Page 4 of Windlass

No. This was her home, and Stevie was the person who knew her best. If Angie invited more, there was a chance—a strong chance, nearly inevitable—she would fuck things up and run, and she had nowhere left to go. This was her house. Her home.Steviewas her home. Maybe someday, if she could prove to herself she was whole and stable—

Someday was not today.

She poured the popcorn into the blue glass bowl they always used and plopped back on the couch a few minutes later. Stevie immediately scooched closer and scooped up a handful of popcorn, leaning her lithe body into the cushion with a sigh of contentment.

“You’re the best. And speaking of the best, may I present the cinematic masterpiece,Zombie Sheep from Mars?”

Angie laughed around a mouthful of popcorn and nestled against Stevie out of habit. This was normal. Fine, even. Usually, the living room was full of people, and sharing space was a necessity. Stevie didn’t appear to have taken the change of circumstances into consideration, however, and seemed supremely unaffected.

“Question.” Angie would be normal about this if it killed her. “Does it take placeonMars or have the sheep comefromMars?”

“Only time and an undoubtedly spectacular script will tell. Catch.” Stevie tossed a piece of popcorn toward Angie. She tried to catch it in her mouth and missed; the popcorn went down her shirt instead.

“She scores!” Stevie hit play as she congratulated herself. Angie removed the popcorn from her cleavage and ate it, trying very, very hard not to imagine Stevie doing the same.

“There are opening credits?” Angie asked. “When was this filmed?” Putting thoughts of butter and Stevie’s tongue as far out of her mind as she could manage, she focused on the film.

“No idea. The special effects are gonna be lit. Brace yourself.”

“I’m so braced.” She pushed Stevie’s hand out of the bowl, triggering a brief skirmish for the ideal handful. She won. Stevie ate her loser’s share with relish anyway, licking a fingertip for effect.

“Hello, germs.” Angie couldn’t care less about Stevie’s germs, but she needed Stevie to never, ever do that again—not when they sat this close, and not when Stevie’s clean skin smelled better than movie theater popcorn ever dreamed, and not when the sight of Stevie’s tongue undid her. Three years of longing hadn’t made things easier, only worse.

“Hello, woman who always takes a drink of my shit,” said Stevie.

Which was fair.

“What can I say. I’m thirsty.” Angie waited for the inevitable.

“That’s what she said,” said Stevie.

“Shut up and watch the movie. Who do you think dies first in this one?” She shifted and tried to bring her focus back to the screen, where the diverse cast was enjoying a normal afternoon.

“Well, she’s the final girl.” Stevie pointed to a girl-next-door-looking young woman. Angie laughed and reached for a handful of popcorn at the same time as Stevie—again—but unlike their earlier kernel skirmish, Stevie’s fingers slid over her hand. Angie’s breath caught sharply. Noticeably. Stevie’s hand stilled.

Angie turned to look at her, unable to help herself, the instinct magnetic. God, but Stevie’s mouth was lovely, the barest hint of teeth behind her parted lips. She knew what they would feel like, sinking into her lower lip. She’d imagined it enough times.

Stevie’s gaze fell to her mouth. Angie couldn’t control her trembling breath.

There were dangers to getting what you wanted. The minute you had something, you had something to lose.

She pulled back abruptly, nearly upsetting the bowl of popcorn, and moved to the far end of the couch with an awkward laugh. Stevie echoed the sound, neither of them willing to make eye contact.

Screams poured from the speakers as the first of the zombie sheep arrived. Angie and Stevie settled into a horrible silence, the popcorn untouched between them, and no promise of rescue by a housemate to alleviate the tension.

No one would know if she kissed Stevie.

No one would stop her from breaking Stevie’s heart.

Chapter Two

The next day, Angie stripped the damp wraps from her hands and tossed them into the bin of workout equipment she kept in the barn. The punching bag hung in the hayloft, where she used it to blow off steam—and speaking of steam, it felt like the air up there was thick enough to cut with a machete.

The loft trapped heat even with the hay doors open and an industrial fan blowing directly over her workout mat. She liked to say it was like hot yoga, but free. The space boasted the added benefit of not being in the house, and not being in the house meant that she did not have to see Stevie. She wiped a sweaty forearm over her forehead, grimacing as wet skin slid over wet skin.

Her sports bra and workout shorts were equally wet. They really needed to install an outdoor shower before summer got much further underway. Stevie could use it after work or after a long session with Olive, her horse, and Angie could use it whenever the hell she wanted.

She dried the worst of the sweat off and left the towel around her neck while she assessed her body. Her wrists ached a little from her routine. Had she gone too hard, or just too long? Immediately, she heard Stevie’s voice in her head say,That’s what she said.

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