Falling into You (Falling #1)(23)

I felt something hard in the inside pocket, stuck my hand in and withdrew a pack of Marlboros and a Zippo. Colton lifted an eyebrow, taking them from me. He flipped open the top and withdrew a cigarette, flicked the Zippo and lit it. I watched, because watching kept the magma at bay.

He put the filter between his lips and sucked, and I felt something odd happen inside me as his cheeks hollowed. A feeling as if I knew him, although I didn’t. As if I’d always watched him drag on a smoke and blow it out slowly through pursed lips. As if I’d always looked on in disapproval, but never voiced my thoughts.

“I know, I know. These things’ll kill me.” His voice was rough and gravelly and deep, but still melodic somehow.

“I didn’t say anything.” That was the most I’d spoken in over forty-eight hours.

“You don’t have to. I can see it in your eyes. You disapprove.”

“I guess. Smoking is bad. Maybe it’s an inherited dislike.” I shrugged. “I’ve never known anyone who smokes.”

“Now you do,” Colton said. “I don’t smoke much. Socially, usually. Or when I’m stressed.”

“This counts as stress, I think.”

“The death of my baby brother? Yeah. This is a chain-smoking occasion.” He spoke the words casually, almost callously, but I saw the crushing agony in his eyes as he looked away, stared at the glowing orange cherry of his cigarette.

“Can I try?”

He glanced at me, an eyebrow lifted, silently asking if I was sure. He held the white tube toward me, the bottom pinched between two thick fingers. He had grease under his finger nails, and the tips of his fingers were callused, the mark of a guitar player.

I took the cigarette and tentatively put it to my lips, held it there for a moment, then sucked in. I tasted harsh air, something like mint, then I inhaled. My lungs burned and protested, and I blew it out, coughing. Colton laughed, a low chuckle.

I got so dizzy I almost fell over. I put a palm to the tree trunk to balance myself. Colton wrapped a huge hand around my elbow.

“First drag’ll make you dizzy. Even now, if it’s been awhile I’ll get dizzy.” He took the cigarette back and drew on it, then blew it out of his nostrils. “Just don’t get addicted, okay? I don’t need that shit, knowing I got you hooked on smoking. It’s a nasty habit. I should quit.” He puffed again, putting the lie to his words.

He was slumped back against the tree, hunched over, as if the weight of grief was too much to stand up under. I knew the feeling. I took the cigarette from his fingers, ignoring the strange, unwelcome spark of feeling that shot up my arm when my fingers touched his.

I took a drag, tasted the smoke, blew it out, coughed again, but less this time. I felt the airiness in my head spread. I liked the feeling. I took another, then handed it back. I saw my mother standing in the door I’d left through, watching.

Colton followed my gaze. “Shit. Guess it’s time to go.”

“Can I ride with you?”

He paused in the act of pushing away from the tree. He stood over a foot taller than me, his shoulders like a football player’s pads, arms corded thick. He was huge, I realized. Kyle had been lean and toned. Colton was…something else. Obviously powerful. Hard. Primal.

“Ride with me?” He seemed puzzled by the request.

“To the cemetery. They’ll…want to talk. Ask me questions. I can’t…I just can’t.”

He took one last drag then pinched the cherry off with his fingers and stepped on it, stuffed the butt in his pocket. “Sure. Come on.”

I followed him to a Ford F-250 with huge tires and diesel exhaust pipes behind the cab. It was splattered with mud and had a lockbox in the bed. He walked next to me, not touching me, just there. I heard my mom’s voice in the distance, but ignored her. I couldn’t handle the questions I knew she’d have.

Colton opened the passenger door, offered me his hand and lifted me up. Again, I felt an awful, powerful lightning bolt of energy zap through me at his touch. Guilt assailed me.

I passed close to him as I stepped up into the cab. He smelled of cigarettes and cologne and something indefinable. I saw him swallow hard and look away, letting go of my hand as soon as possible. He wiped his palm on his pants leg, as if to erase the memory of a thrill from touch.

He was in the cab next to me a moment later, twisting the key to start the truck with a throaty rumble. The leather seats vibrated under my thighs, not unpleasantly. I slipped out of his coat and set it on the seat between us. As the truck started, music blared from the speakers, male and female voices raised in haunting harmony: “…if I die before I wake…I know my soul the Lord won’t take…I’m a dead man walking…I’m a dead man walking…”

Something snapped in my chest and I had to clench my teeth until my jaw hurt to keep from crumbling. “What—who is this?” I asked, the words raw and rasped.

“The Civil Wars. The song is called ‘Barton Hollow.’”

“It’s amazing.”

“You’ve heard thirty seconds.”

I shrugged. “It…speaks to me.”

He touched something on the dashboard and the song started from the beginning. I listened, rapt. The next song grabbed me too, and Colton drove, unspeaking, letting me listen. The burgeoning pressure in my chest lessened with the power of the music.