Page 74 of In the Dust

It’s not a half bad idea, honestly. Running away at the first sign of trouble, leaving all the pain behind. I wipe a dribble of tequila from my chin, pulling it back up to my lips to taste the burn.

I hold up the empty shot glass, trying to hold back tears.

Trying to hold back the pain of losing my mother.

Of losing our home.

Of losing him.

I search his eyes for a moment.

Then, I bolt out the front door.

I thought he would rush after me as I pushed the doors open and escaped from the crowds into the quiet nothingness, but he didn't. He’s not out here; he’s standing in the window though, watching me.

His eyes are deep and dark as the night casts shadows against his chiseled jaw, and the look on his face sends shivers down my spine.

He’s giving me a moment to breathe … a momentof trust.

I turn away from him. I can’t bear the look on his face as I leave him, again.

I don’t know if he’s still watching me, but I don’t doubt that he is as I kick my boots against the asphalt.

I only get in about a three-minute walk, stumbling over myself, before I stop walking.

What am I doing?

I trudge back up to the bar, ready to apologize to Colton but when I swing open the bar doors and push through the crowd, but the last straw of my sanity breaks when I see Anabelle leaned against Colton’s chest, her hands all over him. He’s holding his beer up, smiling. He says something to a random townie next to him, then as his eyes pan to mine, they grow wide.

It’s like graduation night all over again.

I feel like there’s coals under my feet.

Hot, dry fire under my toes.

I need to get the fuck out of here.

Again.

I barrel through the doors.

This time, he comes after me.

“Stop!” I throw my hand at his chest as he crosses the threshold between loud bar and silent night. He steps closer, and I step back, not taking my hand from his chest.

We round the side of the bar, and my nostrils flare with anger.

“Same old stupid cowboy!” I shout.

His hand traps my wrist, and he steps closer to me. “Same old running cowgirl,” he sneers.

I stomp my boot into the ground. “If you can flip a switch so easily and run back to the nearest girl that bats her lashes at you, why would you chase me out here?”

He throws his head back, pissed. “I can’t keep one hand on you at all times, Dix.” He’s not wrong. “If you want to stay, it will make me the happiest guy in Willow Creek, but if you run,”—he juts his finger down the road I just returned from—“I can’t fucking stop you.”

He seems to forget that he told me he’d follow me anywhere.

“You seem to do pretty damn well!” I slur, stumbling on my drunken feet.

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