I’m not fucking special.
Chapter 10
BLAKE
I’M EATING A BOWL OF cereal at the counter when Wyatt enters the kitchen. I’m startled by his appearance, which is a drastic change from last night. He shaved this morning, and without the scruff I’ve grown accustomed to, he’s lost some of that dangerous edge. In his white T-shirt and khaki shorts, with his hair pushed away from his forehead, he looks more like one of the Golden Boys than his bad boy musician self.
I have a really good dick.
Heat suffuses my cheeks. I can still hear his low, seductive voice uttering those words. Promising how good he could fuck me.
“I don’t sleep much.”
I put down my spoon. “What?”
“It started around the beginning of high school,” he says gruffly. “The insomnia. Not sure why. Nothing really helps, not even sleeping pills.”
I wait for him to continue.
“I can usually get by with a few hours a night, but sometimes itturns me into a cranky asshole. That’s usually when I resort to alcohol to knock myself out.” His teeth work his bottom lip. “I don’t use it as a sleep crutch often—the booze, I mean. Only if it’s been, like, three or four days without sleep.”
“Three or four days without sleep?” I echo in disbelief. “Jesus, Wyatt. Have you seen a doctor for it?”
He nods. “A few. They’re the ones who prescribed the pills. But like I said, they don’t work. And I refuse to take anything stronger. I don’t want to rely on fucking tranquilizers.”
“No, I don’t blame you,” I say quietly. “I wouldn’t want to either.”
“I got drunk last night and was a total ass to you,” he says with visible regret. “And I’m sorry. I’m not making excuses for my behavior, I promise, but… I just wanted to sleep.”
Damn it. The vulnerability swimming in his gaze makes it so hard to stay pissed at him.
“Anyway,” he says, letting out a breath. “I feel like I’m constantly biting your head off, and I want you to know that’s going to stop. I’m sorry for what I said the other night about you wanting attention. I’m sorry I made you feel like there’s something wrong with you putting on a dress and going out.”
I slowly meet his eyes. They’re so earnest. “Apology accepted.”
He hesitates for a beat. “We’re friends, right?”
“Of course.”
“Okay. I’m going to start acting like it then.”
“No more snapping at me and dictating what to wear?”
“No, because you’re right. I’m not your dad or your babysitter. You should spend your summer however you want to spend it.”
“Thank you.” A smile tickles my lips. “But you don’t need to worry. Right now, my big plans for the summer mostly involve thelibrary. I’m heading there soon.” I get up and carry my bowl to the sink. “That is, if I can take the Jeep without you having a nervous breakdown?”
“I’ll do my best,” he says with a wink, and just like that, all the tension of the last few days melts away.
I’m in high spirits as I drive to the library, which I’m finding to be a treasure trove of information. The Spencers were right. Lake Tahoe has an interesting history, especially all the hauntings. I don’t believe in ghosts—I’m aneed to see it to believe itkind of girl—but I’m having a blast with the research. God, and the digital file I’m compiling on Darlie Gallagher and the mystery surrounding her death? It’s spectacular. Easy-to-find tabs, subject headings, an index, even a glossary. I impress myself sometimes.
I spend the next several days in the library, reading old articles and digging into the lake’s history. Today, Wyatt joins me again, disappearing into the arena while I do my research next door, and on the drive home, I regale him with everything I learned.
“Okay, so there’s actually no evidence that Darlie drowned. No news articles about a drowning. No death certificate for her. Or at least I haven’t found one yet. I put in a request with the county records office for it—”
“Seriously?” he interrupts, grinning at me. “You’re going to a lot of trouble here.”
“Not really. It was just one email,” I protest.
