Page 11 of Bend

“Phone.”

I blink once, thrown off for half a beat. “What?”

“Your phone, Draygon.”

I pull it from my pocket and place it in her palm without argument. Her fingers brush mine as she takes it, and that tiny bit of contact sends a fresh fucking jolt of arousal right to my cock. She types something in, then hands it back.

“There,” she says.

I glance down. Her name. A number.

Echo.

Before I can say anything, she grabs the front of my shirt, and kisses me.

It’s quick and hard. Just enough to reignite everything she just shut down.

Her lips press to mine, teeth catching slightly, and then she’s pulling away again before I can chase it.

I almost do. Shit it takes everything in me not to grab her and pull her back.

She turns to the door, unlocks it, and pauses just long enough to look over her shoulder, eyes sharp and mischievous.

“You better text me, Draygon.”

Then she’s gone. The door swings shut behind her, and I’m left standing in that dim bathroom, pulse still racing, jaw tight, and my body still very much reacting to the way she felt pressed up against me.

Hard.

Frustrated.

And grinning like a fucking idiot.

Chapter Three

Echo

The motel bed springs complain the second I shift my weight, like it’s offended I’m still here.

I’m sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, and my guitar is balanced against my thigh. The room smells faintly like old detergent and the typical Florida humidity.

The AC rattles loudly as it kicks in for what feels like the hundredth time today. The tacky outdated curtains hang crooked above the window.

I pick up the guitar, and pluck a chord, letting it ring, then pick through the progression again until it sounds like what I’m hearing in my head—something soft and aching with teeth underneath. I hum along, low at first, then louder when the melody settles into place. Words float up in pieces.

doorway… ghosted… salt on my tongue…

I scribble them in the margin of my notebook with the stubby pencil I found in the motel desk drawer. The page is already crowded with fragments—half-lines, crossed out phrases, a chorus idea circled three times like maybe I can bully it into becoming real if I stare hard enough.

Not fucking likely.

It’s been a few weeks since I arrived in Tampa.

Not long enough for this place to feel like home, but long enough that I know which gas station sells the good coffee and which one waters it down. Long enough that the bartender down the street stops asking for my ID because he’s already memorized my face.

My phone buzzes against the comforter.

I glance down, expecting another spam call or notification for yet another scam email I’m not going to fucking open.