“This, uh, meaning playing the guitar and letting out my emotions and…uh, that stuff.”Not “this” like you and me.“It’s the right move, yeah?”
She blinks. Is that disappointment I see in her face? “Yeah. Totally. Play another song? Pretty please?”
I hesitate. “You sure I shouldn’t be gettin’ you home? It’s late?—”
“You do know I live by myself and that I’m also twenty-four years old, right? My parents aren’t, like, waiting up for me or anything.”
Yeah, but how would they feel knowing you were out here alone with me while I was fantasizing about putting a baby in you?
Pretty sure Old Man Wallace would put a bullet inmeif he knew that. Wouldn’t blame him. Now if my intentions were good, that would be a different story.
I’m not sure they are, though.
Case in point: Before I know what I’m doing, I’m picking out a new song on the strings. Billie lets out a delighted trill of laughter.
“Yes!” She jumps to her feet. “Look, I love this song so much I’m gonna dance after only two shots of tequila.”
“Yeah!” by Usher was always a hit with the girls whenever I played it, even on an acoustic guitar. Guess some things never change.
I chuckle. “What a rebel.”
“Don’t stop.” She throws her arms over her head and starts to sway her hips. “I really will murder you if you do.”
“Noted.”
To be fair, it’s almost impossiblenotto dance to this song. But Billie—she’s a notoriously terrible dancer, and now that she’s got her bum arm, she’s even worse. She shakes her ass but not to the beat. Her left leg goes one way and the right goes the other, making her look like a stork who’s had too much to drink.
The best part? She knows she’s terrible and she doubles down, dropping into a half squat to twerk. Only she loses her balance and falls over, thankfully on her right side this time, and then we’re both laughing so hard we’re crying.
Seriously, my sides ache from how hard and how long I laugh.
“Stop,” I gasp. “I can’t—air—I need to breathe?—”
“Fuck you,” she manages. “I’m the one who fell.”
Setting aside my guitar, I get to my feet and grab her good hand. “No more of that, okay? You’ve given me enough scares to last a lifetime.”
She lets me help her up. Because I’m a masochist, I pull her a little too close. The wayshepulledmeclose earlier. I keep her hand in mine a little too long.
It just feels so fucking good to touch her. Be touchedbyher. The way she smells like fresh peaches, and how she only has eyes for me.
I can do no wrong in this moment, and that’s liberating in a way I can’t quite describe.
Now our joined hands are on my hip—who did that?—and her fingers tentatively explore the hem of my shirt. “Do I really do that? Scare people for no reason?”
I search her face while trying to clamp down a renewed wave of screaming need. “You’re thinking about your parents, aren’t you? And what they’d do if you quit tryin’ to please them and did what made you happy instead.”
She scoffs, looking away. “Not to put too fine a point on it.” After a beat, her eyes flick back to mine. “But what would I do? I think they’d be proud of me no matter what, I just…”
“Don’t want to disappoint anyone.”
Her fingers tighten around my hipbone. “I’ve always beenthatkid in our family. The one always running her mouth and causing trouble.”
“As the kid who never caused trouble, I’m telling you, trouble ain’t always a bad thing.”
Her eyes toggle between mine. “You think so?”
“Your family’s gonna be just fine if you quit doing that bookkeeping shit, Billie. Will they be disappointed at first? Probably. But they’ll find someone else. You know who’s not gonna be fine if you stay?” I tap the knuckle of my first finger against the spot where her collarbones meet. “You. And that’s who matters most. So make trouble, Billie. Hell, I’m trying to make more of it myself.”
