Page 88 of Come Back to Me

Fear.

A rush of sound echoes in my ears—a piercing F-minor note that warbles from my oboe, merging with a clash of cymbals as the truth ruptureseverything.

“I know who you are, dammit,” I snarl, shoving away from him and leaping off the back of the pickup.

Pushing down my skirt, I pace.

The whip of the fabric against my thighs, my heartbeat rushing in my ears, the stomp of my feet, the whisper of the dust as it surges and falls with every step I take has the pitiful adagio mesto slowly morphing into another Wagner-esque crescendo. The vibrations and the bass make the riotous noise from the bikes last night sound like murmurs.

Vindictive words bubble on the tip of my tongue. The urge to plant used panties in the coffee beans he prefers flutters to the forefront of my mind. Hell, I’m two minutes away from booking a flight to Savannah and hunting down a gris-gris. No manbo could ever disagree with my right to torment him.

But I don’t have a voodoo priestess in my contacts.

Nor do I have a set of coffee beans with me.

“You’re lucky I don’t have a crystal close at hand.”

“I’d deserve it if you threw it at me.”

My hands tunnel into fists. “Oh, no, I’d make you choke on it.”

His throat bobs, but the worst part? I can tell he’s relieved. That confession is a weight off his shoulders. Now, he’s shoved that burden onto me.

I stare at him, full of outrage. But it’s a balloon. One prick of a needle and that’s it—the explosion is imminent. My biggest fear is that I won’t scream at him, but start sobbing.

“I want to talk to Zee.”

He winces but nods.

Wisely, he keeps his trap shut as he jumps out of the box. Dust motes dance around his boots as he trudges over to the passenger door. Ever the goddamn gentleman until where it really counts.

Maybe it’s how unrattled he is aside from his eyes… Maybe it’s the fact that he’s chivalrous after he broke something tenuous between us… It triggers a roar, one worthy of the roll ofkettledrums as a backdrop while I hunch my shoulders low and channel Kow Bukowski as I tackle him.

But I don’t bring him down.

Oh, no.

I don’t stop my forward momentum.

“What the hell?” he sputters, but he underestimates me because he doesn’t stop me. He twists in my hold and calls out, “Tee! What are you?—”

But his words are useless.

He’s going down.

Right now.

His boots skid against the dust, kicking it up and making me want to cough, but it doesn’t stop my roar as I shove him onward.

I brake only when his body collides with the water. He staggers back, arms windmilling until he plunks into the lake.

As his hair whips back in an arc, he scowls at me from the shallows.

Again, he shows some intelligence by refraining from scolding me. If anything, he doesn’t utter a word.

He stares at me, and I stare at him.

Then, voice croaky because who knew roaring that much would hurt, I grind out, “You can get your own ride home.”

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