The Girl in the Love Song (Lost Boys #1)(42)

Holden shrugged, staring at the sky. “They’ve heard the song, but you put your heart and soul out there. That’s not something people hear every day.”

He was wrong. I didn’t put my heart on a slab for them but for Violet. And then I shoved it in her face. The tears in her eyes…

It was our song and I gave it away.

The front door banged open. “I said, get the fuck off my property!”

Chance stormed down the walk. River—the fucking asshole who probably gave Violet her first kiss in the closet that night—followed after, his expression dark and solemn. Calm and sober compared to Chance’s enraged drunk.

Fuck you.

My laughter died, and I hauled myself off the lawn. Holden scrambled to his feet and drew Chance’s attention by climbing onto a Range Rover parked in the drive. The car alarm blared down the darkened street, lights flashing. Amber hurried out of the house, my guitar case in her hand.

“Here,” she said, handing it to me. Her eyes were cornflower blue. Light, where Violet’s were dark. Her hair was the sun, when Violet’s was jet black. Her lips thin, while Violet’s were full and ripe to be kissed…

River got her kiss. He’ll get all her firsts…

“Miller?”

“Oh, hey,” I said, taking the case from her. “Strange fucking night.”

“You played beautifully. Just…incredible.”

“Yeah, thanks.” I hadn’t the first clue what to say to her. It wasn’t her I wanted to be talking to.

Holden raced passed me, laughing. “Time to go.”

“Time to go,” I repeated to Amber, the laughter starting to creep back in. “Um…see you later?”

She smiled. “I hope so.”

The sound of police sirens wailed in the distance as Holden led Ronan and me toward a black sedan parked across the street. A uniformed driver sat in the front seat.

“Good evening, James,” Holden said as we climbed in the back. “Would you be so kind as to remove my friends and me from the immediate area?”

James nodded, and the car sped down the darkened avenue. “Home, sir?”

“Fuck no,” Holden said. He looked to us. “Thoughts, gentlemen?”

I exchanged glances with Ronan who nodded once.

“My place,” I said and told James the address.

At the Lighthouse Apartments, James parked the sedan in a visitor spot, and we climbed out.

“Cozy,” Holden said, eyeing the complex. “After-party at Chez Stratton?”

“Not quite.” I nodded at James in the sedan. “How long will he wait?”

“As long as I need him to.” Holden lit a clove cigarette and waved away the smoke and our curious stares. “Fear not, James is being well-compensated for his time.”

“Okay. Let’s go.”





Ronan and I led the way down the beach, over the roughest rock and lashing surf. If Holden was upset that his expensive clothes were getting wet and caked with sand, he didn’t complain.

At the fisherman’s shack, he glanced around, peering in the darkened space.

“Not bad. Could use a few upgrades.”

In front of the Shack, Ronan lit a bonfire. The vast black ocean touched the shore in white foam thirty yards away while a million stars wheeled above.

I sat down heavily on my rock and pulled out a few gummies.

“CBD?” Holden said. “Sharing is caring, Stratton.”

“Not CBD. Glucose. I have diabetes.”

A genuine look of concern flashed over his green eyes. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” I glanced at him sideways. “What did you do to piss off River Whitmore?”

“I pissed off a lot of people tonight. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“The quarterback. When you were playing that Seven Minutes game.”

“Ah, yes.” Holden cleared his throat, then shrugged, his eyes on the ocean. “Don’t remember.”

“You sure?”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I was hoping you kicked him in the nuts.”

“Do tell?”

The weight of the night and all that had happened—and not happened—weighed on me, pressing me down. Making me tired. “Not tonight.”

“Fair enough.”

Ronan offered us beers from the cooler he’d stashed in the shack. Holden took one, I waved it off.

“Still feeling low,” I said and pulled an OJ out of my backpack.

“It’s nice here,” Holden said after a minute. “Really fucking nice. Like I can just…breathe.”

I nodded. “Same.”

“Same,” Ronan said.

“Do you guys hang out here a lot?” Holden asked, and I saw vulnerability in his eyes. The shields came down a little. I’d only seen him on two speeds so far: cool and collected or wildly drunk. For the first time, he seemed more like a seventeen-year-old guy without any costume on.

“Most days,” I took a pull from my juice. I checked in with Ronan, who nodded. “You’re welcome to come here too. Any time. Mi casa es su casa. Except it’s not a house. How do you say, our shitty shack is your shitty shack in Spanish?”