Him (Him #1)(26)

The dark is coming on fast. We’re almost there when the path becomes truly difficult to see. I can hear Wes’s footfalls behind me, and the skittering sound of the pebbles he displaces with each step. I’d bet cash money that Wes is in the zone like I am right now, thinking only of the task at hand. When the body is busy, the mind shuts up for a while.

It’s almost totally dark, but I know we’re just yards from the trailhead. That’s when I hear Wes stumble. There’s a grunt and the sound of feet sliding on dirt. My heart catches as I hear him go down a few paces behind me. “Fuck,” he grumbles.

I turn around and find him splayed out on the ground. Shit. I’ve dragged Toronto’s new forward up a f*cking mountain in the dark. If he’s sprained something, it’s all on me. “You okay?” Feeling sick, I make my way uphill again to where he is.

“Yeah,” he says, but that’s not proof. A hockey player always says that, even when it’s not true. But then Wes sits up from the shadows.

I stick out a hand and he closes his fingers around it and squeezes. The pressure of his grasp calms me down. With a tug from me he’s on his feet again, and the warmth of his hand leaves mine. But I don’t turn around and head down yet. “Seriously, did you twist anything?”

The shadow of Wes shifts his weight from one foot to the other and back again. “Nope. Banged my knee on a rock. But it’s nothing.” He scrapes his hands together to dust them off.

Letting out a breath I don’t even know I’m holding, I turn around and pick my way even more slowly down the hill.

Wes’s car waits for us in the dark. I hop into the passenger seat, relieved that my hike hasn’t injured anyone. The dome light shows me a smiling Wes, but there’s dirt on his shirt. I reach over and brush it off, undoing the damage.

He gives me a wink. “You copping a feel?” Laughing at his own joke, he cranks the engine. “Where are we headed?”

“Anyplace. Your pick.”

Wes turns the car around and heads back to the main road. “We passed a bar before this turnoff. Lou’s, or something. You ever been there?”

I shake my head. “Never have wheels, so I always drink in town.”

“We’ll give it a try,” he says.





13





Jamie





There are a million cars outside Lou’s because the place shares a parking lot with a Dairy Queen. We park on the road and walk through the cricket-filled darkness to the decently sized roadside bar.

Lou’s has an Adirondack theme, and they’re working it pretty hard. The requisite old wooden paddles hang from the paneled walls. An inverted canoe is suspended on hooks from the ceiling. The drink specials are named for nearby peaks.

Of course they are.

“Okay, so you’ll have the Nippletop, and I’ll have the Dix Mountain.” Wes is already enjoying himself.

“Dude, if the Nippletop has peach schnapps in it, I will hurt you.”

He grins, and it’s wicked. “How do you feel about elderflower vodka?”

“Not funny.” I wave down the bartender. “I’ll have a Saranac IPA. Thanks.”

Wes flips the drink menu onto the bar. “Make that two, please.” He puts a twenty down, and when I reach for my wallet, he waves me off. “I’ll get these.”

We take our beers to a high table, both of us doing a little people watching. I don’t see any girls I want to chat up, but that’s fine because that’s not what I came here for, anyway.

Wes fishes his phone out of his pocket. “Should have shut this thing off,” he says. Then he squints at the screen.

“What?”

“It’s a Brandr notification. Somebody’s trying to chat me. And it says ‘less than 100 feet away.’”

I almost choke on a swallow of my beer. “Some guy in here?” Then I’m swiveling my head in every direction, wondering who it is.

Wes kicks me under the table. “Cut that out.”

But it’s too late. At the far end of the room, there’s a guy in a Fugees T-shirt looking this way. He’s watching me. Then he smiles.

“Oh, f*ck,” I hiss out.

Wes is laughing. “Dude, you just picked up a guy.”

“What?” I’m sweating now. And I can’t beat the crap out of my best friend because the guy has almost reached our table.

“Hey,” he says, giving me a grin. Then he looks at Wes. “Wait.” He chuckles. “Which of you…?”

Oh my f*cking God.

“It’s my profile,” Wes says, and I can tell he’s trying very hard not to bust a gut. “You like?”

“You fishing for compliments?” The guy winks. He’s a few years older than us, with dark, shiny hair. “I need another beer. Can I buy a round?”

“I’m good,” I say quickly.

“One for you, then,” he says, pointing at Wes. Then he slips away to the bar.

When he’s gone, Wes puts his face in his hands and laughs. “Jesus, the look on your face!”

Ugh. “Why did he think it was me, anyway?”

“My face isn’t in my profile pic.” Wes can hardly speak for laughing.