The Player Next Door

Is this his covert way of saying he’s taking us back to my place for sex?

God, I hope so.

The engine roars as he makes a right turn, away from Hickory Street and my bed, and I’m left clueless again.

A familiar bell tower looms ahead. “The fire station?”

He shakes his head. “You’re terrible at this game.”

“Give me a hint!” What’s there to do in Polson Falls on a Tuesday night?

“I did already. I can’t believe you don’t remember.” He sounds put out, but I know it’s a facade.

“Maybe that summer wasn’t as memorable for me after all,” I throw back dryly.

The corner of his mouth twitches as he reaches across the leather bench seat and slips his fingers through mine, giving them a squeeze.

We coast along the street in silence, hand in hand. I’m still clueless but I’m too focused on the way his calloused thumb is drawing circles over my palm, the same way it did over my body last Saturday, to care where he’s taking me. It’s been forever since something as innocent as a man’s hand in mine could be so enthralling.

Up ahead, a steady line of cars is turning into the Galaxy Drive-In parking lot.

“Figured it out yet?” he taunts.

“Are you kidding me?” I laugh. “I hated this place!”

He affords a quick glance away from the road to look at me in disbelief. “You did not hate this place.”

“I worked here for two summers.” I haven’t stepped foot on the property since my last shift shoveling popcorn and pouring fountain drinks.

“Fine, but you didn’t hate it when you were here with me.”

“True,” I admit begrudgingly. Being an employee meant I could get us in for half price—and sometimes free, depending on who was working the gate. We came here every week on my nights off that summer, to lounge in the back of Dean’s truck, inhaling Dr. Pepper—sometimes laced with alcohol—and make out. It was being with Shane that I loved, not Galaxy Drive-In. “Since when are they open on a Tuesday in September?” They only ever played movies throughout the week during the summer.

“I think they’ve been hurting for cash so they started opening up for cheap nights, playing older movies. A last money grab before they close next month.” Shane pays the young male attendant at the gate and coasts in.

The place is busier than I’d expect for an off-season Tuesday night. It’s a relic with its one screen, and yet it apparently hasn’t failed to still bring in a crowd. Several rows of cars are lined up as people settle in, filtering to and from the concession stand—a small blue shack that used to be yellow. It appears they even updated the dingy restroom unit. Somehow working the concession stand also earned me the job of cleaning those out at the end of the night. I’ve long since blocked the horrors of that task from my mind.

Shane parks in an empty spot in the back corner, leaving plenty of space between us and a Honda. The occupants—a man and his teenage son—turn to gawk at us.

“Do you like the attention you earn in this beast?”

“Honestly, I don’t notice anymore.” He cuts the engine and then shifts his body, stretching his arm across the back of the long bench seat. The move pulls his shirt tight over his chest as he turns to face me. “So?” He pushes a strand of hair off my forehead. “You up for this?”

Up for what exactly?

We spent a lot of time at the drive-in, not watching movies that summer. We’re parked back here, away from prying eyes. Was that strategic on his part?

“What’s playing tonight?” I crane my neck but can’t read the marquee from here.

“Saw.”

I groan, letting my head fall back against the seat—and his arm. “This is going to be The Ring all over again, isn’t it?” I hate horror movies. I spent a good chunk of that night hiding my face in his neck.

“I hope so.” Chuckling and giving my shoulder an affectionate squeeze, he unbuckles his seat belt. “Dr. Pepper?”

“Sure, why not?” Burgers and milkshakes, now soda and popcorn. “I’m going to vomit before the end of the night.”

“As long as you don’t do it in my car.” He slides out.

I settle my arm where his was a moment ago, across the back of the seat. Resting my chin on my arm, I continue with my new favorite pastime—admiring Shane’s ass as he strolls away from me. Every square inch of that man is perfect.

Including, I’m beginning to see, his heart.

Five minutes later, Shane is trudging back, his arms loaded with the red tray they loan out to carry multiple concession purchases. “Didn’t know what you’d want,” he says, sliding the tray over the seat. He tucks the fountain drinks into a cup holder attachment off the dash—the only modern thing in here.