“Send me the address. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”
nine
nisha
Let Me Feed And Water You
One Year Ago
Isquint as the road curves upward into the hills, turning into a stretch of dark asphalt with nothing but scant shrubs flanking both sides and the lights of L.A. glittering somewhere in the distance.
He’d sent me the address, along with a message saying,The road will be a little windy, but don’t fret.
Don’t fret?
Don’t. Fret.
My maps app practically had a panic attack getting here, and he says, “Don’t fret”?
I spot the small turnout ahead and slow down. The tires of my SUV crunch gravel as I pull up next to a sleek black Escalade I assume is his car, given the two familiar faces of the men from his security team loitering around it like they’re coming off the set ofMen in Black.
Both give me nods as I climb out of my car, wordlessly directing me toward a short wooden bridge that looks like it was built approximately five-point-two million years ago. The“guardrails” on this thing are frayed ropes that look like they’ll give out if a bird perches on them.
I lean forward, peering across the bridge for a sign of Patton before taking a tentative step. And if I die, I hope whoever recovers my body at least comments on my winged eyeliner technique, curved and pointed like a dagger.
Footsteps rustle on the other side, and a moment later, Patton emerges, smile stretched and those earthy eyes twinkling against the setting sun.
His gaze travels over the ribbed black tee that shows off my sleeve of tattoos, distressed black jeans tucked inside black combat boots, and my shoulder-length, stick-straight black hair waving in the breeze.
Patton drags his tongue over his bottom lip, slow and deliberate, and I don’t have to worry about whether I’m still his type. The desire in his expression says he’s still imagining me beneath him.
Moaning his name. Clawing at the sheets. Meeting him, thrust for thrust.
He’s the only one who’s ever made my body rev. The only one who’s ever held the keys.
I clear my throat, forcing away the memory. “Let me guess . . . you’ve been planning my murder for six years, and today’s my lucky day.”
He laughs, his voice low and rough, hitting me square in the chest. I’ll admit, it’s a sound I’ve been dying to hear. Not through his movies or his interviews. Not through the million videos I have of us on my phone from all those years ago. But in real life.
“Relax,” he says, striding across the suicide bridge like it’s the damn red carpet. He reaches for my hand, pulling me behind him like we haven’t just reunited after six years. Like I’m still his and this is all just normal. Like we didn’t just spend years missing our friendship or love.
I know I did.
A part of me, hardened by time and pride, wants to pull back and tell him that we don’t do this anymore. But the other part—the traitorous, hopeful, and a little slutty one—has always given in when it comes to him.
“I brought tacos,” he says while my eyes stay glued on our locked hands.
I take careful steps behind him, not daring to look down at the rocky creek a hundred feet below. I’m not scared of much, but there’s brave and there’s stupid. And right now, my one partially working brain cell is waving a red flag.
Patton turns to look over his shoulder at me. “Plus, if I wanted to kill you, this would be too cliché. I mean, give me more credit than that. I’d be way more creative.”
“Well, that’s refreshing to know.”
“I’d probably come over to your house and fuck up your color-coded closet, stab your seasonal throw pillows, and rip pages out of your neatly stacked magazines.”
I gasp. “So you’d kill me by giving me a heart attack. You’re a monster, Pierce.”
He chuckles again, and I remember how easily we used to make each other laugh.
