“It’s just a gear head thing.” He cuts me off, adjusting the emblem just-so. “That’s all. This is a sweet-ass car, she deserves to be spoiled a little.” This idiot, talking about cars like they’re people. Pretty sure that’s grounds for a psych evaluation.
My shoulders are tense as I watch him work, painstakingly cleaning the metal, applying a liberal amount of adhesive. I feel even more annoyed that the emblem fits perfectly, like the empty void behind it is a scar being wiped away. It looks right, but everything in my body tells me this is wrong. I look around at all the little dings and scars on this thing. The knob of the stick shift has a star-shaped chip, right in the middle, that’s probably older than I am. I know it’s not much, but it’s mine.
He’s admiring his handiwork, wiping a rag over the shiny bubble, when he randomly asks, “Do you get tired of it?”
I frown. “Tired of what?”
“Fighting all the time.”
Startled, I sputter, “I don’t fight. What are you talking about?”
“Sugar, all you do is fight.” The fine details of his face are lost to the low light, but I can make out the edge of his furrowed brow in his silhouette. “Mostly with yourself. I figure you have to get tired eventually. Hell, even I’m tired of fighting with you, and fighting is what I do.” He pauses, adding, “Well, it’s what I did. I mean, I’ve been fighting with my brother my whole life, and I could probably go another eighteen years with that prick. But you?” He shakes his head, rolling it sluggishly against the seat. “Damn, girl. You are some kind of exhausting.”
My only saving grace is that he’s not looking at me when he says it. Facing him head on makes me want to fight. His blue eyes cut through me, and he’s the kind of attractive that hurts to see. But it’s not just that. We’re in this car, so close together, but it’s never been more obvious to me that he’s so far out of my reach. Even if I’ve been lying—even if I wanted a guy like Sebastian Wilcox—I couldn’t have him. These fights with myself are exhausting. But the fight I’d face by giving in would be so much worse.
“Hey, Sugar?” He says my name slowly, apprehensively. When I look over, his lips are pressed into a tense line, making me wary.
“What?”
There’s a long beat of silence before he asks, “Why can’t people touch you?” It hangs there in the air, all sharp and too-exposed. The garage lights don’t fully reach to the inside of the car, but a sliver of it catches on a lock of hair that’s fallen over his eye. If I were doing less of that lying-to-myself thing, I’d admit that my fingers twitch to sweep away.
It takes me a long moment to give him this. “I just don’t like it.”
“Is it because…” Knuckles going white around the steering wheel, his low, rough voice grinds through the silence. “Did someone hurt you?”
You did once, I want to say.
But it’s not the same. Taking a hit, leaning into the blow, that’s something I’m good at. Hiding the bruises. Tending the wounds. Working through the aches. No, it’s the hate behind it that gets me. That’s the hurt that festers, the wound that scabs but never quite heals. As much as it pains me to admit it, I know the difference between that and what happened with Sebastian. I know he didn’t mean it. I know he feels bad about it. I know, in a way, that he wouldn’t do it again. What happened that night at the docks made this wild, scared storm inside of me so much worse, but it’s not his to claim.
It never really was.
“Yeah,” I say, swallowing around a tongue that feels swollen and parched.
He bobs his head in reply, the motion loose and unsurprised
. “I hope one day you’ll tell me who.” When he finally turns to look at me, I feel my lungs constrict at the raging fire in his eyes. “So I can fucking kill him.”
His voice, harsh and firm, sends a shiver down my spine, and I don’t doubt for one second that he means it. It should scare me. It should grab onto this particle of anxiety sitting dormant in my chest and pull it out, bring it forward. This is worse than anger. This is purpose and promise, a threat of a vengeance that isn’t even his to give. It should be terrifying.
Instead, it makes my belly spark with a different kind of nerves.
I wish I didn’t have to lie. I wish I didn’t have to trade one fight for another. Leaning into blows is something I’m good at, but I wish I weren’t. I’d rather feel the things currently going on in my chest—these fucking fantastic, blood-blazing things—and be good at leaning into them instead. I’d rather see that hard, certain look roaring in Sebastian’s eyes and just… fucking do something about it.
Because god, he’s right.
I’m so, so fucking tired of fighting.
It takes a fraction of a second for Sebastian’s face to change when I lean in. When it does, slacking into a shocked expression, I don’t give him time to put voice to it. I clear the space between us and press our mouths together.
This should be stilted and halting. I haven’t initiated a kiss with a guy in a long time, and Sebastian is clearly caught off guard, lips parting on a surprised inhale. But there’s nothing halting about it at all. Our lips slide together like puzzle pieces. He tilts his face to surge into it so smoothly that my stomach dips.
I hear him shift, and I can feel his hand lifting to my face in that way I can always anticipate a touch. He stops before it makes contact—before I can ever flinch away. It must land on the steering wheel instead, because I can hear the creak of the leather when he grips it.
I try to focus on his mouth and not the panic that threatens to bubble over. On the warmth and how into it he is. On the way his tongue licks against the seam of my lips and slowly enters my mouth. This isn’t the erratic, impulsive boy I’ve watched fight and race his way through life. His movements are strong and sure, full of careful intent. The fight might rage on inside my chest, but it’s so easy to sink into him, lost in the rush of sensations; heat, smell, taste, the sound of the Mustang’s old seats creaking beneath us.
I pull back to catch my breath and see the blue of his eyes glazed over.
“Sugar,” he says, my name a low whisper, reverent. “Please don’t run from me. Not this time.”