Page 39 of I Still Love You

I picture the mark it’s going to leave when he nips into me again. If there will be a violet bruise, a dash indented into my skin from his vicious bite. And then, he’s kissing me, pressing his lips into the same spot he just pricked.

The hand under my shirt creeps higher until his thumb brushes the edge of my bra. “You smell like an orange, lemon, and damn grapefruit twisted into one.” He practically growls out the words, his voice more profound than I’ve heard in years.

“I do?” I croak, on the verge of breaking from his touch. “Luke, I—”

His hand releases the neckline of my shirt, leaving my shoulder aching from the absence of his bites and caresses.

“Goddamn it.” He pulls away quickly, avoiding eye contact, and walks for the door as if his mouth wasn’t just bringing forth a hunger I haven’t felt in years. As if he didn’t enjoy himself.

No matter what our actions say about us, or the way I’ve read him, he leaves me questioning if what just happened is a ruse or if this is the last true time I’ll know what it’s like to have him touch me. Judging by the fact he didn’t look me in the eye before leaving tells me it’s the latter.

17

Luke

I don’t always think shit through. My time in Texas is a prime example of that.

Those moments in that research lab are further proof. Alarm bells rang—no, blared—in my head louder than an air horn up against my ear drum. My hands dashed to Layla’s waist when that lady was tripping, and it was only when I put my mouth on her that I understood the jeopardy I put myself in.

I’m angry at myself for not knowing how to mind my own, for not sticking to the plan, and for not staying focused after having dinner with her family. The way she stood in front of that mantle, her heart on her sleeve, made my chest cave in a way I’m still trying to process

I wasn’t there for her in the way she needed me. I only cared about what I wasn’t getting, what I was losing. I was a selfish asshole, and I should’ve tried harder, maybe even gone with her had she allowed me, but I can’t reverse time and change how it panned out.

Jett jabs his fist at my shoulder, and it knocks me back an inch. There’s a curious grin playing at his lips, and as much as I want to pop him back, I refrain. “What the fuck is up with you, bro?”

I blink once, twice, and look around. Stragglers filter out, moving between the privacy sections we have set up for each department in the field behind the hospital. It’s clinic day, and I’ll admit, my head hasn’t exactly been present. The dividers are tall, and while most people can’t see over them, a few of us can. I’ve been looking into Layla’s section discreetly from time to time, where she shows how to do the Heimlich Maneuver.

Rebecca’s been helping me show models of joints, but she excused herself five minutes ago to use the bathroom and grab us lunch. Surprisingly, the turnout has been better than we expected.

I flick my eyes to Jett, who showed up an hour ago to help, though I think he’s mostly here to kick back and sign autographs. “Nothing is up.” Since he’s arrived, whenever I finish the explanation of joint strength and yada, yada, yada, he opens his arms, beams that charming smile of his, and says, “Who wants an autograph?”

“The hell there isn’t.” Taking his baseball cap off, he swings it on his index finger. “You zoned the fuck out with the last crowd that was here. I was watching. You looked like a fucking robot.”

I drag my tongue across my teeth, upset that I haven’t been able to hide it better. If I didn’t have to act professionally, if people weren’t watching, I’d let him read the line between my fingers for the hell of it.

He clicks his tongue. “Now, now. Is ignoring the person who’s helping you out the way you want to go about this? You’re going to get major props for this, by the way.” He says it with a glint of pleasure in his eyes that gets under my skin on a good day. The asshole is rattling me on purpose, but he wouldn’t be Jett if he didn’t. Supportive when it matters and a pain in the ass any other time.

“No one asked you to come.”

He tilts his head to the side and assesses me as I nod at a lonely old man making his way through the clinic maze. I scoot back in my seat next to him and heave out a breath. It’s hot as hell out here. “True, but I’m invested now. I want to know what’s up.”

I grab my piss-warm water bottle from the grass and down the rest of it. Where the hell is Rebecca with our cold water and subs? The supply tent might be at the far end of the field near one of the hospital entrances, but how long does it take? “Invested in what, exactly?”

“You,” he says. “You’re acting strange, and I want to get to the bottom of it.”

“Shouldn’t you be at, I don’t know, practice?”

“Coach gave us the day after running us ragged this past week. It’s like you’re wound up or some shit. I don’t know. I can’t describe it, but I can definitely feel it.”

“That’s the heat. We’re all probably suffering from heatstroke, you included.”

“I’d laugh, but I knew a guy who had heatstroke. He was an avid hiker out west. Thought he was taking the proper steps to cool down and get enough fluids, but…” He just shakes his head. “The dude was delirious when they found him. Temp was over one-oh-four.”

I close my eyes and tip my head back because I need a break, even if it’s only for two minutes. Being on my feet all morning and repeatedly explaining the same joints is wearing me down more than I thought it would. It wouldn’t be so bad if the sun wasn’t glaring down on us, and I didn’t have the taste of Layla’s skin in my mouth. But it’s been fucking brutal. Add Jett’s badgering on top of it, and I’m ready to sprint back to my office and lock the door for the rest of the afternoon.

“Did he survive?”

“Spent two days in the hospital,” he tells me. “Dude never hiked again. Heatstroke kills dreams, my friend.”

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