‘I just …’ Her breath shuttles out as her body deflates, fingers finally slipping away from my arm.
‘Hey, you can tell me.’ I release one hand from the wheel and fold it around hers. I’m being way too greedy with touches tonight.
Cherry’s body stills, eyes locking onto where I’m harbouring her hand. The usual concern runs through my mind about whether I’ve pushed the boundaries between us, but then she twists her hand, soft skin sliding against my rough palms, and laces her fingers between mine. I’ve never noticed the gaps between my fingers before, yet suddenly, all the nerve endings in my hands are lit up, relishing howrightit feels to be connected to Cherry. How the bumps in our knuckles line up so perfectly, fingertips slotting into the ridges effortlessly. I have to ignore the way my body whispersmeant for me.
‘I have a key to Montana’s place but … I don’t wantto be alone tonight.’ As she admits this, Cherry’s gaze remains locked on our intertwined fingers.
Tentatively, her thumb rubs over the edges of the tattoos across the top of my wrist, exploring. It’s a tiny movement, inconsequential really, but to me, it’s goddamn brazen. Not even trying to hide the way she’s letting her searing touch wander, especially when she just told me she didn’t want to be alone … The words brand my mind as deeply as the warm pad of her thumb against my hand.
Because when you’ve wanted someone secretly for so long, everything they do – whether it’s just a glance, or a smile, or a quick touch –burns.
I shouldn’t read into it.
I should just insist I take her back to her parents.
But we’d have to drive past my place anyway. Plus, I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep knowing she’s been hurt tonight, and I’ve just left her alone. With no one there to make sure she’s safe. To make sure she sleeps soundly.
Wyatt would want me to look after her, right?
That’s why I drove all this way.
To protect her.
To keep Baby Hensley safe.
It takes me a few seconds to prepare mentally for what I’m about to suggest, all the while I give Cherry’s hand a tender squeeze, to remind her I’m here. Then, I ask, ‘Did you want to stay at mine?’
She doesn’t hesitate one second before saying, ‘Yes.’
15
Cherry
I’ve known Duke for almost all my life, and I’ve worked in the bar, which his apartment sits above, for over two years. Yet this is the first time I’ve ever been allowed up the stairs and through the front door.
For years I’ve tried to imagine what it was like inside. Which parts of his personality would manifest and where. Would it be full of smooth surfaces and muted colours, reserved and quiet like how he often presents himself to the world? Or would it be messy and collaged with colour, a testament to the true artist within him? A reflection of the emotion he never shares with us, perhaps.
The interior design student side of me would have a field day designing a home for Duke. Like how I’d make the apartment open-plan – modern and sleek like Duke’s fashion sense, but also easy to move around, ensuring his living experience matches his calm energy. Or how I’d design the sitting area as the focus of the space because Iknow how important being with friends and family is to him, even if it’s just to sit and listen to them talk.
And when I step inside, the realisation of just how deeply I know Duke hits me like a load of bricks, tumbling in my stomach.
Because his apartment is exactly as I would have designed.
A small kitchen lies at the other end of the open-plan apartment, one wooden-paned window behind it, moonlight shining through and reflecting off the sleek black countertops and breakfast bar. Slate-grey couches sit perpendicular to each other in the centre of the room, surrounding a dark wooden coffee table, and angled towards the large flat-screen television hanging on the wall. A lighter grey bean bag chair accompanies the couches, most likely the place Wolfman and Sawyer fight over to sit. Wooden flooring extends throughout the room, while retro art prints and paintings of motorcycles, mountains, and rodeos are strategically scattered across the cream walls. Canvases of complete and half-finished paintings are also wedged into any empty spaces, the talent and labour poured into them worthy of being far higher than where they’re currently stowed away.
I’ve gone and thrown myself straight into the deep end without anything to help me float. Because I’m in Duke Bennett’s goddamn apartment. A place that was once only ever a figment of my imagination.
I almost flinch when Duke decides to help me take his jacket off – I hadn’t realised how tightly I’d been grasping it, relishing the way his cypress scent soothed my frayed nerves. Neither of us have said anything sincewe parked up, all the events of tonight whirring through my mind.
How fiercely Duke embraced me in the diner, how tenderly he held my hand in the car – and don’t even get me started on the sincerity with which he called mebeautiful. That’s going to be etched into my memory forever. It’s hard not to read into any of that. Especially when I’ve never seen Duke show that level of emotion before. It was so palpable, I could almost taste it.
‘I’ll grab you a hoodie, something a bit more comfortable,’ Duke says as he finishes sliding his jacket off my shoulders. There’s a sudden hoarseness to his voice, like he’s been breathing heavily. ‘Make yourself at home.’
I wait until he heads off into what I assume is his bedroom. Rubbing a hand up and down my arm, I wander around the apartment, admiring the art more closely, and snooping as much as I can into the paintings he’s been working on. Usually, I only get a glimpse at his talent through napkin sketches.
What becomes glaringly obvious though as I saunter further inside is that Duke left in arush.There’s a half-full glass of something on the coffee table, a pizza box that’s still got two slices and a crust in it sitting beside the drink, and papers scattered across the surface. Even through the gap in the door to his bedroom, I can see him rushing to close drawers that had been left open, and tidy clothes from the floor.
Because he came to rescue me.
