It takes a long moment for us both to recover. When he pulls away, he does it slowly, carefully. He wraps an arm beneath my chest and raises me off the swing with care, not letting me go until he’s sure I have my balance. And then he cleans me up as much as he’s able to with a section of my torn tights. He could be quick about it. Or he could leave me to do it myself. But he doesn’t. He takes his time, his touch gentle as he makes slow passes over my skin.
“I can take you home to get cleaned up properly,” he finally says as he balls the shredded tights and panties into a fist to place them in a nearby trash can.
“No,” I reply, and if it were a little brighter out, he’d be able to see the crimson heat that rises in my cheeks. “I’d still like to get that dinner. If you want.” And though I don’t say it, maybe I like the thought of his cum smeared on my thighs. Of being marked. And the way his smile surfaces, maybe he’s thinking the same thing.
Nolan gives me a single nod. He reaches out a hand.
I slip my palm into his, and we walk toward the lights.
WINDWARDNolan
I TRIED TO CONVINCE MYSELF it wasn’t a date as we walked here, but I gave up before we even made it through the door.
Harper is luminous. She glows in the candlelight as we have dinner at Nightfog, a restaurant perched on the edge of the rocky shore. I turned on some of the Southern charm to score us a table on the busy covered patio that rests on stilts covered with barnacles. She seemed to like that, judging by the smile she tried to bite free of her lips. We share a starter of mussels in white wine and garlic sauce. She devours a plate of scallops and linguine. It should be harder than it is to talk to her, but in reality, it’s not hard at all. She asks genuine questions, not just superficial ones. When I tell her about the time Billy burnt his eyebrows off when he tried to make Bananas Foster, she asks me everything about his dream to be a world-class pastry chef. When I mention that my sister, Amelia, is finishing her PhD in nanorobotics, she wants to know the minute details about her field of research.
But no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to pry much from her. Sometimes, I notice a glimpse of a pause, a catch of her breath, as though she knows she shouldn’t show much of herself to the man who is supposed to be her enemy. She only talks about her earliest years or the most recent ones, leaving a black chasm in between. She tries to focus on things I’m already familiar with, like the soapbox racer or the corpse she’s been crafting for tomorrow’s gravity race. But Harper gives up nothing of the person she was just before she came to Cape Carnage. I came here thinking I needed every detail about the night she crashed into my life so I could find some kind of peace, but I’m starting to think that’s not what I want anymore. The woman I really want to know is the one sitting a candle away.
When we’ve finished dinner, I drive Harper home, waiting in my rental car for her to change her clothes before we head to the Ballantyne River. We have more bodies to exhume and not many days left to do it. We can’t take more nights off. It gnaws at me, knowing we’re running out of time and she’s the only one who knows the places to dig. If she’d tell me, I’d do it on my own and work later into the night so she could rest. But the truth is, I know I can’t ask. Her trust in me is fragile. She’s always looking for a reason to break it. The best thing I can do for her is to keep my suggestions to myself and follow her lead, even if we’re up against the clock.
We manage only one exhumation tonight, agreeing we’ll dig up two bodies tomorrow. It’s going to be bright weather and a busy day in town with the Carnival of Carnage Gravity Races, and festivities afterward are due to continue into the night. We can risk starting a little early, since it’s unlikely Sam would miss the opportunity to film one of the town’s most important annual events. When we leave the river and get to the road, I think for a moment that Harper might let me drive her home. Maybe she’ll even ask me to stay. But she doesn’t. She slings the bag of bones over her shoulder and gives me a tentative smile, then starts toward the path, disappearing into the dark.
I watch her walk away, and I linger there on the road long after she’s gone.
It’s a restless sleep. All I can think about is Harper. How Sam is getting too close to her.
And why.
There’s something she’s not telling me. A secret she’s harboring. I’m more sure of it with every day that passes. And the way he must have approached her on his own?
It just doesn’t seem right.
When I finally fall asleep, I dream about that night four years ago. Everything happens just as it did. Crossing the dark road. The crash. Opening my eyes, my face flat against the cool asphalt. Even the taste of blood. But I don’t hear Billy’s voice. I’m not reaching for him with my broken arm. It’s not his sightless eyes that watch me back. It’s Harper’s.
I awaken just after five with a sudden start, drenched in a cold sweat. My body is aching. A dull throb pulses in my elbow where a bruise colors the flesh in streaks of deep purple. My neck radiates pain into the base of my skull. I press my fingertips against the tender wound on my shoulder, prodding the puncture beneath the bandage. With a groan, I pop a couple of painkillers and run through my stretches, and by six, I’m sitting by the unlit fireplace of the lobby with a cup of tea as I watch the morning unfold in the Capeside Inn. Despite my insistence that I can lend her a hand, Irene refuses my assistance, shuffling from the kitchen with my plate of French toast and bacon held at a precarious angle. It’s a fucking miracle it doesn’t slide onto the floor.
“Any big plans today, Mr. Rhodes?” she says as she places a glass jug of maple syrup on the table with an unsteady rattle.
“I think I’ll take in some of the soapbox races. That’s about it.”
“Nothing else …?”
Aside from more pining after a woman I shouldn’t want, buying industrial quantities of hot chocolate, and digging up dead bodies? “No, ma’am. Nothing in particular,” I reply as I stir a splash of milk into my tea and raise it to my lips.
“So you haven’t already planned a second date with Harper Starling? Such a shame.”
I cough my sip of tea back into my cup and onto my lap.
“You need to hop on it. None of that ‘wait three days to call her’ bullshit,” Irene says as she pulls a tea towel off her shoulder to dab at the wet spot on my lap. “Otherwise, you’ll be left with one of those dating apps where it’s either swipe left or you finally pick someone and find yourself catfished.”
“You’re on dating apps?”
Irene flips the tea towel back onto her hunched shoulder before she pushes her bifocals up her nose. “I’m one foot in the grave already. If I wait any longer for Arthur Lancaster to make a move, I’ll be ashes in the wind.”
“I …” I’m legitimately not sure what to say.
“Get Harper to give Arthur a kick in the pants and ask me to dinner. Unless you screwed up your first date so badly that she doesn’t want to talk to you again.”
“Who said I was on a date with Harper?”
Irene looks to the ceiling as though searching through a lengthy list, holding up a hand so she can tick names off with her fingers. “Jimmy Baker. Maria Flores. Bert Wilson. Sarah Winkle, that crusty bitch—”
“So, the whole town.”
“Pretty much.” Irene pushes the teapot in my direction so I can replenish my spilled drink. “Not much gets past the residents here. Especially not when it comes to romance.”
Irene shuffles away, but she leaves me with a spreading sense of unease. If a simple dinner has caused ripples through Cape Carnage, what does that mean for our other activities? What if we haven’t gone so unnoticed in the night?
