I’ll have to make sure it’s still operable.
Just in case.
Dear ??
Um. So I don’t even know your name. But…thank you? I think. It was nice of you to send the card and wish me a happy birthday, but I feel compelled to remind you that I am eighteen, not eight. A card with a kitten on it is just…weird.
I graduated from high school today. Everyone keeps telling me it’s such a big deal. That I should be excited. That this is the beginning of everything—oh, the places you’ll go!
But I stood there in that stupid cap and gown, and all I could think about were the two empty chairs in the auditorium.
No one clapping for me. No one crying happy tears. I mean, technically Cal, my guardian, was there, but stuff like this is no big deal to him. He’s so…unmoved.
So if you knew my father, you’ll understand why I don’t really care that you wrote.
You’re late.
—Reva
CHAPTER THREE
REVA
Dinner and dancing,he said.
And then.
Theand thendoesn’t worry me as much as the dinner and dancing. I haven’t been on a date in years, and my date wardrobe dwindled as a result. I certainly didn’t pack for date nights when I was throwing everything I could fit into a duffel bag.
Standing at the foot of the hotel bed with a towel wrapped around me, I survey my options.
There are several pairs of jeans, one sundress better suited to July than November, a stockpile of tee shirts, three sweaters, four pairs of lightweight joggers, a variety of leggings, and an assortment of hoodies.
Jeans, it is.
I pull a tee shirt randomly from the stack, shrug when it turns out to be a sleeveless Beatles number, and then, ina nod to the potential ofand then, grab a lacy black bra and matching cheeky panty.
I’m not too worried about what Shiloh will think as I finish pulling my Docs on, stick my license, room card, and some money in the back pocket of my jeans, and leave. My legs—and other regions—are shaved, my face at least has a modicum of make-up, and my hair is half-way done, piled up on my head in the messy bun that most guys seem to think is sexy.
Take me as I am, or you don’t get me at all.
Shiloh waits in the lobby as promised, holding up a column near the door. He’s scrolling his phone but his fingers stop as I step off the elevator and he watches with open hunger as I cross the floor to him.
“Hi,” I say when I draw near, his scent wrapping me in smoky arms.
“Hey, Yank,” he returns. “We going to dinner or a biker convention?” Without waiting for an answer, he palms my hand and tugs me toward the door.
My cheeks warm, and I lift my chin. “I didn’t bring a lot with me, sorry.”
“Not complaining. You’re hot as fuck, and I think you know it. You never did tell me what you’re doing down here.”
“I’m passing through on my way to New Orleans, like I told you.”
“Yeah?” Shiloh opens the door to the truck for me and hands me up into the seat. My stomach flips at the courtly gesture.
I could get used to this.
“Whatcha going to do in New Orleans? Work, play…?”
