Cry Wolf (Wolves of Angels Rest #7)(21)

She ripped through a version of “Devil Went Down to Georgia” to get her fingers up to speed then played around the edges to see where there might be room for another song about a good girl resisting the bad boy. Ooh, maybe she wasn’t a good girl. Maybe she was worse than the devil…

She found a riff she liked and worked backward to a verse, humming the syllables of what would eventually be lyrics.

“You’re sure a happy camper tonight.”

The caustic comment brought her whirling around, and the head stock of the guitar smacked into the wine bottle.

Only Diesel’s quick snatch kept it from spilling.

Not that there was much left to spill.

He lifted the bottle. He gave it a little wag, as if to test how much was left, then arched an eyebrow at her.

Whatever. She didn’t owe him a tally of her empties. Her fingers twitched with the desire to snatch the bottle from his grip.

Not to keep the wine for herself but to free his hands for something better.

Damn it, he didn’t get to just waltz back after running off before.

She held the guitar like a riot shield in front of her, not letting anyone through. “If you’re looking for Betsy, she’s off with her boyfriend tonight.”

“I’m not looking for anyone else.”

Anyone else besides… “Oh.” She throttled the stupid burst of giddy delight at the thought he’d been looking for her. Stupid wine.

Diesel leaned one elbow on the deck railing, watching her, still idly swinging the bottle. “Sorry I took off yesterday. Had some things to do.”

She shrugged with great care: not too much disregard, because then it would be obvious she was hurt. “No biggie. I have things to do too. Actually, I was in the middle of one, so…”

Oh, please don’t go.

She bit her lip, and her fingers slid a little ways down the neck of the guitar, raising a faint cry from the strings and a hollow reverberation from the sound chamber. As if the guitar was saying what she wouldn’t.

“I just wanted to check on you,” he said. “But if it’s all good…”

“I was thinking about taking a drive up to the mesa,” she said abruptly.

The bottle stilled in his hand. “That’s not a good idea.”

She frowned at the sharp edge in his voice. “Not tonight. But it seems like the view would be great, and I thought maybe you could tell me—”

“No.”

She blinked. “No?”

He thumped the bottle down. “The road is a switchback, too rough for the van.”

“Oh. Maybe there’s someplace else I can go tomorrow.”

He shifted from one boot to the other. “I thought you had a lot to get done. Can’t you do that here where it’s…quiet?”

“That’s part of it,” she said. “But I’d like to get some inspiration.”

In the fading light, his eyes glinted at her, a touch too bright, as if he’d finished off the wine when she wasn’t looking. “I can inspire you.”

Her pulse ramped up. “Maybe you can borrow that SUV and take me up there.”

He closed the small distance between them, his knee bumping hers as he loomed over her where she sat on the step. “I can inspire you right here.”

She tilted her head to look up at him, clutching the guitar a little closer. “I don't know. Seems like every time we have a moment, you run off not long thereafter. Starts to make a girl feel a little…”

He looked down at her. “Unwanted?”

“Stabby.”

His lips quirked. “As I recall, your bottle shooting days did more damage to you.”

“I grew up, and my aim got better.”

His jaw tightened. “Stuck me right through the important parts.”

For some reason, his grumbling made her feel better. “That why you ran?”

“I didn’t run,” he said.

“Sorry, my mistake. The first time you left town. The second time you sneaked out. The third time you drove off without a word.”

“The first one wasn’t my fault,” he said. “The other two…” He ran a hand through his hair. Though it was shorter than when he’d been a kid, the dark strands stuck up with the same wildness. “Yeah, I ran.”

“Why?”

“I’m…not in a place where I can…be good for you right now.”

It didn’t take a professional ear to hear all the awkward pauses, and she knew there was a ton he wasn’t telling her. “I didn’t ask you to be good for me,” she said gently. “In fact, as I recall, mostly we were about getting into trouble.”

His quirked grin returned, and it occurred to her that he always seemed to like her best when she was being her most authentic, least sequined self. She liked herself best then, too; no wonder the time in Vegas had sucked her dry.

“I’ve made promises to people I can’t break,” he said.

“Didn’t ask for promises either,” she noted.

“But I gave you one back then.”

“Right. Our blood oath.” She shook her head. “Tell you what. Consider yourself freed of your oath. It was all just a game anyway.”

Once again his jaw worked as if he was holding back words. And she felt for him, she really did, because she’d gone too long not being able to find what she wanted to say. So she wasn’t going to hold herself back anymore.