Page 21 of Sterling Stone

Only, her hand lies limp in mine, like I’m holding a dead fish.

What the hell?

I apply more pressure, almost refusing to let go until she looks at me, meets my eyes again.

Except she doesn’t. She blatantly refuses to look at me, instead glancing around me like I’m not standing here, holding her hand, squeezing, straining for her attention.

What am I missing?

“The name is Taxi,” she corrects her aunt in a bored tone, like she’s been forced to greet me, and doesn’t like the introduction. Like we’ve never met. Like she’s never seen me before and isn’t seeing me now.

Somewhere behind Taxi, Trudy scoffs, then chides, “Tallulah Alexander.”

Tallulah’s gaze flings back to me. “Nice to meet you.” The afterthought to her aunt’s scolding suggests she’d rather spit in my eye.

Taken aback, I blink as I stutter, “Yeah, nice to meet you.” The sound of my own voice is unrecognizable. Monotone. Flat.

Trudy chuckles. “You two have met, you just don’t remember.”

A breath catches in my throat, and I choke. Of course I remember. One does not forget kissing Tallulah Alexander. Taxi.

How does Trudy Wallace know we’ve met? Did Tallulah—Taxi—tell her about me? About us? And if Trudy knows, why is Taxi acting like it never happened?

“She was the one always running around the yard, causing chaos as a child, painting my shed a nifty shade of purple with green accents.” Trudy chuckles. “Never knew where she got the paint. Or the energy.”

“Aunt Trudy,” Taxi groans, her hand tightening in mine for a split second, holding on like she’s grounding herself.

I chuckle at the thought of her younger, wild spirit. Sun-kissed skin. Dark, flowing hair. Fierce energy. Totally unstoppable. That spunk she might have had as a child? I see it in her now and it makes her utterly magnetic.

So magnetic that I’m still holding her hand.

“Beautiful,” I whisper aloud, picturing it; her in her element, painting buildings, expressing her love of art.

Taxi drops my hand and slips her sunglasses back on her face to shield her eyes, but I don’t miss a tremor in them before she tucks them into the deep pockets of her bib overalls.

She glances around me once more, like I’m a door instead of a window.

“Heard there’s a baseball game. Are we going to play ball or what?” Her voice lifts, rising like when I met her in that Knoxville bar, and she practically shouted a name. Samson. The raised cadence is a distraction I instantly remember and recall how it led to a momentary game, only I’m not part of this new match.

Irritation takes over. An itch that demands to be scratched. Just what the fuck is she playing at here? Why is she acting so cold? What is she doing in Sterling Falls? And why, if I apparently know her, did I not recognize her in Knoxville?

“Oh, we’re going to play alright.”

Because dammit, I want to know where she’s been all this time. And more importantly, why I feel this visceral need to know more about her when she so clearly wants nothing to do with me.

I step aside and wave my arm, inviting her to step forward. The second she does, I step up behind her, as close as I can get.

“So, it’s Taxi?”

She doesn’t respond. Head high, hands in her pockets, she acts like I’m not a shadow at her back, trailing behind her, chasing her.

“Why are you here?” That itch for knowledge is darn near painful. “Or better yet, why are you acting like this?”

Without acknowledging me, Taxi walks right up to Clay, like she’s assigning herself a spot on his team.

Glancing at my brother, his eyes widen at her brazen approach. I’m certain he can read my face. A question that’s become a theme is blinking in his gaze like a neon light.

What the hell is going on?