These Thorn Kisses (St. Mary’s Rebels 3)

I duck my head then.

And bite my lip. So I don’t smile.

Who is he?

I can’t believe he’s trying to help me. That’s what he’s doing, isn’t it?

He’s trying to make sure that I’m okay. That I’m not lost.

I don’t think anyone has ever done that before.

So maybe I should tell him what I’m doing here and that this part of town is extremely safe. And that I came from the same party he was at.

But I don’t. Not yet.

Instead I spring to my feet and say in the same flippant tone as before, trying to ruffle his responsible feathers some more, “And now I’m not sitting on the side of a deserted, potentially dangerous road either. Oh, and I’m definitely not by myself now. You’re here. See?”

This time along with his brows bunching, his chest moves as well as he sighs. “Yeah. Which clearly is a mistake that I need to rectify. So I think I’m going to l —”

I take a step toward him. “Where are you from?”

He takes a step back. “What?”

I know that was abrupt but I’ve been dying to ask him that question ever since I saw him tonight. So I ask as I take another step close. “You’re not from here, are you? You can’t be.”

Automatically he takes another step back. “And what gave me away?”

Everything.

From his clothes to his hair. To the fact that he stopped to check on me.

Not to mention, I’ve just realized that he keeps moving away from me.

Every step I take toward him, he takes one back. As if determined to keep a distance between us. Respectable, responsible distance.

Again, so fucking fascinating after my run-ins with Robbie.

“Because first, you stopped to check on me,” I tell him. “Make sure that I was okay.”

I feel him studying me for a second or two, quite possibly baffled. “So?”

“So that’s a very nice gesture,” I reply. “People in this town aren’t that nice.”

I feel bad about saying that.

It’s my town; I grew up here. And even though I’m not the most well-liked or regarded, this is still my town. I’m probably going to live here for the rest of my life. But it is what it is and I’m not going to not give him a compliment when he deserves one.

This time his scrutiny lasts longer than two seconds before he asks, “And what’s the second thing?”

“Second thing?”

“First I stopped to check on you,” he explains. “What’s the second thing I did that gave me away?”

“Your hair.”

He draws back slightly. “What?”

Okay that, I wasn’t expecting to say.

I mean I was thinking it but I wasn’t planning on saying it. Out loud.

I’m weird. I’m not crazy.

But.

Taking it back now would seem even crazier. Besides, he does have good hair. Just look at it: the strands fluttering in the summer breeze, grazing the collar of his shirt. Some have even fallen over that beautifully broad forehead of his, hanging in his eyes.

I wish I could tell the color of both.

His eyes and his hair.

Just so I could mix up the exact shades and paint my body with them.

“Well, you have… interesting hair,” I say.

He’s squinting as if in thought. “Interesting hair.”

“Yes.” I nod. “People in this town have boring hair. All polished and cut close to the scalp. All gelled up, you know? I guess they’re all trying to look sophisticated and civilized and whatever. But you, your hair’s gorgeous. It’s long and free and I bet you could actually feel the wind in your hair. Which I would love to feel too, but if I take down my hair right now, it’s going to take me forever to get it back up, looking like that. So anyway, I like your hair. It’s super interesting. Unlike anything that I’ve ever seen.”

I’m blushing, really hard, when I finish my word vomit, again feeling slightly bad about dissing the hair of my town’s people.

And he probably can see it all, my blush I mean.

Since I’m standing under the yellow pool of light, all exposed while he enjoys the cover of darkness. He can probably see my fisted hands too, and I know for a fact that he just swept his eyes of unknown color over my hair.

But when his scrutiny goes on for too long, all silent and heavy, I say, “It’s a compliment.”

To which he responds in a very dry, sardonic voice, “Ah. A compliment. I’m still hung up on the fact that there’s such a thing as interesting hair.”

At this I forget my embarrassment and smile. “There totally is. And you should probably thank me now.”

“Because it’s a compliment.”

“Yes. And I was nice enough to give you one.”

Still watching me, he murmurs, “So then by your estimation, you’re not from this town either. Because apparently people here aren’t that nice.”

“I’m allowed to be nice though,” I tell him.