Page 23 of Deacon

7

Deacon

The memories came back to him in pieces, and every one of them felt like temptation.

First came the road, narrow and dark as it curved through trees pressing close on either side while the bike devoured the distance. Then summer filled his lungs, thick and green, the last heat of the day trapped in the dirt beneath them. Lila’s body rested warm against his back, her hands small but certain around his waist. They tightened whenever he took a turn too fast and loosened only after the bike straightened, leaving him aware of every place she touched him until his whole body felt stripped down to one exposed nerve.

He didn’t remember deciding to bring her here. Maybe that was the trouble. Some part of him had known all along where the night was headed and had finally grown tired of lying about it.

The lake was where he went when the noise in his head became too loud, when home felt like a trap and Wicker Falls held too many eyes. It was the closest thing he had to peace. Bringing Lila into it should have felt like a mistake.

Instead, it felt like the truth.

The trees opened without warning, and the world widened into moonlight and dark water. Jackson slowed when gravel replaced pavement beneath the tires, the familiar crunch cutting through the quiet. By the time he killed the engine, the night had settled around them. The music and laughter from the Morgan yard were gone, leaving crickets in the weeds and the lake washing steadily against the shore.

Neither of them moved at first. Then Lila loosened her arms and climbed off behind him, taking her warmth with her so suddenly that he felt the loss. Jackson swung off more slowly and turned to find her standing beside the bike, her hair tangled from the ride and moonlight silvering the loose strands around her face.

She looked different out here. Less like Matty’s little sister dressed for a family party and more like the woman he had spent too long refusing to see clearly. Something dangerous lived inside her quietness, something he should have run from years ago if he had ever truly intended to escape her.

Lila glanced toward the water before lifting one brow at him. “So this is the part where I’m supposed to ask if you always kidnap girls and bring them to remote locations?”

A smile tugged at his mouth. “Only the mouthy ones.”

“I knew it.”

“You got on the bike.”

She stepped closer, bringing the soft scent of her perfume beneath the damp earth and lake water. “You told me to.”

“That usually work on you?”

“Depends who’s asking.”

Jackson huffed a laugh and turned toward the lake because looking at her too long felt dangerous. The water stretched black beneath the moon, its surface broken by faint ripples. He had stood here during storms and hot afternoons, alone or with Matty, carrying a beer or a split lip and more anger than he knew where to put.

He had never stood here with Lila.

Her presence changed the place. Maybe it changed him.

She wandered toward the shoreline, her sandals whispering through the grass. “It’s pretty.”

Jackson watched her tip her face toward the water, moonlight tracing the pale line of her throat while the breeze brushed her dress against her legs. He remembered those same legs scraped raw when she was eight, furious because older boys had shoved her while Matty was home sick. He remembered wrapping her bleeding palm in a piece of his shirt and marching her home, already tied to her in ways he had been too young to understand.

The feeling had changed as she grew. Protectiveness had become something deeper once she was old enough for him to acknowledge it, and every year after that made keeping his distance require more effort. Now she stood before him at eighteen, all quiet nerve and green eyes that saw far more than anyone gave her credit for.

He should have answered her. He should have teased her and broken the tension before it sharpened.

Instead, he watched her with the hunger of a man staring at the last thing he intended to deny himself.

“Jackson?”

Her voice pulled him back. He blinked hard. “Yeah?”

She had turned halfway toward him, her arms folded loosely against the breeze. “You’re staring.”

His blood kicked once, hard. “You noticed.”

Color warmed her cheeks, but she held his gaze. “You weren’t exactly subtle.”