The Girl in the Love Song (Lost Boys #1)(34)

Chet met my gaze while he slowly held the guitar outstretched.

I snatched it back by the neck. “Stay the fuck out of my room.”

He chuckled. “Touchy, touchy.”

I strode back to my bedroom, returned my guitar to its case, and carried it back out. I had to make a pit stop at the refrigerator where I jammed a few snacks and a bottle of juice into my backpack. Chet’s lazy gaze was on me the entire time, like ants crawling over my skin.

“You write a lot of flowery shit, don’t you?” Chet observed.

I slammed the fridge door. “What did you say?”

“I read your songs, Bobby Dylan. You think you’re in love?” He snorted. “This girl you write for… You think she’s going to fall for you once she sees all this…” He gestured at the shabby apartment, then chuckled again. “It’d have to be one helluva song.”

Rage boiled in me, a red haze that clouded my vision. Then it burned out just as fast, leaving me hollowed out. He was right. Violet’s care for me had never wavered, not even when—especially not when—I’d been living in a fucking car. But it was one thing to be friends with a charity case. Another to kiss and fuck and walk around the school holding hands with one.

Chet muttered something else, but I barely heard it. I went out, shutting the door behind me, my feet taking me to the beach. To the Shack.

Ronan was already there. He’d gathered up driftwood and charred bits of other people’s bonfires to build his own in the small stretch of beach in front of the Shack. He set the last log, creating a wooden teepee, straightened, and whipped a lock of dark hair out of his eyes.

He jerked his chin at my guitar case. “You play?”

I nodded and sat down on a small boulder, resting the case across my knees. “I caught Chet fucking with it. I’ll have to bring it everywhere from now on. Here. To school… Fucking asshole.”

Ronan opened a small banged-up cooler and pulled out two bottles of beer. He handed me one and sat on another low rock.

“Thanks,” I said and scanned the label.

“It’s just beer,” Ronan said. “Water, barley, hops.”

“I need to know the carb count. For my dia-ba-titties.”

“Oh, right,” Ronan said, taking a pull off his. “That sucks.”

“Tell me about it.” I made some mental calculations. “Cut me off at two.”

“What happens if you have more than two?”

“Depends. Two could spike my sugars. More than that might drop them.”

Ronan’s dark eyes widened. “Are you saying you can never get drunk?”

“I can.” I lifted the bottle to my lips with a smirk. “But it’s not doctor recommended.”

He blew air out his cheeks. “Fuck.”

“Yep.”

A silence fell. I’d only had to hang out with him for two nights to know that Ronan wasn’t a big talker. I didn’t mind. The quiet between us was comfortable. I could think and breathe around him without any bullshit.

The sun wouldn’t set for hours, but Ronan reached into his ratty backpack for a bottle of lighter fluid and a box of matches. As he did, I counted at least four tattoos on his forearms and biceps.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Eighteen,” he said, spraying a shit-ton of lighter fluid on the wood. “Nineteen in March. I got held back in Manitowoc.”

Eighteen. Dude looked like he was twenty-four, at least. As if life were beating down like a fist, forcing out everything that was young about him.

“Did you get all that ink in one year, or did your parents give you permission?”

“No,” he said and struck a match. He tossed it on the wood, which flared into a roaring fire immediately.

I leaned back, shielding my eyes with my beer. “Jesus…”

Ronan stared into the flames, watching the wood burn. When the inferno subsided to a normal campfire level, he sat back down.

“No…what?” I asked. “No permission or—”

“No parents,” Ronan said. He took a long pull off his beer. “Mom died when I was a kid. Dad died in prison.”

“Shit,” I breathed. “Sorry, man. Why was your dad in jail?”

Ronan turned his dark eyes to me, gray and flat, like the rounded stones at our feet. “For killing my mom.”

“Holy fuck…” I took a sip of beer since my throat had gone dry. “Who do you live with now?”

“Uncle.”

Before I could say another word, Ronan aimed the lighter fluid at the fire. It arched like piss, and the fire flared, hot and bright. Soon, there wouldn’t be any wood left to burn.

Another silence fell, this one completely fucking uncomfortable since I had no idea what I should say. But that feeling came over me again—the voiceless knowing that had bonded me to Ronan in the first place. He didn’t need or want me to say anything, so I didn’t. Pretty soon, the silence felt good again.

The sun began to sink into the ocean, setting it on fire, while the sky turned as deep a blue as Violet’s eyes. When Ronan went foraging for more wood, I got out my guitar and plucked a few chords.

Ronan came back with his arms full of kindling. “It’s about time.”

Self-consciously, I messed with the frets, tuning it. “I don’t play much for people.”