Page 17 of The Wrong Drive

“You look like you still do,” I blurt.

He looks up at me, and Iswearthere’s a brief flicker of amusement, but it fades to something distant. “I also liked music and concerts, trucks, work… Normal shit.”

I smile softly. “You don’t do any of that anymore?”

Turner shakes his head, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “No. I stay here mostly.”

“And you never leave?”

He hesitates, like he’s about to say something first but holds off another few moments. “Not really. I used to though. This was my parents’ cabin, then my brother’s, then mine.”

“I have a sister,” I say, offering up something about myself to help with peeling back the layers of him. Something about him pulls at me, and that distance in his eyes is as alluring as it is unsettling. For some reason, Iwantto know more about him. Maybe it’s the stereotypical draw of the mysterious stranger—ormaybe it’s that self-preservation kicking in. Keeping your enemy close or whatever.

But he’s not an enemy, really. Or is he?

“You can sleep in my room,” his voice interrupts my thoughts. “I shouldn’t make you stay on the couch. I’ll sleep there.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I reason. “You’re way too big for the couch.”

“I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Seems unfair,” I say, cutting off a piece of steak and popping it in my mouth. It’s definitely venison, based on the gamey flavor. Turner studies me as I chew and swallow. “It’s good,” I tell him, taking a gander that’s what he was waiting for.

“It’s edible.”

I laugh. “Isn’t that all that matters?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

And then healmostsmiles again.

Chapter 7

Turner

Maybe this won’t be sohard. She appears easy to please, and I like her laugh when it comes naturally. I finish what she doesn’t, and she stands at the same time as me, picking up her own plate.

“I can do the dishes,” she offers, holding out her hand to me. “It’s only fair since you cooked.”

“It’ll go faster if we work together.” I don’t know why I say it. She seems surprised by any nicety I extend to her, and that makes sense. I’m a scary fucking asshole who shot her and knocked her around.

And I feel guilty as fuck for it right now.

“I need to change that,” I gesture to the bandage on her hand. “It got wet in the shower, and I glued it shut. It needs air to heal.”

“Oh, yeah,” Emersyn shakes her head as she slips past me, her arm brushing mine. “I forgot about it. Let’s just change it after dishes.”

My core heats up at the momentary touch, and my mind conjures up an image of her bare beneath me. My hands tremble as I think about reaching out and brushing her skin again, the warmth of her against me. I forgot how good it could feel, and the more she talks—even if it’s awkward and tense—the more I wonder what her full lips would taste like.

“I can wash if you want to dry?” she offers, her voice unsticking me from my mind. “Or vice versa?”

Everything is a question with her.

“It doesn’t matter,” I tell her as she grabs the pans from the stove and sets them in the sink. I don’t know why I fight the urge to stare at her so much. It’s probably because I haven’t been around someone in so long, right? She’s giving me a glimpse of what it might’ve been like to have someone…if I was just different.If I didn’t end up killing any living person in my vicinity.

I shake it off and grab a towel, drying and putting everything away as she washes them. It doesn’t take long before we’re done, and I’m left in the kitchen there with her, handing her the towel so she can dry her hands. Afterwards, she hangs it on the handle of the oven, and then turns to retreat to the living room, where Gunner is camped out on the couch.

“Wait,” I call after her. “I need to take care of your hand.”

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