Page 14 of Wall

“No problem, babe. I’m Creech.” He offers me a hand. I squeeze it quickly. He grins, flashing a gold tooth next to a missing incisor. “You want a drink?”

“Oh. No. It’s, um, too early.” I blush when I see he’s pulled a flask from his pocket. “Oh, but you, uh, feel free. Don’t mind me.”

“I always feel free, babe. You sure? Looks like you could use it.” He raises the flask and winks.

You know what? I hold out my hand. He chuckles and passes me the flask.

I take a sip, and my nose tickles.

“Oh, cinnamon schnapps!” I haven’t had this since I was in high school.

“Tastes like hard candies, don’t it?”

I’m about to agree, but a door at the far end of the cavernous hall bangs open, and a gargantuan man storms through.

It’s John.

And John ishuge.

He was always a big guy, tall and stocky with a beer belly, but now? He’s the Hulk. Hercules. Conan the Barbarian. He must be some kind of bodybuilder.

Under my bulky winter coat, I suck in my gut.

He strides over, and the floor doesn’t shake, but it’s easy to imagine it does.

His neck has muscles. His biceps are so pronounced, his arms don’t touch his sides.

He’s wearing a plain black T-shirt, and I don’t think it’s cut tight, I think he’s that swole. He’s sweaty, and he’s wearing white athletic shorts—which are designed baggy but cling to his massive thighs—so maybe I interrupted him working out.

Hah.Of course, he was working out. I’ve spent the last four years losing a battle to the same thirty pounds, and he turned himself into a comic book hero.

I hate this man. Ihatehim.

“Mona? What’s wrong?”

Then he’s looming above me, solid as, well, a wall, and he smells like clean sweat and pine trees, for some reason. Not like disinfectant, but like the outdoors. Hesmellsgood. Butterflies flap in my stomach, a whole herd of them.

My gaze flies around the room. The woman in the thong has roused, and she’s watching us as she lights a cigarette. The woman with her boobs out is shooting me an ugly look.

I still have the tattooed man’s flask in my hand.

This was a terrible idea.

“I should—” I look around wildly until I find the tattooed man leaning on a nearby high table. I skirt around John and hand the man his flask. “I should go.”

But somehow, I’ve ventured further into the clubhouse, and now John is between me and the exit.

“Mona, what happened?”

His voice is just like I remember. Just like on the voicemails from when we were happy that I’ve never gotten the courage to delete. Gruff. Deep. Calm.

I don’t feel calm at all. This coat is hot, sweat’s trickling down my back, and my forehead’s itching under this knit cap.

Everyone’s gawking. The men at the bar. The women. Did John sleep with either of them? Is the one who’s giving me the evil eye his girlfriend? The butterflies turn to nausea.

“Go get her a bottle of water,” John barks at the prospect. “Mona, can I take your coat?”

My eyes fly to his. They’re a warm brown. Nice. Concerned. I take a steadying breath.

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