THE NIGHT GALLOPED IN ON autumnal hooves, left its chill on the bridge of my nose as we climbed into darkness. Asheville lurked at our backs, eyed the four of us through the cloud of sage smoke rushing out the Forester’s open windows as we snaked toward our usual Parkway overlook. A smudge stick smoldered in the ashtray, and Sadie chattered away in the front seat; neither was potent enough to cleanse the car of tension. Grey’s mood had been set to low-grade bitch since the Samhain gathering.
Six days. An entire timeline built around my stepbrother’s shitty attitude, measured and marked in the regular pause of his footsteps outside my bedroom door. Nearly a solid week spent catching his eyes across every empty space, catching the heat off his skin when he stood too close—which was everywhere he stood, in every room of our house. So sudden, the way our world had turned to flame. So wrong, how I couldn’t help but let us burn.
Connor’s phone trilled in his pocket. He retrieved it and checked his texts, returned my smile across the gloom of the back seat—yet another empty space, this one flaring and sparking every time his eyes found mine.
Once we’d successfully dodged Sadie’s attempts to arrange a formal date, I’d expected our friendship status quo to continue unchanged. Not that I’d been up for anything more vigorous than hand-holding since our brief hello at the market—my period had shown up early, commandeered my body that very afternoon, right before the end of my shift. Grey had had no choice but to sack up and run the booth, migraine notwithstanding. In any case, after about eighty years spent drowning in the memory of my night with Connor, picking apart every possible thing he might say when I saw him next, I figured it was safest to assume the whole thing had been a one-off, that we’d checked each other off our respective lists and would never speak of it again.
After the worst of the vomiting had passed, I’d returned to the warehouse, prepared for business as usual: gossiping with Paul, working on our projects. Discussing yarn, and metal, and other art-based topics. I was not prepared for the tiny, monumental changes in our interactions—the anti-nausea lozenges that appeared in my project bag after that first day. The way I didn’t hesitate to apply my limited knowledge of acupressure to his work-tired hands, or the way he leaned against my shoulder as we sat side by side. And I really wasn’t prepared for the charge in the air; for the thrill of a simple glance; the press of his fingers on my hip bones as he massaged a cramp out of my lower back, thumbs slowly working the ache from my muscles, lips hovering a breath from my neck. The way he deliberately held back, turning every moment into a tease.
He hadn’t tried to take things further. We hadn’t even kissed.
It was maddening.
“Anyone I know?” I asked, nodding to the pileup of emoji-laden notifications on his screen.
“Paul, locking up on his way out of town. I’m on watch until Sunday night.”
“By yourself?”
“All alone.” He sent a reply and set his phone aside. “Unless you want to keep me company. Maybe pick up where we left off, if you’re feeling better.”
“Oh.” My teeth caught the edge of my grin as his hand found mine. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Open invitation, whenever you’re ready. Tonight. Tomorrow night.” He lifted our hands together, brushed his lips across my knuckles, leaving a warm glow on the back of my neck. “Any night you want.”
“We have to work tomorrow.”
Grey’s voice plucked me out of the moment, grating my nerves, piercing my heart. I met his glare in the rearview mirror, resenting the habitual double beat of my pulse.
“Whatever, Greyson. Eavesdrop much?”
“Just save the hookup shit for later, okay? I don’t need that in my car.”
It was a glitch in the already thrumming atmosphere. I held his gaze until he had to look away, let his words fuel my mounting anger. Sadie’s head turned slowly toward him, then back to the window. Her profile stalled in neutral, a wary question she didn’t want answered edging her reflection.
Connor, of course, had no such qualms. His laugh was a chemical burn, harsh and caustic. Sure to scar.
“This conversation is the most action this car has ever seen,” he scoffed, waving away a curl of sage smoke. “Which is not really surprising—it smells like Stove Top stuffing, for fuck’s sake.”
“Connor,” Sadie muttered, still frozen in place. “Be nice.”
“It’s just sad, is all—a rugged off-roader like this, and he still drives it like a little old lady. Won’t even let me ride on the roof.” He leaned between the front seats, aimed a smirk directly at Grey’s stony profile. “And we damn sure know he’s never even seen this back seat.”
Grey didn’t bother slowing—just fishtailed to the shoulder and slammed on the brakes. Practically hanged himself on the seat belt as he twisted to hiss in Connor’s face.
“You want action? Go on then, man. Get up there.”
Sadie’s gasp sucked away what little air was left in the car. Connor stared at him for a stunned split second, and then he was out the window and out of sight in a thump of boot soles on steel. A scuffle, a thud; then his voice reached down to us from above.
“Ready.”
“All right, then. Here we go.”
Grey’s low mutter, aimed at the steering column, snapped me out of my shock.
“Ready nothing, Greyson. Don’t you dare move this car an inch until he’s back inside it.”
“You think he’ll just climb down if I ask real nice, huh? Since when do I get a say in the shit he pulls? Since when does anyone?”
“Oh, stop it, both of you. This is ridiculous.” Sadie stuck her head out the window, aiming an impatient, mother-hen cluck at the roof. “Connor Hall, you come back inside here, right now.”
“Fuck off, Sadie!” Connor yelled. “Let’s go, Greyson. Show us what you got.”
The sun had set hours ago. The closest streetlight was miles behind us. The moon lurked on the far side of the mountain. We had the headlights, the dash lights, the faraway stars. Nothing more. Plenty by far to illuminate the teeth-grinding clench of Grey’s jaw.
“Fuck him. He wants to play?” He slammed a fist against the ceiling. “HOLD TIGHT, BITCH.”
Sadie’s shriek blew through the car and out the window as his foot hit the floor. The Forester’s back end swung out, rattling over branches and underbrush as we leaped off the shoulder and around the curve of the road, breakneck and sloppy, way too fast. Connor’s boots beat on the roof, spurring my stepbrother on in a flurry of profane rage and another answering ceiling punch. I’d seen flashes of Grey’s temper before, witnessed plenty of his sulks and snarls and assorted shitty moods, but I’d never seen him like this. His eyes were wide and furious in the rearview, face a twisted, fearsome blaze. He was a fucking stranger.
I pawed at my seat belt latch, shrugged off the strap, and leaned between the bucket seats, heart pounding, fingers numb.
“Grey, stop the car.”
Grey’s head turned toward me, so close his breath grazed my cheek—his gaze was a cut power line, live and lethal. It arced and sparked, zapped a current along the curve of my spine. Burst into flame as it locked with mine.
“How’s this for ‘action,’ huh? See? No hands.” He laughed off my panic, blocked my frantic grab for the wheel with one of his outstretched arms. “What? Everything’s cool here, Lane. He wanted a rush—he’s got one. You’ll thank me later, I’m sure.”
The Forester groaned around another curve, and I gave up on logic and on him. I scrambled across the back seat and pulled myself up and out the window. I braced my butt and thighs against the ledge and my legs against the door, clung to the roof rack as I slithered into open air.
Connor lay flat on his back, hands locked on one rack bar, feet planted against the other. Mouth stretched in a howl that broke and scattered and flew away. He ignored my shouts, my tugs on his jacket; he doubled his grip, drew breath, loosed another yell into the wind. I chickened out, withdrew back into the car as the tires left rubber around another turn.
Sadie was a silent cluster of nerves, shrinking against the passenger window. The rearview gleamed with the ugly curl of Grey’s mouth. His hands were back on the wheel, at least, but it didn’t matter. I was done with his bullshit passive aggression and his weird attempts to strong-arm my behavior—like he really expected me to seek his approval before getting laid. Like he had the right to even say a word.
I was so very, very done.
“How’s it going out there, Elaine? Is he having fun yet?”
“Pull over. Now.”
“Can’t. I am but a vessel—a cog in the machine.” He shook his head, steered us around another curve. “Talk to the puppet master, not the string.”
“Greyson, I swear to God—”
“Shut up, okay? This was his idea. He—FUCK.”
It came out of nowhere. Or, rather, it rose up over the lip of the mountain slope, leaped across the road, cantered past us, and continued up in an untouched flash of hooves and antlers. It missed us by less than a foot.
Grey jerked the wheel and the Forester obeyed, swerved left, squealed and shuddered. Slammed me hard into his seat, then pitched me onto the back seat floor, knocked the thoughts from my head and the wind from my lungs. Sadie’s scream blasted through the car, and I scrambled up in time to watch Connor slide down the windshield, roll sideways off the slope of the hood, and disappear.