cigarettes. So no one would . . . oh, God, Hawkins, I am so sorry.”
Well, now she was starting to hit nerves, and fuck Margot, whoever the hell she was. He could just imagine what the girl had told Bad Luck he could buy with cigarettes. You couldn’t buy a goddamn thing with cigarettes, not on the inside, not anything that counted.
“Y-you shouldn’t have ever even,” she said, not making much sense, but he understood her.
“I-I told them it wasn’t you. Not you.” She gave him a little shake, as if he were the one who needed convincing, and he was convinced, of her sincerity if nothing else. She looked miserable, beautiful but miserable, the tip of her nose turning pink, her lashes getting all stuck together with tears. “All the other boys. I told them, the knife, everything, about the knife and Jonathan, and how you saved me.”
And the boys had told the cops about his threat—instant Kiss of Death, but he didn’t hold it against her. He’d told the cops the same thing.
“I told my mother, too, how you’d saved me, b-but she didn’t care. She was so . . . so—”
And this was the part he really didn’t want to hear, the part about Linebacker Dekker, and how she’d thrown her weight around because she’d been so . . . so—pissed off, he figured. Shocked. Stunned. Outraged. The list was probably endless.
No, he didn’t want to hear it, but he didn’t stop it, either—and he could have, easily. But the conversation was starting to take on all the fascination of a train wreck.
“So . . .” Bad Luck said again, struggling to find the right word, as if she really, really wanted him to know how her mother had felt, but was being extra careful not to hurt his feelings.
How sweet,
he thought.
How utterly absurd
.
How utterly pressed against him she was, like a hot lamination.
“So—”
He took a breath, and wished
he
had a margarita, because he couldn’t take much more of this. She was crying seriously now, hiccupping between words, the tears spilling onto her cheeks, smudging her mascara and giving her a slightly bruised and helpless, damsel-in-distress look that he seemed particularly susceptible to, the way other men were susceptible to the plague, or dengue fever.
“So . . . so . . .” Her brow furrowed, her straight little eyebrows bunching toward each other.
Okay, great. She’d lost her train of thought and was now stuck like a broken record. A nicer man would have helped her out.
Hawkins was not a nice man. He helped himself.
Bringing his hands up to her face, he smoothed his thumbs across her cheeks and wiped away her tears, and the next time she said “So . . . so . . .” in her softly confused voice, her gaze imploring him to understand, he leaned down and kissed her, opened his mouth over hers and took the zero-to-sixty-in-0.5-seconds-flat trip down memory lane.
It was a helluva ride. Her breasts cushioned against his chest, her soft skin beneath his fingers, her mouth opening for him, letting him inside—and the sound of instantaneous surrender she made in the back of her throat that went through him with all the galvanizing force of a Top Fuel dragster on ninety-percent nitro. He felt the heat of her mouth all the way down to his groin, turning him on, stirring him up, when he had no business getting stirred by her at all.
But, God, she was sweet, the taste of her damnably erotic, a little
mezcal,
a little salt from her tears, and all Bad Luck.
He opened his mouth wider and shifted angles, so he could have more of her—more access, more of her tongue in his mouth, because it drove him crazy in the most exquisite way. She melted against him, opening herself even more to the kiss. It was such a tease of what he really wanted: more
her
.
And what a damn god-awful thing it was to find that out. He’d wondered what it would be like to kiss her again. He’d been wondering ever since he’d first set eyes on her at the Botanic Gardens, and now he knew—incredible,
Well, now she was starting to hit nerves, and fuck Margot, whoever the hell she was. He could just imagine what the girl had told Bad Luck he could buy with cigarettes. You couldn’t buy a goddamn thing with cigarettes, not on the inside, not anything that counted.
“Y-you shouldn’t have ever even,” she said, not making much sense, but he understood her.
“I-I told them it wasn’t you. Not you.” She gave him a little shake, as if he were the one who needed convincing, and he was convinced, of her sincerity if nothing else. She looked miserable, beautiful but miserable, the tip of her nose turning pink, her lashes getting all stuck together with tears. “All the other boys. I told them, the knife, everything, about the knife and Jonathan, and how you saved me.”
And the boys had told the cops about his threat—instant Kiss of Death, but he didn’t hold it against her. He’d told the cops the same thing.
“I told my mother, too, how you’d saved me, b-but she didn’t care. She was so . . . so—”
And this was the part he really didn’t want to hear, the part about Linebacker Dekker, and how she’d thrown her weight around because she’d been so . . . so—pissed off, he figured. Shocked. Stunned. Outraged. The list was probably endless.
No, he didn’t want to hear it, but he didn’t stop it, either—and he could have, easily. But the conversation was starting to take on all the fascination of a train wreck.
“So . . .” Bad Luck said again, struggling to find the right word, as if she really, really wanted him to know how her mother had felt, but was being extra careful not to hurt his feelings.
How sweet,
he thought.
How utterly absurd
.
How utterly pressed against him she was, like a hot lamination.
“So—”
He took a breath, and wished
he
had a margarita, because he couldn’t take much more of this. She was crying seriously now, hiccupping between words, the tears spilling onto her cheeks, smudging her mascara and giving her a slightly bruised and helpless, damsel-in-distress look that he seemed particularly susceptible to, the way other men were susceptible to the plague, or dengue fever.
“So . . . so . . .” Her brow furrowed, her straight little eyebrows bunching toward each other.
Okay, great. She’d lost her train of thought and was now stuck like a broken record. A nicer man would have helped her out.
Hawkins was not a nice man. He helped himself.
Bringing his hands up to her face, he smoothed his thumbs across her cheeks and wiped away her tears, and the next time she said “So . . . so . . .” in her softly confused voice, her gaze imploring him to understand, he leaned down and kissed her, opened his mouth over hers and took the zero-to-sixty-in-0.5-seconds-flat trip down memory lane.
It was a helluva ride. Her breasts cushioned against his chest, her soft skin beneath his fingers, her mouth opening for him, letting him inside—and the sound of instantaneous surrender she made in the back of her throat that went through him with all the galvanizing force of a Top Fuel dragster on ninety-percent nitro. He felt the heat of her mouth all the way down to his groin, turning him on, stirring him up, when he had no business getting stirred by her at all.
But, God, she was sweet, the taste of her damnably erotic, a little
mezcal,
a little salt from her tears, and all Bad Luck.
He opened his mouth wider and shifted angles, so he could have more of her—more access, more of her tongue in his mouth, because it drove him crazy in the most exquisite way. She melted against him, opening herself even more to the kiss. It was such a tease of what he really wanted: more
her
.
And what a damn god-awful thing it was to find that out. He’d wondered what it would be like to kiss her again. He’d been wondering ever since he’d first set eyes on her at the Botanic Gardens, and now he knew—incredible,
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