Page 89 of The Clinch
“Thank you.”
One of the guys shouts, “Give us a kiss!”
I tense. Part of me wants to shake my head. Part of me wants to lean into him and let everything else disappear.
Leo doesn’t give me time to decide. He turns, cutting off my protest with the smallest shift, and suddenly his lips are on my cheek, brushing the skin.
He’s not actually kissing me. It’s barely a touch.
But my body doesn’t care. Fire Island hits hard and fast. His hands on my hips. His mouth on mine.
I want more.
I slam that door shut immediately. I don’t get to replay it like it was something tender. It wasn’t.
It was unfinished.
His hand settles at the small of my back, thumb tracing one deliberate curve just under the hem of my shirt, lighting me up.
I know this is for the cameras. I know it’s calculated. I also know that if he wasn’t already pressed against me, I might actually sway.
“There,” he murmurs when he pulls back, voice barely audible. “Perfect.”
He guides me to the car, still shielding me. Controlled. Strategic. Fake as hell.
He finds a spot to park,kills the engine, and turns to look at me.
“I’ll wait by the gate. You go up. Text me when you’re done.”
It’s unfair, that offer—how he puts it in my hands like control is something he can give back. But him staying in the car feels wrong. Too far away. Too outside this.
“Come up.” My voice is thinner than I want it to be. “I want you to.”
He doesn’t need to be persuaded. “Okay.”
We get out. The humidity hits harder here, pressed between buildings. My tank top sticks to my back. My shorts cling to my thighs.
Leo falls into step beside me, close but not touching. It’s too hot for this much of him.
As we walk toward the entrance, my hands start shaking. I shove them into my pockets.
Every shadow could be Travis. Every footstep. Every figure in a doorway.
The street disappears. All I can track is entry points and movement.
Two weeks ago, I lived here. Walked this sidewalk alone. Now it feels like enemy territory.
“He’s not there,” Leo says quietly. “If he was, I’d see him.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“And even if he is, he won’t touch you. Because I’ll be there. And I’ll break him.”
“That’s very sweet, Brooklyn. Romantic, even. Might cross-stitch it on a pillow.”
“You get sarcastic when you’re scared.”
“And you go all murder-poetry when you’re worried,” I shoot back.
