Page 19 of Broken Lines

Needless to say, there are…downsidesto living alone on an island. I grumble to myself, glaring death at Pink as I sip my whiskey.

Get the fuck out. Whatever you’re here for, get it, and then get gone.

But she doesn’t listen to my telepathic demands. Instead, she’s got Margie laughing.

Laughing.

Margie doesn’t fuckingsmile.I wasn’t aware she was physically capable of mirth or joy of any kind. And here she is giggling.

Get gone. Get the fuck out of my town.

But once again, my wordless, telepathic demands are ignored. She doesn’t leave. Instead, she fucking turns. And suddenly, I’m stiffening as Margiewavesand stabs a finger…

Right at me.

Mother.Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I turn away, but not before those big blues of Pink Punk sizzle into me. Something roars deep inside, smashing against cage walls before I manage to pull away. I take an angry, greedy swig of whiskey as I storm down the side-lane next to the hardware store. I take a sharp right down the alley behind it and the drugstore next door. And I’m about to step back out onto the street and make a beeline directly to the dock—

When I crash into something.

Something small.

Something soft.

Somethingpink.

My feet lose their footing. I stagger back, feeling gravity yank my legs out from under me as I fall backwards.

The bottle slips from my hand, smashing to jagged shards on the pavement as I hit the ground. The box on my shoulder hits the sidewalk too with a cracking sound. Instantly, the base of it turns pulpy and wet as all eleven bottles empty through the fresh cracks along their bottoms.

“God. Fucking.Damnit.”

I hiss as I lurch to my feet, snarling as I loom over her and stab my gaze into hers. My mouth opens to rip her a new one, when I realize what just happened.

Shit.

I just spoke.

The girl—who now I’m not even sureiseven half my age—freezes and stares up at me with this mix of uncertainty, fear, and second thoughts.

All of those are smart thoughts for her to have.

“Robert Johnson?”

I glare at her, saying nothing. She arches a brow, a slight smirk playing over her lips.

“Robert Johnson, the famous Mississippi Delta musician who’s credited with inventing the blues?”

I shrug. My jaw clenches.

“Youjusttalked.”

Wordlessly, I brush past her, ignoring the stinging ache in my arm.

“Look, I know you’re not— wait, hang on!”

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