Oaks’ gaze sharpens like he likes that.
I hate that too.
“I’m fine,” I say, breath coming too fast. “I’m just tired of this town acting like I committed a crime because I danced with a biker.”
Oaks’ mouth tilts faintly. “You didn’t murder someone.”
I stare at him. “No. All I did was dance with you.”
He holds my gaze.
Then his smile turns real for half a second, and it wrecks me worse than his anger ever could.
“I wasn’t sure you remembered,” he says again, softer.
My throat tightens. “I don’t really. Just bits and pieces.”
Elijah watches me like he can see the shift in my chest, the betrayal of my own body.
Oaks steps back half a pace, giving me space like he’s proving he can.
“Go on,” he says. “Drive.”
I swallow hard, nod once, and climb into my car.
My hands shake on the wheel.
In the mirror Elijah stands by the pump, watching Oaks like he wants to memorize him for later. Oaks stays still, eyes on my car, posture all control.
And when I pull out, I see his head turn just slightly, checking the road behind me.
Chapter 8
Brittany
At home, I get inside and lock the door, then lock it again like the second click can undo whatever’s been stalking me all week. The house is quiet in that way that makes your own breathing sound like somebody else’s. I leave the kitchen light on. I don’t even pretend I’m brave enough for dark tonight.
My keys go in the bowl by the door. My shoes stay on my feet until I’m halfway down the hall, then I kick them off like they offended me. The air smells like old pine cleaner and stale heat and my daddy’s aftershave still clinging to the bathroom mirror, a ghost of a man who’s never home when I need him.
I wash my face. I brush my teeth like scrubbing harder will scrub away being noticed. I change into a shirt that hangs on me like a tent, because it feels safer to disappear inside fabric.
I climb into bed with my phone on the pillow beside me, screen down, volume up, like it’ll save me if I’m smart enough to hear it.
I tell myself I’m fine.
I tell myself Oaks ain’t a thought I’m allowed to keep.
I tell myself Elijah’s clean hands and steady voice are the only thing in this county that makes sense.
But the second I close my eyes, the gas station lights come back. The hum. The heat. The way Oaks’ voice lands likea command even when he’s trying to make it sound like a suggestion. The way my body reacts before my pride can get a grip.
Sleep takes me ugly and fast, like I get dragged under instead of eased in.
And then I’m there.
Not in my bed.
In the Lockup.
