“Give it to me,” I said, my hand outstretched, shaking.
Unperturbed, he played a discordant note. Ash tumbled along the guitar face and into the sound hole. “Nice. Too nice, maybe.”
“Give…it…to me,” I said, spitting the words between my teeth.
Chet met my gaze while he slowly held the guitar outstretched.
I snatched it back by the neck. “Stay the fuck out of my room.”
He chuckled. “Touchy, touchy.”
I strode back to my bedroom, returned my guitar to its case, and carried it back out. I had to make a pit stop at the refrigerator where I jammed a few snacks and a bottle of juice into my backpack. Chet’s lazy gaze was on me the entire time, like ants crawling over my skin.
“You write a lot of flowery shit, don’t you?” Chet observed.
I slammed the fridge door. “What did you say?”
“I read your songs, Bobby Dylan. You think you’re in love?” He snorted. “This girl you write for… You think she’s going to fall for you once she sees all this…” He gestured at the shabby apartment, then chuckled again. “It’d have to be one helluva song.”
Rage boiled in me, a red haze that clouded my vision. Then it burned out just as fast, leaving me hollowed out. He was right. Violet’s care for me had never wavered, not even when—especially not when—I’d been living in a fucking car. But it was one thing to be friends with a charity case. Another to kiss and fuck and walk around the school holding hands with one.
Chet muttered something else, but I barely heard it. I went out, shutting the door behind me, my feet taking me to the beach. To the Shack.
Ronan was already there. He’d gathered up driftwood and charred bits of other people’s bonfires to build his own in the small stretch of beach in front of the Shack. He set the last log, creating a wooden teepee, straightened, and whipped a lock of dark hair out of his eyes.
He jerked his chin at my guitar case. “You play?”
I nodded and sat down on a small boulder, resting the case across my knees. “I caught Chet fucking with it. I’ll have to bring it everywhere from now on. Here. To school… Fucking asshole.”
Ronan opened a small banged-up cooler and pulled out two bottles of beer. He handed me one and sat on another low rock.
“Thanks,” I said and scanned the label.
“It’s just beer,” Ronan said. “Water, barley, hops.”
“I need to know the carb count. For my dia-ba-titties.”
“Oh, right,” Ronan said, taking a pull off his. “That sucks.”
“Tell me about it.” I made some mental calculations. “C
ut me off at two.”
“What happens if you have more than two?”
“Depends. Two could spike my sugars. More than that might drop them.”
Ronan’s dark eyes widened. “Are you saying you can never get drunk?”
“I can.” I lifted the bottle to my lips with a smirk. “But it’s not doctor recommended.”
He blew air out his cheeks. “Fuck.”
“Yep.”
A silence fell. I’d only had to hang out with him for two nights to know that Ronan wasn’t a big talker. I didn’t mind. The quiet between us was comfortable. I could think and breathe around him without any bullshit.
The sun wouldn’t set for hours, but Ronan reached into his ratty backpack for a bottle of lighter fluid and a box of matches. As he did, I counted at least four tattoos on his forearms and biceps.