Lost Girls(37)

Blood shows on white, a voice whispered in my head.

I didn’t question it, didn’t even wonder why I’d had that random thought. The dress came off in a flash.

Find something black, the voice said and I obeyed.

That black miniskirt, the one the girls had suggested, slipped on, suddenly looking like it was made for tonight. I’d be able to ride Dylan’s motorcycle, I’d be able to dance, I’d look hot...

And I’d be able to kick.

I practiced in front of the mirror, my right leg swinging up, high over my head, the skirt shifting and stretching while the leggings kept everything covered. If I hadn’t needed a shirt, I would have been ready to go.

Just then a knock sounded on the front door and I started to hyperventilate. Voices came from the foyer downstairs, Dad’s baritone blending with another deep voice, one that I’d recognize anywhere.

Dylan was here.

Crap and double crap.

I didn’t have time for this dressing game, I wanted—no, I needed—to get downstairs before my parents sabotaged my date with their hundred and one questions. I threw on a shirt and jacket, fixed my hair, touched up my makeup, not even realizing that I’d chosen the exact same outfit the girls at school had suggested. I jogged down the stairs and almost ran into Dylan when I rounded the corner from the hallway. Kyle and two of his friends slouched on the family room sectional, faces aimed at the big-screen TV where they played Halo 4, my little brother simultaneously carrying on a convo with Dylan, who was giving Kyle tips. Dylan stood behind my brother, while Dad and Mom were in the kitchen cleaning up the dinner dishes. Apparently Dylan had survived their interrogation. Unless Kyle had secretly been put in charge.

“Hey,” Dylan said when I slammed to a halt, two inches away from him. “You look really nice.”

I wanted to say the same thing; every inch of him looked better than it ever had when we were in school. His dark hair hung in choppy layers, some of it shading his forehead, his pale gray eyes making time stand still when he gazed at me. He wore a black leather jacket, a ripped black shirt, and jeans with a long, studded belt that coiled twice around his hips. Black shadow rimmed his eyes, almost making him look like a rock star.

And a bruise colored his cheekbone.

It wasn’t a black eye, not yet. But it probably would be by tomorrow. Somehow it made him look even hotter.

“What happened?” I asked as we moved away from the sofa.

“Wrestling practice last night. Hudson gave me an elbow in the eye.”

“Ouch.”

“Ask him what the other guy looks like,” Kyle said, glancing back at us and missing a score.

Dylan gave me a half-shrug, and looked away as if he didn’t want to brag. But apparently Kyle had already heard the story—this was what guys did, they shared gruesome tales and laughed, while the girls listening usually winced.

Kyle drew a line across his forehead. “Sixteen stitches.”

“Really,” I said. My blood flowed hot through my veins and I was a little surprised what a turn-on it was to hear that my boyfriend had sent someone to the ER. His eyes met mine and he studied my expression carefully, silently.

“He’s fine,” he told me a moment later, and I knew that this had been part of the original story. My little brother just didn’t think it was the important part. “This kind of stuff happens all the time.”

“Yeah,” I said, not completely convinced. “Boys will be boys, right?”

He grinned and we headed toward the front door. Away from my family and my home and everything familiar, out into the night where darkness waited.

...

His Harley was parked at the curb, in a pocket of shadow, blocked from the streetlight and behind one of the flowering trees Dad had planted earlier this year. Dylan started to hand me a helmet, but stopped, as if there was something else more important.

“There’s something I have to do,” he said.

I thought maybe he needed to give me a few pointers on how to ride a motorcycle, that I should lean into the curves, that I should hold on to him, that I shouldn’t be afraid because he was a great driver.

I was wrong.

He slipped one arm around my waist and pulled me close, so close that I couldn’t have gotten away if I wanted to, while his other hand cupped my jaw, thumb just below my mouth, long fingers brushing against my ear. “I’ve wanted to do this since you got back,” he said, his voice a low, hoarse whisper.

I wanted to say, me, too, but I didn’t get a chance.

His lips found mine in the darkness where we could barely see each other, where the heat of his body melted into mine. There were two short, gentle kisses as if he didn’t believe I would be here very long, that I might disappear at any moment, and then after that came the third kiss—

The third kiss stole my heart.

And my soul.

I didn’t remember our first date or what we had in common or who was his favorite band, but I remembered this. I remembered a thousand kisses, a hundred nights, a million stars glittering overhead. We leaned into each other, as if we were each drawing an electric charge from the other, as if we’d been unplugged and powerless but now we were stronger, invincible, immortal. The world stopped spinning and we were all that existed; there were no other people, no cities, no countries; there was only this.

His lips pressed against mine, his scent filling the air, his hands touching me.