Page 11 of Slash & Burn

“I’m not kidding, Holloway. She’s had enough shit in her life, I don’t need you adding to the pile.”

I didn’t like the implication somebody had messed with Jill. But I wasn’t going to ask for specifics.

“Joe, it’s me.”

“Exactly. I know you.”

I huffed, leaning back onto my car. “I’m not that kid anymore.”

His scowl darkened. “No, now you’re a fucking hot shot hockey player who sleeps with women for sport.”

There had been a time that was true. My rookie years were a bit of a ride, but what did you expect when a kid from the sticks of Maine is set loose in the world and women can’t keep their hands off of him? I enjoyed myself and I didn’t apologize for it. I’d never had any complaints.

“I’m a lot tamer now.”

“I don’t want to hear it. She’s off limits.”

“Of course she is.” I sighed, lifting my eyes to the sky. “I’ve got enough on my plate, man. I need this program to go well for my own sake. I’m not going to blow it by being a dick to your little sister.”

He eyed me silently for a second, before stepping back and dropping his hand off my door. “Fine,” he exhaled, as if he finally believed me. “Just keep it professional.”

“Nothing but.”

Especially now that I knew her job was on the line as much as mine. And given the way Joey was still watching me as he nodded, so was one of my longest friendships. As tempting as Jill was, I didn’t need any more reasons to keep my distance. She was off limits and I was going to be a-okay with that.

CHAPTER 5

JILL

“You’ve got to be kidding me right now,” I hissed into the phone, the thing pressed so tightly to my cheek it was probably leaving marks. “You said you’d be here, Grady. We’re about to start. Where the hell are you?”

I slammed my thumb on the button to end the call and squeezed my eyes shut.

“Miss Jordan, we’re ready for you,” the kind looking camp counselor said, cautiously glancing around the small cabin we’d been offered to prepare in before our first read-along.

“Oh, good. I’ll be right out.” I pretended to fuss with some papers laid out on the bench in front of me, giving her a warm smile—or at least as warm of one as I could manage given I was clenching my teeth so hard my molars were about to crack.

I could kill him.

I’d been calling Grady for the last half hour, realizing pretty quickly after I’d arrived that he’d either missed the part about getting there an hour early or he’d just blown it off entirely. I didn’t care much either way, there was no excuse for this.

And as if being a flake wasn’t bad enough, it leftmeto get things started . . . assuming he eventually showed. If I had to do the whole program by myself, I was going to vomit. We’d picked one of the longest books for this camp appearance because it was supposed to be the grand kickoff of the series. I’d be up in front of all these kids, their parents, the camp crew, and the press for god knew how long if Grady didn’t get there.

Ugh. I could barely think his name without my neck getting hot and my stomach flopping over. I’d been worried about my crush coming back with this forced proximity to the man, but apparently I’d been completely off base. Because we were only one day in, and I never wanted to see him again.

After stalling for another minute I hung my head and admitted I couldn’t delay any longer. Cleo had made it crystal clear that no matter what happened with the “sports magnet”—her words—I was to do my part to make sure these kids got excited about books and reading this summer. The state had earmarked funds in a grant we were going to apply for, and the stats from this program were key in making our application stand out. If we got that money, then whatever happened with the town budget we would still be okay.

The sound of the crowd around the corner was like water in a low flowing brook, a murmur that grew stronger the closer I got. As I approached the side of the stage the camp usually deployed for talent shows and campfire story contests, I dug my nails into my palms.

You can do this.I told myself, fighting against the deafening rush of blood to my head. I’d almost passed out once in college when I had to give a presentation in my contemporary Irish fiction class. Roddy Doyle’s masterpiece, The Van, had nearly caused a heart attack in front of a packed lecture hall. Not that it was the book’s fault. I was made to read books, not give speeches about them.

“Good morning, everyone,” I said, practicing what I’d talked about with Lis, scanning my eyes out over the crowd with a smile plastered to my face. I took a deep breath, settling behind the taller of the two microphones. The other was in front of the chair Grady was supposed to sit in when he did his reading.

“Good morning, Miss Jordan,” the kids called back to me in such startling unison that I froze on the spot. They’d practiced that. Which was simultaneously endearing and terrifying to someone like me, who much preferred to remain anonymous.

My chest got even tighter when I realized all the children were looking back and forth between me and the end of the stage, expectation lighting their little faces.They were looking for Grady.The super cool, all-American sports star that was supposed to be beside me. Supposed to be, but wasn’t.

“Are we excited to do some reading today?” I asked, masking my own panic with a sort of syrupy enthusiasm. For a second, I thought I was pulling it off. But a sense of unease swept through the crowd in front of me, and a few of the kids started to fidget, tugging at the grass beneath them and scrunching their faces.

---