Page 166 of Double Bucked

He touches the back of his head. “There’s not a lot to work with.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

I pick up the brush again. I run it over his scalp.

Everett tilts his head to give me better access. He lets out a low, throaty sound.

Is he…purring?

“Oh,” he says, a note of surprise in his tone. “That is good.”

His small curls are tight. Not a lot of tangles here, but even after everything is nice and soft, I keep going, passing the teeth over his scalp. He sinks his body against mine.

Finally, I put the brush away. I move my hand to the side of his face, but I pause before making contact.

“Can I touch you here?” I ask.

Those blue eyes meet my gaze. “Yes.”

I take his face in my hand. Strong jaw in my palm. Short hair under my fingertips. The thing that I want to say stuck behind my teeth. Finally, I come out with it: “I wanna kiss you. Is that okay by you?”

He tilts upward. An invitation. “Yes,” he says.

I’m man enough to say this now: I’ve been fantasizing about kissing Everett for some time now.

Throwing him against a wall. Bruising his lips. An electric, vicious continuation of the power play we’ve had since we both set eyes on each other.

Never in a million years did I imagine kissing Everett would be a sweet, healing thing.

Warmth and affection and a deep, strong trust.

When our lips part, my breath is light. I can feel our hearts beating in sync.

We’ve all got scars from that night. Mine’s a big, ugly, purpling thing, but theirs is like this hot, storm cloud energy, vibrating right under the surface of things.

We’ve all got a lot of healing to do.

“We’ve got nothing but time,” I tell them. “Maybe we just take this part slow.”

“I’d like that,” Claire says. She hooks her hand on the back of my neck, and this time, she’s the one to guide my lips against hers. I sink against her, tasting her. Savoring her.

The three of us spend the night wrapped up in each other, exchanging kisses until the stars fall out of the sky.

59

CLAIRE

The house is a flurry of activity.

We’re moving out. Maeby is moving in. Men in blue uniforms and work gloves pace around the house, taking it apart piece by piece.

“What d’you want us to do with this?” one of the men asks me.

He motions to the painting that hangs above the mantlepiece. It’s an old oil painting of me and my father. The stern, scowling man and the starry-eyed teenagers with dreams of Belleflower Queens dancing in her head.

“Burn it,” I tell him.

I leave the bewildered worker and step outside. I need air.

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