Page 173 of Tar City
He’s already pulling bills from his wallet. He buys a yellow one and tucks it gently behind my ear.
“There,” he says softly.
I smile, but I’m fighting the urge to cringe.Girls are supposed to love this kind of thing, right? What the hell is wrong with me?
The music slows down, the singer’s voice getting all low and smooth. Lucas stands up and holds out his hand. “Do you have one more dance in you tonight?”
My calves are screaming, my toes are raw, and my body feels like it’s been put through a wringer, but this isn’t the stage, so I take his hand.
We move to the small open space near the band. Lucas puts a hand on my waist, the other in mine. His touch is careful, respectful. He doesn’t pull me in, he waits and I close the distance myself.
It’s all so… nice. The kind of moment that’s supposed to make a girl’s heart flutter. All I feel is a sick, tired annoyance, but I force myself to like it. This is what I should want, not rooftops and dirty alleys. Not rough hands and stolen kisses. This. Niceness. I push my hips a little closer and make myself dance.
I look up at him, and he leans in slowly, his lips brushing mine. They're soft and warm, but there's absolutely no fire, no shock, no feeling of falling. An ordinary kiss. A kiss that makes sense and bores me to tears.I let myself imagine what life would feel like if this was enough.
When I open my eyes, I blink, making sure I’m not losing my mind, because across the terrace, near the edge of the river, he’s there—Jax, standing in the dark watching me.
The band plays on and Lucas’s hand is still on my waist, but everything inside me goes wild because Jax is already turning, already walking away.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe, and Lucas pulls back. “What?”
“Gotta go.”
I slip out of his hold, kick off my heels, and run barefoot.
“Sisk—“ Lucas calls out, but I don’t stop.
I push through tables, dodging startled glances, running past the edge of the lights and into the long, dark stretch of sidewalk near the parking garage.
“Jax!” I shout, but he doesn’t stop. Pure rage flares inside me. “Don’t you dare walk away from me!” I scream, but then my right foot comes down on something sharp and I gasp, stumbling hard. “Shit?—”
I take another step and hiss, “Shit, shit, pitfire,” catching myself against the wall. I don’t know what makes him turn, but immediately he’s there.
“You’re bleeding,” he says.
“I’m fine,” I grit out, trying to put my foot down and refusing to wince.
He’s already kneeling, his hand closing around my ankle.
“What are you doing?” I snap, trying to pull my leg away.
He doesn’t look up at me. “Stop. Moving.” He lifts my foot. “There’s glass,” he says.
“Glass?”
“You ran barefoot.” It’s an accusation.
“You walked away.” I throw it back at him.
He brushes his thumb over the sole of my foot and I flinch, hating myself for it.
“Hold still.”
“Jax—”
“Hold. Still.”
The command in his voice shuts me down. He pulls a shard out with two fingers, a thin line of blood welling up behind it. It shouldn’t feel this intimate.
