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Chapter 1
Present
I pull my arm back and smash my fist into the side of the truck bed.
Wow. That went so much worse than I had anticipated.
I yank my hand back before it can become impaled, clutching it to my chest, and I stare horror-stricken at the truck.
Instead of getting onto my bike and riding home, I’m standing in the centre of Phoenix Falls’ town square in a piss-pouring thunderstorm, the college-prep books that I just borrowed from the library tucked safely into my tote (and, therein, tucked safely inside of a water-proof carrier bag), because some asshole has parked their truck directly in front of my bike, blocking me in so that I can’t escape the ever-growing crowd beginning to infiltrate into the town’s diner.
It’s dark, my glasses are smudged, and I failed to realise that this truck is a thousand years old. The panels are peeling metal in small exploding sections. I don’t even want to look at my hand. I glance at it anyway and gag a little.
That looks like alotof blood. Even though I pulled back quickly I can feel sharp stings all over my fingers and knuckles. I’m going to need to run my hand under a cold tap for the next ten years.
“Are you okay?”
I startle and whip around upon hearing the voice, but the sharp subsequent waft of air awakens my injury anew. I hiss and frown down at my hand, my black hood shielding my face from the rain.
“Shit, is that blood? You want me to drive you to the hospital?”
Something about his tone stirs like honey in the bottom of my stomach and I feel a slow trickle of lava begin to course through my bloodstream.
Deep and husky.
Concerned.
Familiar.
I look up, allowing the rain to finally lash against my skin as my hood falls backwards, and I suck in a quick sharp breath.
Not only am I about to lose my hand, I’m going to have an aneurism.
Streaks of water are gushing down his tan cheekbones and his hair is plastered, dark and tousled, to his forehead. Rain is running over his lips in a way that feels explicit.
And his eyes are on mine.
“Riv… River?”
Eyes. Lips. Eyes. Lips. His gaze flicks between them like he can’t choose which deserves his attention more.
I stumble one step backwards, puddle water spitting up my calves, and it snaps him out of his reverie.
Good. He doesn’t get to daydream about me anymore.
Tate. Coleson.
The best friend that I ever had.
Who then became theworstfriend that I ever had.
He squares his shoulders and his voice becomes stiff and strained. “River. If you would like I can take you to the hospital, and we can go and get your hand checked.”
If I would like.What a concept. It’s a bit too late for that now, isn’t it Tate?
“It’s fine,” I snap, even though by this point an at-home amputation is likely. His shoulders flex when he hears my voice and he moves like a shudder just ran down his spine.
“River, please.” His voice is so much deeper than it used to be, and his body has doubled in size. He was always tall, but now I’m snapping my neck just to get a look at him. I wonder if I could wrap my hands fully around the thick base of his throat. “What happened here?” he asks, eyes lingering momentarily on my mouth, before they drop back down to my hand. “What were you doing?”
