The Last Piece of His Heart (Lost Boys 3)

But those muscles…

Against my will, my gaze went to his spectacular arms and the tattoos inking his skin. A half-sleeve on his right arm—wrist to elbow—showed a clock face with Roman numerals surrounded by lilies. At quick glance, the time read a little after ten.

On his inner left forearm, a right hand stabbed the left straight through the palm with a medieval-looking dagger. A drop of blood hung off the tip and dripped onto the words HANDS REMEMBER.

Remember what?

His right pectoral bore a quote that I couldn’t read—his tank covered most of it and I sure as hell wasn’t going to ask. But the owl on his right shoulder was so realistic it looked like it could take flight at any moment.

I tore my gaze from it to see Ronan watching me. “How old are you, anyway?”

“Eighteen. Nineteen in March.” His eyes dropped to his lemonade glass, his low voice laced with bitterness. “I know. I’m too fucking old for high school.”

“I wasn’t going to say that. I only asked because most guys in class don’t have ink yet. Not to mention, you seem young to be taking on Frankie’s dad.”

Ronan’s gaze came back to me. “I can handle it.”

And this time there was no bravado. Only a kind of resignation. I got the feeling that a pissed-off Mitch Dowd wasn’t the worst thing Ronan Wentz had ever contended with.

“What about your parents?” I asked, letting my tone soften slightly.

“I don’t live with my parents,” Ronan said. “I live…with my uncle. Over at Cliffside.”

“Miller lives in that neighborhood.” I shot him a dry smile. “But I’m sure you know that, seeing as how you two are besties now.”

Ronan’s lips twitched in what passed for his version of a smile.

A short silence fell but it wasn’t a bad one. Ronan didn’t seem itching to get out of the chair anymore. He glanced around the large, overgrown yard, and at the house behind me with longing in his gray eyes.

“It’s nice here,” he said. He nodded at his empty Mason jar. “And that was good.”

Without thinking, I pushed my untouched glass to him. Suspicion flooded his expression.

“You need it more than I do,” I said. “Working in this heat, I mean.”

“Thanks.” He made no move to touch it.

The conversation had sputtered to a halt, but apparently, I wasn’t in a hurry to leave the table either.

“How is it? Living with your uncle?”

“It is what it is.”

“Any brothers or sisters?”

“No.”

“Same. I’m a loner too. Just me and Bibi.”

“Your grandmother.”

“Great-grandmother. My grandmother’s mom. She died before I was born.”

“What about your parents? Are they dead too?”

“Are they…?” I crossed my arms. “That’s direct. Where are yours?”

“Dead.”