by Sarina Bowen
While the bartender makes change, I scan the crowd, trying to reconcile this scene with my life in Colebury. This place is full of happy, prosperous people enjoying craft brews and good company. Except for the flannel shirts and technical fabrics, I could almost be in New York—but on a weeknight, when the crowds aren’t crushing. This bar is really pretty cool.
No, it isn’t, I remind myself. Vermont is a horrible place. I take a sip of my cider, and then notice how good it is—earthy and interesting, sweet and bitter and musky.
It’s really too bad that I hate Vermont because this cider is flipping amazing.
These are my scattered thoughts as a second man appears behind the bar in my peripheral vision. He must have come through a back door somehow. I feel tingles on my scalp, because he’s watching me.
Slowly, I turn to face him. And holy shishkebab. Six-foot-three inches of my high school heartbreak is staring intently at me.
All my blood stops circulating. There stands the man who basically ripped the beating organ right out of my chest and stomped it with a motorcycle boot. I need to look away, but I almost can’t. My heart is pounding wildly inside my chest, and I feel the onset of a fight-or-flight response coming on.
Flight is sounding like a good option.
Yet, because I’m a big idiot, I keep on staring. And he looks good. When did his shoulders get so wide? His eyes are just as beautiful as they always were, so dark and brooding.
From the nose down, he’s not the same, though. He isn’t the clean-shaven high school senior who once kissed me. This version of Benito has a scruffy beard. And his hair is a little too long.
It does nothing to dim his attractiveness, though. On the contrary, the mountain-man look suits him.
This is information that I never needed, by the way. I could have gone my whole life without knowing that he grew up as hot or hotter than he was at eighteen.
Back then, my whole world orbited around this man. Even now I feel my world tilt subtly in his direction. He has his own gravitational pull. And he looks…devastated. For a split second I see hurt in his eyes when he looks at me. And then I blink and it’s gone. His face is impassive.
But he’s still staring at me.
Trying for casual, I lift the cider glass to my lips and take another sip. I study him.
“Skylar.”
At the sound of his sexy rumble, my hand wobbles, and I actually spill a drop of cider on my wrist. Smooth, Skye.
He ducks under the bar, which puts him right beside me. I get a whiff of him, and it wrecks me all over again. Leather and pine needles. “Come over here and talk to me,” he says in a soft voice that brings out goosebumps all over my body. Then he takes my wrist in one large hand and leads me across the room.
Everything is happening too fast. His hand is wide and warm, and my brain is all swimmy. If only I could go meditate for a half hour somewhere, to clear my head. But who am I kidding? A prepaid week at a yoga spa wouldn’t be enough to restore my equilibrium right now.
Benito nudges me toward a booth, where I sit down hastily, tucking my duffel bag against the wall and setting my drink on the table. I’m breathing too quickly as Benito shrugs off his leather jacket and tosses it onto the opposing seat.
I have no choice but to look up. The first thing I see when I lift my chin is his black T-shirt. It hugs an impressive set of abs. I lift my gaze slowly, taking in a chest far more sculpted than even my fantasies and a muscular arm propped on the table.
Wow. He must have spent the last twelve years at the gym.
Then, when it can be avoided no longer, I look up into his face. And there it is—the cognac-colored gaze that had always regarded me softly. When we were friends, I looked into those big eyes a thousand times, and they never let me down.
Until the night when they did.
And it had been bad. At the moment when that beautiful man was supposed to turn up on my doorstep for the biggest night of my life, Benito hadn’t shown. I’d sat on the porch in my fancy dress and I’d waited. Like an idiot.
I’d sat there for hours, unable to believe that Benito had abandoned me. And then finally I learned how deep his betrayal really was.
That night I left Vermont for good and never came back.
Now, twelve years later, Benito has spoken four or five words to me, and my stomach is lurching around, and my hands are sweaty.
This was a terrible idea. I have to get out of here, I decide. Abandoning my cider, I slip my bag onto my shoulder again and scoot toward freedom.
But no. Anticipating this maneuver, Benito Rossi folds his big frame into the booth beside me, blocking my exit with his muscled bulk. “What, no hug for your old friend?” he says.
As if. But now I’m trapped. The choices are A) stay put, or B) climb into his lap to make my escape. And the latter sounds far too appealing to be a good idea.
“Crumbs,” I whisper.
“What’s that Skyescraper?” he asks again, catching both of my hands in his. “Look, I’m surprised to see you, too. So why don’t we start with an easy question. What the fuck are you doing here tonight?”
His broad hands give mine a gentle squeeze, and my heart skips a beat. Stupid heart. It takes me a second to remember that I hate that nickname. And now that flight is no longer an option, I go straight to fight. And that’s easy, because suddenly I’m so hopping mad that I can’t see straight.
“Don’t call me that,” I bite out. I never appreciated the fact that he’d given me a tall-girl nickname. Although, until the Night of a Thousand Disappointments, it was the only thing I didn’t like about him.
Back then, I would have done anything to hear more of his deep voice in my ear. But now I just need to get away before he can bring any more of that ache back to the surface. I’d cried a river of tears for him, and I didn’t want to turn the taps back on. So I tug my hands back from his. “There won’t be a hug, and I don’t want to chat. Just let me go.”
“Nope,” he says with a simple shake of his head. “First we’re gonna have a talk.”
First, I’m going to have an out-of-body experience. Because he’s so achingly familiar, sitting right there beside me. When I was sixteen, I’d memorized the curve of his cheekbones, the masculine shape of his nose. I’d learned the precise form of his full mouth when he smiled.
And every time he touched me, I leaned in, not out.
“First I’d like to give you an overdue apology,” he says in a voice that’s way too calm. “I’m sorry I let you down on the last night of school twelve years ago. It’s all my fault, and I’ve regretted it ever since. I’m sorry.”
My jaw hinges open, because his apology is both unexpected and woefully inadequate. Does he know how much pain he caused?
Not that I think about it anymore.
Not usually.
“And now,” he continues, “feel free to tell me why you disappeared for twelve years without a goodbye.”
I can’t do that, though. Because I refuse to let him know how deeply he wounded me. Which he should already know. He’d stood me up on the only magical night of my young life. Did I just slip his mind?
“Skye, I went half-crazy wondering what happened to you. So start talking.”
My head nearly detonates. Because if he went half-crazy, it was probably just the guilt talking.
“No? Fine,” he continues. “I get that you were pissed about missing the dance. But you didn’t give me a chance to make it up to you.”
“Wow.” In the first place, I can’t believe he’d characterize such a major betrayal as something that could have been easily fixed with flowers or another ride to school on the back of his bike. It wasn’t only that I’d missed a party. He’d taken another girl instead of me.
Even now I feel a wave of humiliation. I can’t go back to that moment. I don’t want to think about this ever again.
In fact, I’m changing my plans. This setup of Rayanne’s had a stink to it from the moment I’d read her weird little no
te. And just because she wants to send me on a wild goose chase tonight doesn’t mean I have to participate.
New plan—I can go to Raye’s place and find the key under the Buddha. I’ll go there and regroup, and wait for Rayanne to contact me. If I decide that I need help, I can find Benito later.
“Excuse me,” I say as firmly as I can. “I’ve heard you. You’re sorry. But I did not drive two hundred and fifty miles to talk about grad prom.” The name of that fateful dance rolls easily off my tongue, as if the whole episode had happened only ten minutes ago.
Ugh. I’m drowning here. He’s too close. And his scent—a heady mixture of leather and the outdoor air—it’s so familiar I want to cry. “It wasn’t a big deal,” I add, eyeing the edge of the booth. I’m just a couple of feet from freedom. “If you’ll excuse me.”
He frowns at me, pinning me with his chocolaty gaze. “It wasn’t a big deal,” he repeats slowly.
“Right.” Liar, liar, J. Crew skirt on fire.
“If you didn’t really care, then why did you take off like that? Not even a note, Skye. For twelve years.”
Hmm… He has me there. “I cared back then. But I don’t anymore.”
“I see,” he says. And then we have a stare-down—his soulful eyes versus my looking-into-camera-number-four stare. And the crowded bar just falls away. In spite of my professional advantage, I am in serious risk of losing this contest and tipping headlong into that brown-eyed gaze. This is how he used to look at me—as if he could see all the things I hid from everyone else. And back then, I was okay with that.
No, Skye, I coax. We’re not doing this again.
I break our stare-off. “Look, I gotta go. Could you let me through, please?”
“No can do,” he says immediately. “Not until you tell me what you’re doing here tonight.”
“No can do,” I echo, which brings out his husky chuckle.
The sound of his laughter is so familiar that it makes my hands shake. This is why I’ve avoided Vermont for so many years. Now I’ll have the sound of Benito’s laugh—and an updated image of his devastating face—in my head when I go back to New York on Monday.
Flipping Benito. I wish I’d never met him.
“Skye—are you here to meet your stepsister?”
My eyes fly to his. “Why? Have you seen her tonight?”
I brace myself for another devastating grin, but his face is serious now. “No, honey. Did you?”
The way honey sounds on his tongue makes it difficult for the rest of his words to penetrate. “Um, no? But if you move your surprisingly large, tank-like self, I could go outside and try to find her.”
And wouldn’t you know? That’s when he flashes me the blinding smile, and no grade of armor is strong enough to withstand it. I feel my knees loosen as his broad, kissable mouth quirks, his chin cleft barely visible beneath the scruff of his proto-beard. “My ‘surprisingly large, tank-like self’?”
Ack! “It’s… You’re…in my way,” I stammer, giving his shoulder a shove. But it’s like trying to move a wall. Smooth, Skye.
To my surprise, Benito slides his rocking bod out of the booth and stands, allowing me to slip past him. My heart gives one last lurch at the idea that I am actually about to walk away from him. “Thanks,” I whisper, clearing the booth of my duffel bag, and heading for the door.
Don’t look back, I order myself as I dodge bar patrons. The place is really filling up now. It’s hard to make a sweeping escape when there are happy beer drinkers in your way. “Hey!” a man says, stopping me. “It’s you.”
I blink up at him for a second. But it’s nobody from high school that I recognize. “Hi?”
“Nice penis,” he says. “Top notch.”
“Thank you,” I say stiffly, because it’s quicker than punching him. Then I dodge to the side and keep going. The door is in my sights. Don’t look back, I remind myself again. A few more steps and I’ll be gone, with nothing but a racing pulse and a bunch of regrets to remind me of Benito. Don’t look back.
But I am weak.
Slowing my pace, I look over my shoulder to capture one final memory of Benito Rossi. It doesn’t work. Something warm and hard collides with my back. And the scent of pine overtakes me even as I begin to pitch forward.
A strong arm curls around my waist, keeping me upright. “Careful, Skye,” his voice rumbles in my ear. The arm supporting me is surprisingly strong. I hold my breath for a split second. But then Benito releases me. He steps around me, opens the door and holds it open.
Seriously? He can’t even allow me a clean getaway?
What. A. Jerk.
I step outside. The cool evening air is a blessing, because I need my wits about me. I have to find Rayanne’s place and see if I can make contact with her. With a deep, cleansing breath, I step across the parking lot.
Footsteps fall in behind me.
I walk faster.
So does he. Benito is following me, and I’m not going to take it lightly. “This is bullshizzle!” I say, whirling around.
“What was that, honey?” Benito asks. He crosses those muscular arms in front of his chest and frowns at me.
“I’m going to kill Rayanne. She’s going straight to helipad. And you’re next.”
Benito’s forehead crinkles. “You’re not making a lot of sense, Skye. What’s with the gibberish?”
“You can’t curse on TV!” I squeak. I’m starting to panic. My stepsister has left me here, in my least favorite town on earth, with nothing but a spooky note and a random phone. She might be in trouble, but she might be pulling my chain. “You can’t swear on TV. So I never swear. Not even when my nut of a sister ditches me in Colebury flipping Vermont with nothing but a phone, a change of clothes and forty dollars.”
I’m so over this.
Benito’s voice is soft and low, the way you’d speak to a crazy person. “And you think you might be on TV?” He steps up to me and puts a hand on my shoulder, the way you might do with a crazy person.
“Well, sure! Every day,” I babble, because I’m getting a contact high off Benito’s nearness. “Except this week, because I accidentally drew a penis.”
“Come again?”
And now I’ve gotten too far off topic. I wiggle out of Benito’s grasp. “Let me go, so I can hunt down Rayanne and kill her.” My sister’s place is only a half mile up this road. I can walk it.
“Not so fast,” Benito says. All traces of humor are gone from his face. “Does Rayanne call you Raffie by any chance?”
“Yes?” That tingle is back along my spine. “Why would you ask me that? And how would you know?”
His lips press into a thin line before he asks me another question. “What does Raffie stand for?”
I roll my eyes like a teenager. “God, Benito! It stands for giraffe, okay? It’s another tall-girl joke, because there aren’t enough of those in my flipping life. Now move.” I give his big chest a shove. And since the thirty-year-old edition of Benito is made from cinderblocks, he doesn’t budge. But I dodge to the left and gain my freedom. Turning tail, I take off across the gravel parking lot and cross the street beyond.
Six
October, Twelve Years Ago
As Skye’s year in Vermont wears on, avoiding Jimmy Gage becomes her new after-school hobby.
Luckily, it’s football season and he’s often too invested in the games to pay attention to her, and she’s able to tiptoe into her little room, lock the door, and succeed at being forgotten. And some nights Skye is busy babysitting for the Carreras in trailer Number Two. She avoids Gage and earns ten bucks at the same time. It’s perfect.
Other times? She’s not so lucky.
Like tonight. Skye is distracted. She’s leaning out her bedroom window, chatting with Mrs. Rossi. Benito’s mom wears an apron, like a mom out of picture books.
“Is something the matter?” Skye asks, wondering why the woman is kneeling with a flashlight behind the trailer. “Did you lose something?”
“No
, honey! I’m picking sage leaves. These and the chives are still good until winter,” she tells Skye. “You should come over for dinner this weekend. Sunday, maybe? My boys should be home.”
This is such a lovely idea that Skye is too busy thanking her for the invitation to hear Jimmy Gage come into the house. When she hears his chuckle, it’s too late. He’s already standing in her open bedroom doorway.
Skye bangs her neck against the window frame, trying to right herself quickly.
“Talking to your boyfriend?” he asks. He has a bottle of whiskey in his hand, and from the sound of things, he’s already half in the bag.
She lives with a cop who drives drunk. This is why a sweet girl of sixteen is also one of the more cynical people on Earth. She notices things. And yet she is powerless to change them.
“No,” she says slowly. “Mrs. Rossi is outside.”
He snorts. “Nice try. Which one gets to fuck you? The one with the motorcycle? Or the one who drives the taxi?”
Skye fights off a shiver but says nothing. She’s doing the math on how to get a drunk cop out of her doorway.
“You let ‘em take turns? I bet you do. You’re a dirty girl, ain’t you?”
Dirty girl. No, she isn’t. But there’s no way to prove it. There will never be a way.
“Mom left you a meatball sandwich,” she says. “I’m supposed to heat it up for you.” Her mother doesn’t cook, but sometimes she brings home food from the diner. Skye enjoyed her portion earlier, but suddenly it’s congealing in her stomach.
“Well. Get on that, then.” He chuckles.
She waits.
He slowly moves out of the way and goes into the living room.
With shaking hands, Skye microwaves the remaining meatballs and then arranges them in a hoagie bun. She wishes she could somehow slip him that drug that knocks you out for the night. But that’s just a fantasy born from something she saw on TV once.
This little daydream distracts her, though, and that’s an error. Gage comes up behind her, and Skye tenses. And when he puts his hand on her butt, she goes completely cold.
