Page 44 of Synced to Us

Wyn’s hip digs against mine. His tree-trunk thigh fuses into my bare skin of my leg. And as soon as the truck moves, his side presses in, squishing my boob.

Wyn snaps back, his arm lifting from the headrest. “Shit—my bad.”

I’m about to tell him it’s fine but catch Brad’s inquisitive gaze and furrowed brow in the rearview mirror. “Why not cop a feel back there?” he says in that grating, smartass tone. “It’s what I designed it for. And how I knocked Lucy up with twins. Remember, babe?”

Suddenly, the backs of my bare thighs sticking to the leather bench has a whole new meaning.

“Ew, Brad,” Lucy says, playfully smacking him on the arm. “Let’s not.”

Brad laughs, but the way he glances at his arm, then at his wife, after she smacked him, isn’t lost on me.

I glance at Wyn to see if he noticed the flash of anger in Brad’s eyes, but he’s staring out the window at the passing trees. No streetlights frame our trip, nor have we reached any stoplights. Brad’s headlights and the blue-purple LED lights of the truck’s interior are the only source of illumination, giving everyone a hollowed-out, supernatural glow.

“I’m starting to wonder why we agreed to this,” I think I hear Wyn mumble.

I shift in my seat, and whisper near his ear, “Because the alternative is another sit-down dinner at your Ma’s?”

Wyn’s teeth come through the dark when he smiles. He turns in my direction, pieces of blond hair sweeping into his face and tickling his cheekbones as he gazes down at me.

My lips part. I can’t seem to take my eyes off this guy. Wyn is beautiful, tortured, humorous—a man with many faces. This one, the one I’m getting to know, with the open smile and soft eyes surrounded by his hard muscle exterior almost rivals the man from last night. The man curved over his piano and escaping into his dreams.

Damn it, I’m thrown by him.

He searches my eyes as the silence stretches between us. “What’s up?”

I hold his gaze for a few seconds longer. “I don’t care what your brother tries to make you believe. You’re a rock star, through and through.”

Wyn stares at me, unblinking. His eyes round at my statement.

“Music, anyone?” Brad asks from the front, and presses a bunch of buttons in the middle console, flipping through his saved stations. When he lands on—

“Bro! It’s one of your songs!” Brad cranks the volumes on one of Nocturne Court’s greatest hits, “Heartfall”. He yells over the blast of music, “Or should I say, one of your oldies!”

Tendons pop out from under the shadowed layers of Wyn’s jaw.

“This is the song that won you the Grammy?” I make it sound like a question, but we all know the answer.

At Brad’s scowl, I smirk, then find Wyn’s hand and squeeze. The tips of his fingers brush against my skin.

His eyes glitter in the shadows as they land on mine, and he squeezes back.

* * *

Dockside reminds me of my dive bar college days with McKenna. There’s a whole lot of wood paneling, men, and a strange disinfectant-beer smell lacing the bottle-necked interior.

Wyn pushes the nautical themed door open, his long arm grazing the top of my head. After Lucy follows behind me, Wyn releases the door and it smacks into Brad.

It’s memories in a room. If I squint hard enough, I can see McKenna in the corner, pretending to funnel beer while frat boys cheer her on and I ply them with shots. It was our tiny attempt at grifting. By getting the guys so loaded, they wouldn’t notice their missing money clips from their pockets, and we’d be set for the night.

Dockside, however, lacks the frat boys. Instead, older men in overalls, flannel, or faded tees occupy the bar stools while a few others play at the two pool tables in the back. There’s a faint fog of smoke swirling above our heads, but a no smoking sign hangs behind the bar. One couple closer to our age are at a high-top near the window, otherwise, the space itself is pretty sparse.

“Come on.” Lucy grabs my hand and guides me across the scratched, sticky flooring to one of the many vacant high-tops. “The boys’ll get our drinks.”

Lucy leads us to the next closest table to the window.

“Is this a typical Saturday night?” I ask, settling into the stool across from her.

“Oh, honey, no. Give it about twenty more minutes. The band’ll come on. The place gets pretty packed after that. It’s the most popular spot in Thicketville after hours.” Lucy rolls her eyes. “What am I saying? This must be such small potatoes to a city girl like you.”

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