Don't Lie (Don't 2)

Surprised by the heat that stemmed from my shoulder, I smiled. “Sounds good.”

“Hold on up there!” Blake shouted before throwing the boat into full gear and pointing it toward Aunt Lindy’s pier.

6

Blake

I dropped Sierra off on her aunt’s pier and didn’t even look over my shoulder. I wasn’t supposed to care if she made it inside the house, or if she even fell over into the dark waters.

It was stupid relieving old high school pranks about ghost stories and shit that was from the past.

I chugged the last of my beer and steered us back. Cole could wake up in the morning to a neck full of mosquito bites. I left him snoring on the bow and hopped off.

I didn’t know if I could shake it. If I could pretend she wasn’t here. I drove home with fireworks exploding overhead.

My palm slammed into the steering wheel. My summer was fucked. The peace I needed off the field to be the warrior I needed to be on the field was fucked. The last shred of solitude I had found in my life was fucked because Sierra Emory had decided to come home.

It didn’t matter she hadn’t been seen here in eight years. She never visited her aunt. I heard she didn’t even make the funeral.

And now what? She thought she could parade that tight ass into one of Shirley’s parties and all would be forgiven?

No one around here cared she was some kind of hot as shit reporter in Dallas. Money didn’t impress islanders. Neither did fame. Hard work did. Loyalty. Family. She’d fucked all that up.

And it was time someone told her she didn’t belong on this island.

I drove deeper through the winding streets until I parked outside of the two-story Victorian house.

It had been in Sierra’s family for over a hundred years. The islanders said Aunt Lindy’s father was crazy when he built it. They said it wouldn’t withstand a hurricane or even a nor’easter, but here it was, still standing.

I glared at the white siding and the drain pipe next to the upstairs bedroom. I’d helped Sierra sneak out more than once using the metal as a ladder.

I slammed the truck door, marching up the back stairs. They creaked under my weight.

“Sierra!” I pounded on the door. “Sierra. Open up.”

I heard the lock rattle and then she appeared on the other side of the screen. Her face glistened with tears.

What the fuck?

“What are you doing here?” She wiped at her cheeks with her fingertips.

“Why are you crying?” My shoulders were tense. My neck strained. I had walked up here with a mission to put her straight.

She shook her head. “It’s nothing. Stupid nostalgia I guess.”

“Nostalgia, huh?” I crossed my arms. It was fucking ironic is what it was.

“What’s wrong? Why are you banging on the door?”

“I thought we needed to get a few things straight.”

“Like what?”

“Are you going to let me in?” The screen door was a barrier between us.

Her hand rested on the latch and suddenly the door was open and I was inside the old house.

There were boxes everywhere. Half the furniture was covered in sheets.