Page 52 of Wanted

“Thanks, Bobby,” Jude says.

A hasty sip of my cold drink washes away some of my trepidation. If only I didn’t find him so confusing, I might be able to relax.

Jude nurses his beer, and a silence stretches between us. I think the ground opening up and swallowing me whole would be less awkward than sitting here floundering for something to say. If only I had a sketch pad and pencil, I could draw something to soothe my frazzled nerves.

I slip a napkin out of the plastic holder on the bar and begin to twist the weak paper in my hands. Once I’ve forced the flimsy material into a battered rose, I look up, only to catch Jude staring at me from the corner of his eye.

“You good?”

His quiet nature throws me off balance. “I’m a talker. A silence filler. The absence of conversation makes my skin feel too tight. It reminds me of quiet nights lying awake when I strained to hear the sound of my parents’ breathing to make sure they were still alive.”

His eyes widen, and his nostrils flare.

“I didn’t mean to say that.”

“I seem to remember you like to blabber when nervous.”

“I can’t help it. Silence is uncomfortable. That’s why therapists deploy the tactic to get their clients talking.”

“Have you been in therapy?” His question isn’t as invasive as it sounds. It feels like a natural progression in the conversation.

“No. Couldn’t afford it. Have you?”

Jude nods tightly, a quick affirmative bob of his head. “For a short time after I came to live with the Powells. Nancy required it.”

“I bet you could fill an entire session without saying a single word.”

His warm hand covers both of mine where I clutch the mangled napkin, and suddenly, I forget how to breathe.

“Relax.”

His fingers twitch where they conceal mine. I swear he brushes his pinky across the back of my knuckles.

Yeah, as if that helps things any.

“I think I’m going to run to the restroom before the food gets here.”

Jude sharply withdraws his hand as if he forgot we were still touching and gestures toward the back. “That way.”

His coarse tone abrades my skin, sending a delicious tingle up my spine. Something about a man with grit in his voice just seems to get me going. Not that I have much experience with getting going, at least outside of my fantasies.

I hop off my stool and roll my shoulders before crossing the room. The restaurant is familiar in a cozy way. I could name three bars in my hometown with a similar feel. The wall of liquor behind the rugged bartender who knows everyone’s names. The regulars, who act like their stool has been imprinted with their ass. A few booths and tables, a pool table or dart board. Some room to dance or sing karaoke. Dark wood, dim lighting, and an industrial ceiling complete the look.

The only thing that ever changes is who’s currently occupying the picture frames plastering the walls.

I swing open a heavy wooden door to reveal a single-occupant restroom and dart inside.

Hiding in the bathroom feels cliché so I make quick work and wash my hands. The few moments away offer a much-needed reprieve from Jude and his large presence and thoughtful glances and lingering silences.

For not the first time, I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into.

The upbeat dance music grows louder as I step back into the hall. I weave around two women waiting for the restroom. There are more people here than I realized. Jude and I occupy a relatively intimate corner of the bar. The tables behind us are full with patrons enjoying a Friday night out.

As my eyes adjust back to the dim bar lighting, I see someone I didn’t expect to see in this small town. Someone I definitely didn’t expect to see again so soon.

Dillon stands beside a four-top table, a sheet of paper fluttering in his hand as he talks. The muscles on either side of my neck tense at the mere sight of him, and a dull throb begins in my head.

He came back for me.

---