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She thinks about it for a second then shakes her head. “Nothing bad.”
I’m not going to push her for now, but I will be putting a call in to the school. I’ve got to respect her boundaries while making sure that she’s safe. “All right,” I say. “Goodnight, sugar plum.”
“I love you, Dad.”
I hug her and give her a kiss on the forehead. “I love you too.” And then I get up, switch on her nightlight that casts constellations on her ceiling—she’s been obsessed with stars ever since she found Dad’s telescope when she was five—and head into the hall.
The minute I’ve shut the door, my thoughts turn to June again.
What is she doing back in Heatstroke? A wave of irritation moves through me hot and fast, and I force myself to dismiss it.
She’s not mine. I don’t get to look after her.
I enter my bedroom down the hall and switch on the lights. The window is open, letting in the warm night air, the smell of mesquite and fresh-cut grass, and the chirping of crickets. I grimace and tug my shirt over my head, dropping it onto the end of my bed.
My old guitar is gathering dust where I hung it on the wall.
I barely glance at it most days. It’s just another decoration, one that I avoid looking at or thinking about.
June is back.
I walk over to the black Gibson.
The memories are echoes of sound at first. Chords. The cheering of the audience. And then smells—sweat, booze, leather, straw—a mix that reminds me of anticipation. There’s a hint of perfume I don’t want to remember, the flicker of lights.
I lift a hand and strum my thumb over the strings, the sound moving through the room like a living thing. The guitar is out of tune.
I stare at it for a minute longer, my fingers moving at my side, and then I make myself stop, shaking my hand out.
I rub my palm over my chest hair, trying to rid myself of the feeling of the strings, and then rub my fingertips together, feeling for the calluses that I’ve had since I was a boy.
I turn toward the window and find June staring right back at me.
What the fuck?
June is in her old high school bedroom across from mine. Her gaze is fixed on me, those pink lips parted, her hand pressed against that delicate throat like she’s clutching her damn pearls.
I lift a hand in greeting.
June jolts on the spot, looks left and right, and then dives out of view.
I can’t help but laugh. This grown-ass woman dove out of sight because she saw me without a shirt? I’m not sure what it means, but I know that living next door to her is painful. So, what’s it going to be like, living under the same roof?
With my father in the state he’s in this year, I can’t have it any other way. If Jesse calls in the middle of the night for help, or Dad wrecks Ganny’s house, I have to be there to pick up the pieces. Day or night.
I turn off the light and sit on the edge of my bed, staring at her window.
It takes a minute for her to reappear, and when she does, she shuts her curtains and switches off the light without glancing my way.
Better that she does. If I could have June, I’d make her forget her own name. I’d make her scream and beg until her body was wrung out, until she was so exhausted from the pleasure I’d put her through that she couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t want anything else than what I’d given her.
I shut the curtains, then lay back in bed, and my hand fists my throbbing cock before my head hits the pillow.
Nine
JUNE
The minute Cashanswers the door at eight o’clock sharp, the memory of him half naked, standing in front of his bedroom window, nearly paralyzes me with need.
