CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
WEST
“YOU HAVE LIPSTICK ON YOUR FACE,” FORD DEADPANS FROM THE DRIVER’S seat beside me.
I flip down the sun visor and slide the mirror open. Sure enough, there’s a perfect red lip imprint of Skylar Stone’s plush mouth on my cheek.
For a moment, I’m thrown back into the feel of her pressing up against me. The way her hand flattened against my chest tentatively.
When she kissed me behind the barn, it felt desperate. Like she was looking for something to make herself feel better, and I was the closest thing within reach.
But tonight, she stared me down. Feline eyes. Confident smirk. I tried not to be a creep and gawk at her, but it was hard to miss the swell of her breasts pushed up over the tight fucking outfit she was wearing.
But if she were a suspect in a crime, I’d never be able to give the cops any clothing details for a sketch.
I’d only be able to tell them about her eyes.
I flick the visor shut and settle back.
“You’re not gonna wipe it off?”
I shrug and toss my best friend a wink as he maneuvers us out onto the highway to Rose Valley Alley, the old bowling alley outside of town. An absolute dive and one of the original businesses in this valley. A locals-only watering hole with a bowling alley set along the back wall.
A real relic.
“Who put it there?”
I shrug again. He’ll work with Skylar, and I don’t want to make anything weird for her by spilling things.
The smart motherfucker figures it out anyway.
“Ugh. Are you being a weird fanboy right now?”
“I’m not a weird fanboy. We’re friends.”
“You look like a teenage girl who got kissed by a Jonas brother. Are you going to swoon? Not wash your face for a week?”
“Get outta here.” I glance out the window, trying not to laugh.
Ford is a mouthy prick, though. He doesn’t let up. “You gonna touch your cheek and make out with your hand later?”
I punch him playfully this time, laughing while cussing him out. “Fuck you, man.”
“I bet you’ll actually use your hand to —”
“Choose your next words carefully.” I give him a warning glare, and he
just laughs.
“Oh boy.”
“You oh boy.” I volley back stupidly with a chuckle as I scrub at the mark. Secretly a little sad to part with proof of Skylar marching up and kissing me. It was far too easy to imagine that being the norm.
I am being a weird fanboy.
“Does she know you’re obsessed with her?”
“I’m not obsessed with her.”
Only a little bit.
“You’re a fan. I told Rosie, you and little West would be too excited to handle her living on your property. I just can’t make Bash build the guesthouse any faster when he’s constantly called out to fires, or I’d stop torturing you.”
Is it bad I’m wishing for more forest fires?
“I’m not a fan. Emmy is a fan, and I take an interest in all the things my daughter likes. And he’s not little West. He’s big West.”
Ford’s head turns to me at the red light, and he looks at me like I’m the biggest idiot he’s ever seen. It’s possible that I am. He’s seen me do some dumb shit in our almost two decades of friendship.
“Does she know you have her episode of SNL saved as a favorite on
YouTube?”
“It’s a funny episode.”
“What’s your favorite skit?”
Silence descends because I don’t fucking know. I don’t watch the skits.
Ford bursts out laughing, and I can’t contain myself either. I cover my
eyes with the heels of my hands. “Whatever. Just drop it. I’m trying to be cool, and you’re not helping.”
“Okay, next time I’ll get Rosie to kiss my cheek with lipstick and we can
show up matching.”
“Gross, dude. That’s my sister.”
“I said my cheek, not my —”
“Just drive.”
“Why do you suck so much tonight?” Bash grumbles from over the lip of his pint glass as I slither back to our seats from another gutter-ball performance.
He doesn’t make eye contact with me, but disappointment wafts from him. That’s nothing new for Bash, though. He always seems slightly disappointed—it’s part of his grouchy persona.
“Because he can’t see past the hearts in his eyes,” Ford murmurs, sliding in next to me with a fresh beer in hand.
“Hey, I’m not as bad as Rhys.” I point at the huge man beside him.
He’s new to the team. Showed up a month ago and is only here intermittently.
When he is here, he doesn’t say much about anything.
He and Bash side by side are like two of the seven dwarves—Grumpy and Broody.
“No one is as bad as Rhys,” Bash comments as he rolls his eyes.
Rhys turns to give the older man a dry look. Bash isn’t the least bit intimidated, though plenty of people would be. “You’re lucky I show up at all, considering I don’t actually live here.”
“To be fair, you only show up occasionally,” Ford points out, ever the stickler for details.
“Where do you live?” I ask, always snooping for more.
“Florida.”
My head quirks. “Florida?”
Rhys shrugs. “Thinking of moving to town more permanently. So that might change.”
We all stare at the man of few words, hoping he might share a few more.
“What brought that about?”
Now it’s my turn to get Rhys’s signature dry look. “Like the bowling team.”
“What did you say your kid’s name is again?” I ask.
“I didn’t.”
The guy’s a fucking enigma, so I try another strategy to get even a crumb of information. “Does Tabitha know you’re moving here?”
We all know there’s something up with him and Tabitha, the owner of the Bighorn Bistro—but not in a good way. In fact, they seem to despise each other. Not that he ever says anything about her.
He swallows and a muscle in his jaw pops. “Yep.”
“Well, that should be entertaining at the very least,” Bash mutters,
sipping his beer again.
“But she hates you?” I prod.
Based on the way she marched him into Rose Hill Reach mere weeks ago and shoved him at us like she was taking out the trash, I feel like I already
know the answer.
“Seems to,” he confirms.
“You ever gonna tell us what the deal is with you two?” I rock back on my feet, eager to know. Tabitha and Rosie played on the same volleyball team growing up, so I know her well enough to be concerned.
Rhys ignores me, then he unfolds his massive frame from his seat and announces, “My turn,” before shoving past without addressing my question.
“You’re a snoopy little bitch, you know that?” Ford mumbles, taking his turn to punch me on the shoulder.
“I thought you and your obsession with privacy was one of a kind, but that guy has you beat. I don’t even know where he lives when he’s in town.
Crazy Clyde is crazy, but at least he had entertaining conspiracy theories to tell us.”
Bash rolls his eyes. “Go visit him in the hospital like I do. He still has plenty of those.”
“You guys need to leave Rhys alone,” Ford cuts in. “Just let the man bowl.”
We all look over, and Rhys has thrown the ball so hard that it seems like he’s trying to knock out the entire back wall of the building. Instead, he throws such a bullet that it takes out the middle pin and nothing else.
That douchebag, Too Tall—our mortal bowling enemy—shoots me a
mocking grin from his lane. I know him from high school but can’t for the life of me remember his real name since he only introduces himself by his nickname now.
I’m glad we’re not playing him tonight because there’s nothing worse than losing to Stretch—as Ford jokingly calls him. And although this league is supposed to be a fun dads’ night out, I’m competitive enough to hate
losing.
Still, Ford isn’t entirely wrong.
My head is not in the game.