More steps, more distance from the lights of Main Street, his feet crunching the dry road in a gritty, lopsided counterpoint to the moist, alive chorus of the Virginia night. Crunch, scrape, crunch, scrape, his limp all too apparent.
Crunch, scrape, crunch, scrape. Not a car in sight as he trudged on, stars above, bug noise all around him, almost electric in its continuity. Crickets. Goddamned crickets. Every once in a while, one of the creatures would surprise him, its voice popping out from the wall of sound, separating itself from this unholy hum.
How the hell did they know to sing that same damned note? Maybe it was the only one they could sing. One-hit wonders, all of them.
Crunch, scrape, crunch scrape.
Clay made it a game, to even out his steps against the pavement, drawing his knee as close to the other as possible, ignoring the sharper ache and shortening his stride until he made a crunch-crunch, crunch-crunch. Never quite perfect, but almost. Almost.
He focused on the road ahead of him, devoid of buildings and houses now, and blinked when he realized where he was, where he’d been going this whole time. Her street—the doctor’s—a tunnel of wilderness on both sides, with her place at the end, the glow of her windows already there.
A light at the end of the tunnel.
He almost turned around. Almost, but not really.
The rhythm of his soles changed, faltered, as he approached. He hesitated for a moment, nearly tripped. Should he knock? What would she do? She’d call the goddamned cops if she had any sense.
His steps stopped right across the street from her house, where the woods were thick and dark and loud as hell. As soon as he stilled there, the bugs took over, mosquitoes feasting on his skin, others buzzing around his ears. He ignored them, fixing his eyes on the lamp lit in her front window, the curtains drawn back, inviting his gaze farther inside. Didn’t she know? Didn’t she get how vulnerable she was alone in that house? Anyone could walk up and watch her, stalk her and—
Fuck. I’m the sick bastard doing it. I’m the person she should worry about.
But he knew that wasn’t true. Because he’d seen exactly how bad the world could be—for men, certainly—but even worse for women like her. For girls like his sister, Carly, who’d trusted the wrong guys, for the club hangers-on, those women who had no choice but to align themselves with fucked-up assholes who’d end up hurting them. And even for women like George Hadley, who saw the good in people, who worked so hard to spread her special brand of warmth. The world beyond the fuzzy, golden glow she’d surrounded herself with was a treacherous, stinking, dangerous place.
Clay was the last line of resistance between her and the hell that lay out there in the wilderness of real life. He’d be damned if he’d leave her to its mercy.
At least that’s what he told himself as he took raw comfort—comfort he needed more than anything right now—just knowing she was nearby.
* * *
Back in the living room, George made as if to go, but Jessie threw a you’ve gotta be kidding me look and held up the half-full bottle of wine. “Please don’t leave me to kill this by myself. I’m pathetic enough as it is.”
“You’re not pathetic.”
“Wanna bet?” One brow raised, Jessie poured out two full glasses and held hers up in a toast. “I just realized that I haven’t gotten laid in two years. How’s that for pathetic?”
George’s giggle stopped short. “Oh. I…” Her eyes lost focus as she tried to latch on to a memory.
“What?”
“I’ve got you beat,” George admitted.
“What? No way.”
“Yes, way.” Her eyes blurred over with tears. It was the wine. She really wasn’t used to drinking. “Haven’t in…” Another gulp, another swallow, a memory of the last time she’d done it. Done it wasn’t even the right word. It had been…a good-bye. “Almost a decade.”
Jessie spat out a mouthful of wine at that. “What the effing hell? Are you kidding me?”
George shook her head, embarrassed, teary-eyed, but laughing nonetheless.
“You, George, are a born-again virgin. You realize that?”
“What?”
“Yeah. Oh man.” With a conspiratorial look over her shoulder, Jessie asked, “Should we, like, hire a pro or something? Just to get us out of our dry spells?”
After a fit of giggling that nearly ended in actual sobs, George leaned back, wiped her eyes, and hiccupped. Her breathing was shaky, and she tried hard to get it back. It was hilarious, really. Wasn’t it? Not having sex in that long and the born-again virgin thing—it was funny. But, for a few seconds, it was all too unbearably sad to laugh at. So sad that she had to fight back the tears and force a tight smile.
“We really have to do something about this, though. You do get that, right, George? Find you a man and…” She sat up straight and wiped the grin off her face. “Are you, like, a lesbian or something?” One hand out. “That’s okay too. I mean—”
