Bone Music (Burning Girl #1)(130)

Thanks, Cole.

Did he call politician friends and get them to look away? Did he blackmail federal agents into extending their investigation south toward Scarlet and not north toward my house? I’m in no mood to ask the guy. If I ask him anything, I’ll be required to answer his question first, and I’m not ready for that. Not yet.



Around sunset one night, Luke drove me out to the beach and Bayard Rock. He told me it was where he used to bring Bailey when their mom was sick.

Bailey’s got no interest in coming home, apparently. This has hurt Luke’s feelings all over again. Apparently the fact that we’ve made powerful new friends who could probably get Bailey back in the country, maybe even keep the FBI off his back, means nothing to him. Wherever he is, whoever he’s working with, he’s happy there. And it’s hard for Luke to argue with him. Because wherever Bailey is, whoever he’s working with, allowed us to take a vicious monster out of circulation. So can we really complain?

There are already construction vehicles out at the old resort. Clearing out debris. Getting ready to pick up where they left off. There are advertisements for job fairs in town. Mostly construction stuff, but they’re also interviewing for positions at the hotel once it opens. Kitchen staff, housekeeping. Stuff like that. It makes me dizzy to think all that might go away if I turn down Cole’s offer.

For a while Luke and I sat watching the sunset. I’ve taken his physical affection for granted these past few days. At first it just seemed like a natural outgrowth of what we’d been through. Now it’s constant. And welcome. And so when I rested my head against his shoulder as we sat together on the sand, it didn’t seem like a big deal. And when he took my hand in his and held it against his chest, it didn’t seem like a big deal, either.

When our lips finally met, it felt necessary. Essential. Not the forceful, desperate thing I’d seen in movies, and nothing like the hesitant, exploratory hour I’d spent with that guy I met on my road trip. It felt like an extension of what we’d been through. To kiss him. To get as close to his woodsy smell as I possibly could. To learn that his lower lip is sensitive, and if I lift my hands to the sides of his neck and just graze my fingers gently across the muscle there, he gets shivers all over his body. He doesn’t just laugh. He giggles, and then he gets embarrassed that he’s giggling, tries to turn it into a manly laugh, and ends up coughing. Which I really like. A lot.

I never anticipated that just kissing someone could be an event. With different stages and acts. The slow approach. The commitment. The taste. The smell. The withdrawal and then going back in for a second taste, a deeper one. It’s happened three times, and we haven’t had some big talk about it. We haven’t named it. And we haven’t tried to get each other’s clothes off. For now it’s just something we need, even though it’s brief. Even though it’s nameless.

For now.

We’re together right now as I write this, on a plane headed for Atlanta.

The e-mails from Cole have been pretty steady the past two weeks. They all say the same thing: “Ready to hear your decision when you’ve made it. —C.”

But there’s only been one e-mail from Dylan and it arrived yesterday: “Let’s meet. So much to discuss, it seems. —D.”

Followed by a screen cap of a Google map of an area I knew all too well.

Marty offered to go with me, but I could tell he was at risk of losing several jobs given how much time he’d spent away. Luke had put in regular shifts ever since we got back, and he’d told Mona a good enough cover story to explain his absence.

Twenty-four hours. That’s how long we’ve scheduled this trip for. Twenty-four hours that could decide my fate.

And Dylan’s.

It seems insane to be writing in this notebook again.

What if I dropped it or lost it? Whoever picked it up would probably think it was someone’s idea of a novel, that’s what.

Maybe it’s as simple as I can’t really think of anything else to do with my hands right now. It’s a long flight, SFO to Atlanta. About four hours. And Luke’s only pretending to watch the movie on his phone; I can tell.

Still, it’s comforting to have him next to me. It’s comforting to know he watched me do what I did in Pemberton’s basement and he doesn’t recoil from me. He isn’t afraid of me. He doesn’t believe some incurable darkness has been unleashed in me. He looks at me with a protectiveness and steadiness I’ve never seen in the eyes of another man. It’s not like the way Marty looks at me, with a lot of smiles and winks to hide how worried he is. Luke is there. Present. Constant. Ready.

Which is good.

Because I need him.

I need this journal, too. I need these words. They’re mine. They exist between all the other versions of my life that have been forced on me over the years. They exist outside the terrible choice Cole Graydon has given me.

Maybe this really will be the last chapter of the story that began with my mother’s murder. Maybe I really will walk away, no matter what that entails.

If I do, does this mean I should keep this book, or burn it?

Cole sent me another e-mail this morning. I got it as we were boarding: “Hope you have a productive meeting. I look forward to seeing your decision. —C.”

I showed it to Luke. “Seeing,” he said back to me. So I wasn’t the only one who noticed the unusual wording.