Page 2 of Dirty Zone

Panic fills my throat as I’m flung over Maverick’s shoulder. My heart races a million miles an hour, no matter what my traitorous brain says. The stupid eighteen-year-old I left in Springfield, Illinois, has happy tears that Mav finally found me. But that’s not what happened. This is a cosmic fuck-you.

“Put me down! Don’t touch me,” I command in my sternest voice. The door behind me slams, and my feet hit the ground.

“I said don’t touch me,” I shout, and scramble away.

“You’re not”—Maverick’s eyes bulge—“afraid of me, are you?”

The answer to that question isn’t simple. He’s so different and still the same. The transformation from a skinny high school athlete to a grown man is complete with stubble under his chin and on his upper lip. He could never grow a beard, so he could be trying for facial hair or he forgot to shave. His dark eyebrows scrunch at me, covering the hurt in his hazel eyes as he waits for an answer.

We’re in an office with exercise equipment. This room definitely has a split personality. There’s more equipment, but the desk is surrounded by drawings and fabric.

I swallow, steadying my breath so I don’t betray how he gutted me the last time I heard his voice.

“You ghosted me,” he accuses angrily.

I fix my loose-fitting clothes and snort. “Of course. I should’ve known.” One thing that will never change is his inability to shoulder an ounce of blame.

“You left without a word. I checked missing persons and the morgue! Your family wasn’t helpful.” The last sentence is a whisper, choking him.

I stare, open-mouthed. He seriously can’t be that dense. The letters, the clues, it’s as if he never knew me.

The fact he never knew me hurts the worst. But no matter our past, I have to remember I’m in his friend’s house. Friends who regularly bench-press twice my weight.

He crosses his muscular arms over his chest, straining the button on his shirt.

Fuck. I’m a slut for his forearms. Stay strong, I remind myself. Between the visual and his familiar warm, earthy, and spicy scent, I’ll be lucky to leave with my dignity.

“You bailed on graduation night, and the next morning you were gone. Vanished.” He stomps his foot, but Mav’s a pissed-off teddy bear—cute as hell.

“So you didn’t get either of my notes?” I ask, assuming the worst, but not surprised.

“You left me a note?” His body sags as he leans against the wall in the office/gym.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get them,” I say truthfully.

“You changed your phone number!” His anger rises.

I bite the inside of my cheek, unsure if this argument is worth it right now.

Fuck it.

“Mav, what was my dream?” I bet he can’t remember.

“To be together in Boston, but you left me.”

“That was your dream.” I cross my arms to mirror him and wait. I’d given up hope long ago, but him not remembering causes a phantom throbbing in my chest. It’s all been for nothing.

“W-w-what?” he sputters.

“That was your dream,” I repeat slowly. “What was mine? Before Decision Day, before Draft Day?”

A bewildered, hurt teddy bear is hard to stay mad at.

“You wanted to be a dancer, not a stripper,” he growls, and murders the sliver of hope that I had left.

“Screw you!” I storm toward the door, but he blocks it.

I’m going to murder my friend Lo, who guilt-tripped me into taking this job. This is why I don’t work in person. No one can get to me through a video camera.