back. “You’re being a bitch, Shy. I’m just trying to make sure you get someplace safe. Your car is broken down and you’re standing on the side of the road for chrissake. Why can’t you put aside what happened and just let me help you?”
I roll my eyes. “I’ll let you know when I need your help, Shane. If you’re that concerned with my safety, you are welcome to wait until my ride gets here.” I cross my arms over my chest and lean back against my car. “What did you mean about Gunner needing tutoring?”
“Fine. I don’t know why I bother sometimes. As for Gunner —”
Just then a large vehicle roars up behind us. I glance back and see a shiny navy-blue truck pulling up, Gunner at the wheel. Looking back, I see Shane’s eyes flicker beyond me and narrow when a door slams. Even as I watch, his expression morphs into one of easy geniality.
“Gunner!” He greets, straightening from his own lean against the car. “Miss Brookings was just telling me she has an appointment with your father?”
I stare at him in disbelief. The switch from irritated ex-boyfriend to amiable football coach is instantaneous. He’s not the same person he was two seconds ago.
Gunner, lips thinned in a flat line, gives a single firm nod. “That’s right.” He turns to me. “Let’s get your bags in my truck, Miss Brookings. I have someone on the way to take care of your car. And Dad knows you’ll be a few minutes late.”
“Thank you.” Silently, we transfer my things to his roomy truck. Gunner helps me into the front seat and with an old-fashioned gesture that I’m surprised by, drags the seatbelt across my lap and buckles it. He lays a big hand across my thigh and squeezes, removing it before I can push it away or say anything. The contact is a fleeting brand; the invasion of my space anxiety-inducing. I look past him out the window nervously.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice gruff.
“I’m fine. Thank you for picking me up.” From behind the windshield, I can see Shane still standing there, hands in his pockets, looking as though he’s waiting for something. “What’s he doing?” Gunner’s gaze follows mine and hardens.
“I’m not sure. I don’t think we can’t leave him alone here with your car, though. I’m going to go talk to him and wait until my guy arrives. Shouldn’t be long.” He gives my leg a pat and steps back before I can reply, shutting the door behind him. I watch as he goes to join Shane and they appear to talk easily, Gunner opening the hood of my car and both men peering inside like it holds the secrets of the universe.
It’s odd that Gunner is being so cautious. Aside from Shane being a little pushy, I don’t see the reason.
Although of course, he knows my history with Shane, was the one to find me crying in the stairwell after I caught him cheating on me with Krystal. Maybe he’s like me and simply doesn’t trust the guy.
A short time later, another vehicle pulls up behind Gunner’s truck and a figure steps out, gravel crunching under a pair of black leather boots. He’s massive, with brown hair pulled back in a man bun.
I watch as he steps over to Gunner and Shane and confers for a few minutes with his head under the hood in that way that all men have. Then he snags my keys from Gunner’s hand, gives Shane a curt nod, and shakes Gunner’s hand. I continue to watch as Gunner tramps back to his truck and slides behind the wheel, and Shane and the stranger stand looking at each other without speaking. It is odd.
“Why are they still standing there?” I whisper.
“Honestly?” Gunner flicks a look at me. “I don’t want to leave Coach Reasor here with your car before it’s been inspected. His showing up so quickly like that might just be a coincidence. It might not.”
It’s simple to connect the dots that Gunner is sketching. “What?” I scoff at him, unable to contain it. “No way. Shane is annoying as they come, but he would never do anything like that, Gunner. Especially since…well, you remember we dated briefly, right?”
Gunner slants a look at me and then refocuses out the windshield. “How could I forget?”
I swallow. Gunner came upon me in that stairwell as I was reading Shane the riot act. He had led me away, let me rant until my anger collapsed into embarrassed tears. “He wouldn’t hurt me. He’s a cheater, but he’s not like that,” I insist.
“Maybe he’s just a good actor.”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
Gunner start
s the truck and checks traffic before pulling out onto the highway. He glances back and brings two fingers to his forehead in a salute. In the side-mount mirror, I see Shane stalking to his vehicle.
“It doesn’t matter now. Maybe just try not to be alone with the guy if you can—at least until we check your car out?”
I reach up with my left-hand and remove my glasses so I can massage my temple. My headache is worsening.
Gunner’s hand wraps around mine and pulls it away from my face. “What are you doing? Gunner, you can’t—” Gunner ignores me, opening my fist and pulling the center of my palm to his lips for a brief warm kiss. My words stutter to a stop as my eyes lock on my hand at his mouth.
“Please,” he says.
“Stop it.” Unnerved, I yank my hand away from him, tuck it in my lap, and stare out the window. I am thankful for his assistance, but all of this touching needs to stop.
“Shiloh—” Whatever Gunner is about to say is cut short by the ring of his phone. With a bitten off curse, he pulls it out of his pocket and checks the screen. “Yeah, Dad, we’re on the way.” There’s the muffled sound of a response. “Seriously? No… I understand. So, we’ll see you in a few days? No, it’ll be fine. I’ve got that worked out. You want me to sleep in the main house while you’re gone? Okay, be safe.” Gunner hangs up and is quiet for a moment.
“I take it the meeting is off?”
“Just rescheduled. He had a flight to catch. Couldn’t be late.”
I look out the window again. “Please tell him I’m sorry if I made him late.”
“You didn’t. He has an insane schedule. I help with a lot of the business, but he still travels all the time. Works twelve, fifteen-hour days.” He offers me a twist of the lips that is meant to be a smile but doesn’t quite make it. “I think it’s because Mom’s not with us anymore.”
“She died?”
He gives a nod as confirmation. “When Esme was born. Placenta abrupta or something like that. I was young.”
“I never knew that.”
In spite of my earlier statement, I have an inexplicable need to hold his hand. Try to return some of the comfort he just gave me. I can almost feel his warm skin beneath mine, the strength in those long fingers.
What the hell am I thinking? Doing? Shane was right; I shouldn’t be putting myself in a situation like this with a student. Especially not one that I’ve kissed. Despite our shared history, his friendship with my brother, this insane attraction I have for him…Gunner is off-limits. I ball my hands in my lap to keep from reaching over and taking his hand.
I say the words that I despise, hoping that he will know they are not empty in the careless way they’re sometimes offered, hoping he’ll know that I feel the weight of each one. “I’m so sorry, Gunner.”
His grunt is his only acknowledgement, and we fall silent as he drives me home.
17
Him
Just had to play the fucking hero. I sit in my car down the road from Shiloh’s house, fuming. “Fuck! Fuck you, you motherfucking FUCK.” I punch the steering wheel with each curse, the horn giving a brief toot each time. I had everything planned to perfection, but that cretin couldn’t leave well enough alone.
Now I have to send a message in more spectacular fashion, and it pisses me off. I do not like having my plans disrupted.
Stealing a quick look around the neighborhood, I wait a minute to ensure no one is coming to investigate the car horn, and then climb from the front seat. I grab my ball cap and slide it over my head, shading my eyes and features from curious glances. Reaching in the car, I grab the clipboard I always keep with me for such occasions, and then shut the door. As I walk across the street and down the sidewalk to her house, I keep my steps confident and whistle a low tune, keeping my eyes focused on the clipboard in my hand. To any observer, I’ll look like a census taker or delivery person.
It’s amazing what a person can get away with if they just look like they belong. If they blend. I’ve taught myself to be a chameleon over the years, to blend exceedingly well. I’m everyman and no man at all.
It hadn’t been easy to slip away and take care of Shiloh’s fuel line. It hadn’t been easy to stalk up to her car in the well-patrolled faculty lot and fucking blend for the time it took to do so. It had been even more difficult to estimate exactly when she’d be leaving school, so I’d know approximately where to wait. I’d made the leak tiny enough to get her a few miles down the road, the highway leading away from the school rural enough to ensure several minutes of isolation.
I imagined how it would be—Shiloh standing helplessly by her car, phone in hand, just as I pulled alongside her.
Fancy meeting you here, I might have said. Har, har.
Let me take a look for you. I’d roll my sleeves up, so she could see the strength of my forearms. Minutes later: Unfortunately, I don’t have any idea what it might be. How about we go find a garage to give you a tow?
She’d be so grateful, because she could trust me. It was a window of opportunity I had calibrated to the minute.
On the deep porch of Shiloh’s house, I slip the key I had made after my last visit into the lock and push the door gently open. Once in the foyer, I cast one last look around the area before closing the door behind me.
Not a soul in sight. The seclusion afforded by the houses spaced wide apart and the large population of oak, poplar, and pine trees appeals to me. Maybe Shiloh and I will live in a similar place one day. Far grander, of course.
Only the best for my Shiloh.
I glance around as I make my way room to room, the soles of my shoes quiet on the scuffed wooden floors. I trail a gloved finger over the photo of Shiloh with her mother and brother, hanging just outside the kitchen.
Happy family. Happy smiles.
The kitchen is a warm, comfortable space with aging appliances, a rustic wooden island, and a bright yellow and red rug in front of the sink. Tsk. Lovely rug. Bending, I pick it up and fold it before placing it carefully on the counter next to the sink.
Then, I open the cabinet beneath the sink, and rain havoc over Shiloh’s perfect little world.
Today, I hadn’t planned for the fact that my prey might have attracted other hunters. Men panting after her scent, attuned to her movements just as I am. That any other man would consider himself worthy of her is amusing, but I can’t say that I don’t understand.
It’s fine. There will be other opportunities.
And when that time comes, there will only be me to come to her rescue.
18
Gunner
When we pull into Shiloh’s driveway, I remind her about the farm vehicle we could loan her, telling her that it would be in her driveway tomorrow morning when she was ready to go to work. She rolls her lips inward as I dump her bags on the porch, making me wonder if there is something wrong with that timetable. If she has somewhere that she needs to be before tomorrow morning.
Somewhere like Kendrick’s? Jealousy hits hard, tightening my chest. You’re not dancing for anyone but me, Shiloh Brookings. Not one more time.
“Did you need a ride somewhere tonight?” I ask. “I was planning to bring it by around nine, but I can get it here sooner if you do.”
She gets the door unlocked and puts her shoulder to pushing it past where it sticks a little in the jamb. I remember it doing that when I used to come hang out with Sammy. Ms. Brookings never got around to fixing it. Shiloh reaches down for one of the bags of essays. “Nope,” she says, rising. “I’m fine. I’ll just be here grading essays.”
Standing in the threshold, she sets the bag down behind her in the foyer and reaches back around for the other, effectively blocking me from entering. I try to hold on to the bag. “I can help, Shiloh.”
“I’ve got it. It’s not appropriate for you to come into my house without adult supervision. Shane was right; I shouldn’t even have accepted a ride once I found out your dad cancelled.” She pulls the second bag away and
repeats the same awkward setting-it-down-behind-her motion as before.
“Huh. Okay, sure, if you say so.”
“Thank you, though. I appreciate all of your help this afternoon,” she adds, folding her hands in front of her primly. Meanwhile, the thoughts running through my mind are anything but prim. Prurient, maybe. That’s a good word. I must’ve heard someone use it, and it just stuck. ‘Having or encouraging an excessive interest in sexual matters.’ I keep picturing that freckle right above her belly button, right around level with those folded hands.
I place one hand on the door jamb above her head and lean in, inhaling her nerves. She doesn’t give an inch of ground. I smile, a slow curl of my lips. “Shiloh.”
“Don’t call me that.” She probably hates the slight quaver in her voice but gives no sign. Instead, she tips her chin up in response to that primal something she can feel arcing between us. I know she can feel it. Damnit, if I can feel it every time we get close to each other, there’s no way she isn’t feeling it, too. Her pragmatism is no doubt telling her to lock it down. My bet is that the woman in her is telling her something very different.
“Do you have any idea how fucking hot it makes me when you get all prissy and schoolmarm-ish on me?”
“Gunner!” she gasps, placing a hand on my chest to shove me away.
I hold my position. “I just want to put my hand on your thigh… right about here... ” I demonstrate with a light graze, then return my hand to the door jamb. “…and pull that skirt up an inch at a time… pull those sexy glasses off your face…” Her eyes are fixed on my throat, her lips parted. I can feel her breath ghosting the surface of my skin as she breathed in and out. “I just want to break that propriety you pull so tight around you, Shiloh. Watch you splinter.”
She shoves again, and my body translates the contact like a caress, my pec flexing with involuntary machismo under her palm. She pulls her hand back hastily. “You need to stop.” The words are a hiss.
“Make me believe it and I will.”
