That Girl (That Girl, #1)(24)

The word hits me like a Mack truck flying down the interstate. My feet scramble to the ground and are ready to run in a split second. Lincoln sees the fear and my feet poised to flee. He wraps me up in his arms. “No, Oakley, no. I’m sorry. I won’t push it. Please don’t run.”

I’m rigid with panic in his embrace. “I can’t be loved. You can’t love me. I’m trying here, but…”

“Pizza,” Lincoln interrupts. “I want pizza.”

“Pizza,” I repeat, momentarily confused.

“There’s a little joint down the road that stays open late. Let’s go,” he says, lightly stroking my back.

“Pizza,” I repeat, trying to calm myself down.

“We can take my truck,” he suggests.

I can do pizza. Pizza isn’t scary. “Okay, let me grab my wallet.”

“Absolutely not. I suggested it and will be treating you to it.”

“Okay, let me lock up my room.”

Walking into my room, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I was thinking about running into the bathroom, locking it, and not reappearing until his truck pulls away. Why did he have to mention love? The night was perfect until then. Granted, the way he put it was totally joking, but he still knocked all the air out of my gut.

Take a leap, girl. He seems like a great guy and totally just gave you your first kiss. You can handle pizza.

Lincoln is waiting in his truck when I walk out, and his face lights up when he sees me. I can tell he’s thinking the same exact thing I was.

“You thought I was going to run, didn’t you?” I ask, opening the passenger door.

“I did.”

“Well, I didn’t.”

“You did not. Thank you, Oakley.”

Lincoln pulls out on the main road. This truck is nothing less than amazing. Leather seats, black interior trimmed with chrome, and beefy tires make it simply stunning, and in an odd way a perfect fit for Lincoln’s looks.

“I have to tell you something. I’m going to say it now because you can’t run from me when you’re in a moving vehicle.”

“Lincoln, don’t,” I warn.

“You’re beautiful, Oakley, and every time I see you I’m going to tell you that. You are the most beautiful person I’ve ever met.”

He hit the nail right on the head; it’s a damn good thing I’m in a moving vehicle or I’d be running. I’ve never been complimented on my looks; if anything, I was always put down and criticized for how plain I am. My scars always made me stand out, but for all the wrong reasons.

“I like your truck,” I reply, avoiding the issue.

“Thanks,” he says, grinning, knowing he won this little battle, “It’s a hand-me-down, but the day Levi drove it home when he was in college, I fell in love with her. My mom had a hissy fit that I wanted to drive my brother’s old truck.”

“Why would she freak out?”

“Because in the Wilks family we have to keep up with everybody and do it a notch better. Driving a used truck is just a heinous act.”

We both laugh at his words, and in the back of my mind I mentally pray I never have to meet his family. If his mother thinks driving a used truck is a crime, she’d surely have me hung in the streets for the life I’ve lived.

“Lincoln Wilks,” I murmur.

“Wouldn’t sound half bad on the end of Oakley,” he says.

“Oh my God, are you trying to kill me off?” I spout.

“Sorry, I had to,” he says, laughing so hard tears fall down his cheeks.

“Very funny, Wilks. Watch your back, soccer boy.”

Playfully, I lean over and punch him in the abs; Lincoln grabs my hand and doesn’t let go. I don’t fight or try to pull back. Lincoln starts rubbing the scars like he always does. Every time he rubs my palm, it slowly erases the pain that has been so attached to it.

“It’s a burn. My momma’s boyfriend did it while she watched with a house full of adults. He used the burner on the stove.”

Lincoln doesn’t respond or let go of my hand; he continues to rub the scar. We finally pull into a small parking lot.

“Pizza?” he asks.

With a proud smile, I reply, “Pizza.”

Lincoln hops out of his truck, and I can’t quite force myself to move from the seat, knowing I’m about to eat with him. Jazzy never even knew the truth behind the story. I told her, along with everyone at school, I burned myself while cooking. I just told him the real story behind the burn.

My door opens, and I see Lincoln standing there with his ball cap on backward and his damn black shorts hanging low on his hips.

“It’s okay, Oakley.”

“No, it’s not,” I say, turning in my seat to face him, “I get upset when you compliment me, and then I tell you the f*cked up story behind my scar. Every time you touch it, it erases just a little bit of the pain.”

“Then let me touch you all the time.”

“I can’t be as open as you, Lincoln. I can’t help the cringing internally or externally; it’s my reaction to compliments. I’m nineteen and just had my first kiss tonight. I’ve never had a boyfriend. Hell, I’ve had one friend in my life and lost her. I can’t handle it all.”