A man like me didn’t get clean love. Not because I didn’t want it. Because wanting something clean didn’t make my hands clean enough to hold it.
Nate stood. “I’m getting more beers.”
“We have beers.”
“I’m getting emotional support beers.”
“Tell Callum you’re not getting drunk.”
“Tell Callum my frat persona has needs.”
“Nate.”
He grinned. “Bro.”
Then he walked off toward the bar, leaving me alone with the ocean, the sun, and all the things I was pretending not to feel.
I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes.
Big mistake.
The darkness behind my lids wasn’t dark for long.
It turned silver.
Moonlight over a graveyard.
A rusted fence.
Wildflowers trembling against stone.
Red paint smeared across Destiny’s hands.
Her voice shaking as she promised a dead woman she was going to write a better story.
Then her face tilted toward mine.
Her tears quiet.
Her mouth soft.
Her kiss tasting like salt, grief, and something terrifyingly close to fate.
Destiny.
Even her name was a warning.
That night at the grave, fate and Destiny had felt like the same damn thing.
I had kissed her once because I thought I could survive once.
I was wrong.
Once had followed me across the border. Once had sat beside me on the plane. Once had watched me shave my beard and put on sunglasses and pretend to be harmless. Once was out by the pool now, wrapped in a towel, healing in the Mexican sun while half of New Mexico sharpened knives behind her back.
That was the moment I had tied myself to her.
I knew it as sure as I knew the feel of a throttle under my palm and a gun tucked cold against my spine.
