A Desire So Deadly

between mine, and the friction is so intimate, my eyelids flutter and I’m positively submerged in desire.

Without thinking, I lean forward and kiss him. The minute my mouth touches his, the world surrounding us disappears. He tastes lightly of cinnamon—his kiss soft and gentle, yet it consumes me. Harlin rests his hand on the back of my neck, and when his tongue grazes my lower lip, my entire body responds.

I’m lost in the passion of the moment, and I push him back on the blanket. “I’ve missed you,” I say, overwhelmed with the feeling. He’s devouring me, and I can’t get a clear thought—it’s all kisses and longing. Harlin’s touch is maddening as he teases with the hem of my tank top. In that moment, I’m willing to give him everything.

But then, in a crashing wave, my sanity returns from wherever it had retreated. I realize where I am and pull back, shocked—somewhat scandalized. I put my fingers on my still-tingling lips, mortified at my behavior. “Whoa,” I say, moving off him. “I’m sorry.”

Harlin, still breathing heavily, looks disoriented. “Believe me,” he says, sitting up, “you have nothing to apologize for. That was—” He stops when I climb to my feet, ready to run out of here.

My life has completely crashed and burned tonight, and this is another complication I’ve added to it. I have to get home. Harlin stands, his eyes wide as he follows me to where I’m bending to get the flashlight.

“You don’t have to go,” he says. “I won’t let you kiss me again.” He smiles, trying to lighten the moment, but it’s too late. My guilt has won out. Harlin reads the thought, and the sadness returns—a dark cloud over everything. “Don’t leave me,” he says in a low voice.

Pain hits my chest, his plea deeper than I can understand. But this is crazy, just like everything else in my life right now. “I have to,” I say regretfully. “This”—I motion around us—“isn’t me.”

Harlin watches me back away, and I’m suddenly so vulnerable—ready to be swept away with him if he’d only just ask. But he doesn’t; he stands there like I’ve broken his heart. “I know exactly who you are, Claire,” he calls from behind me. “I’m just not sure how to tell you yet.”

I pause, glancing back at him. Harlin lowers his head, seeming as devastated as I feel, but there’s something nagging at me. “Why don’t you and Lucy like each other?” I ask.

His head snaps up.

“You’ve talked to her?” he asks. “What did she tell you?”

His mood shifts, his shoulders tense. Lucy wasn’t kidding about their relationship. “She said you used to date her sister. But she broke your heart.”

“Stay away from Lucy,” he says, not disputing my words. “She’s not who she seems. She’s a bad influence, Claire.”

I’m kind of offended on Lucy’s behalf, and cross my arms over my chest. “She’s the one who let me know my boyfriend was cheating on me. And she told me about you, even though you pretended not to know her on the beach last night. Maybe you’re the bad influence.”

Harlin straightens, but I can’t handle the hurt look on his face. I turn and start back to the car, my chest feeling heavier the farther from him I get. By the time I’m at the Jeep, my anger at Ezra and Soleil has been diffused by my own guilt about kissing Harlin. How am I any better than my boyfriend?

And Harlin. What the hell was that about? I want to be ashamed, but instead I’m reveling in the smell of him left behind on my skin. His taste. His voice drifting into my ear. Clearly I’ve gone off the rails—but I’m not sorry. Why aren’t I sorry?

Every light in my house is ablaze when I pull into the driveway ten minutes later. I take a moment to gather myself, wiping my cheeks and smoothing back my hair. I touch my lips, flashing back to how it felt when Harlin kissed me. I close my eyes, missing him.

What is wrong with me? I quickly get out of the Jeep and head inside, embarrassed that I let a stranger interrupt what should be a normal grieving process. I just caught my boyfriend and my best friend together. I should be furious. I should be devastated. And I was. When I was at the movies, I’d never felt such hatred, like I was surrounded in a dark cloud of misery. Now . . . I’m just sad.

I walk in the front door, expecting to find my parents watching TV on the sofa, but the room is empty. I hear the water running in the kitchen. When I walk in, I see my mother at the sink, scrubbing forcefully at the bottom of a pan.

“Hey, Mom.”

My mother turns so quickly the pan drops from her hands and clatters in the sink. She stands for a minute, looking me over, and then turns off the faucet. “Thank God,” she says, and then crosses the room to hug me. My mother always smells like vanilla, the scent of comfort, and although I don’t know why she’s hugging me, in her arms the events of the day, of the weekend, come crashing down. I start to cry into my mother’s shoulder.

“Claire, where have you been?” she asks, pulling away to look at me. She brushes back my hair with her still-wet hands. “Your father and brother are out looking for you. I called Soleil, but she said the two of you are fighting. She said you had a breakdown in the movie theater. What’s going on?”

I sniffle back my tears, my fear and hurt bubbling up to the surface. “Ezra and Soleil,” I start, “they were together at the movies. I think they’re seeing each other.”

My mother’s eyes widen, and she pulls me against her once again. She says all the soothing things she should, trying her best to make it better, be understanding. But it’s not just my relationship drama weighing on me. I’m scared.

“Mom,” I say, and my voice cracks. “I think something’s wrong with me.”

She tilts her head sympathetically. “Oh, honey. There’s nothing wrong with you. If Ezra is cheating, that’s because he’s a jerk. Not because you did something wrong.”

“No. That’s not what I mean. I—”

The front door opens, and we turn to see my father and brother walk in. My dad drops the keys on the entry table and crosses the room to hug me. “I was so worried,” he murmurs. “Where’ve you been?”

“I went to the beach,” I reply, my cheek against the front of his shirt. It’s all too much—the worry, the fear. With my parents I feel safe, and I don’t want to dwell on the other stuff. I don’t know if they’d believe it anyway.

My father keeps his arm around me as my mother delicately tells him about Ezra and Soleil, shooting me sympathetic glances. I feel my father stiffen and actually look at the door like he might go out and confront my boyfriend. But by the end of the conversation, it is decided that we all need some rest. A new perspective in the morning to evaluate what to do.

“Next time you go to the beach at night,” my father tells me, “let one of us know. River and I were at the beach, and the only person we saw there was some guy on a Harley. Nearly gave me a heart attack to know there was a stranger riding around while my daughter was unaccounted for.”

River narrows his eyes, trying to gauge my reaction. He might have some suspicions that I was with Harlin after seeing him in the bakery today. I quickly look away. Admitting I was with another guy isn’t going to win me any sympathy points, and right now I need the comfort.

So I let my parents tell me it will be okay. I let myself believe them. And when I go to bed, I vow to fix things in the morning—figure out what exactly is going on. And how exactly I feel about it.

Chapter 7

The sound of rain patters on the windows of the diner. I look around, and the place is empty except for one table in the corner. A blond-headed guy sits with his back to me, and I’m drawn to him. Slowly, my legs heavy as if walking through water, I move toward him. But before I reach him, he pauses, a coffee cup in his hand.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he says in a British accent, and turns slightly. I can see his features, his hair graying at the temples, the scratchy beard growing on his jaw. I recognize him, although I can’t imagine from where. “You’re still so beautiful.” He turns his back to me once again and sips from his cup.

“Who are you?” I ask. My voice sounds low and muffled. It surprises me, but then I look around again. I know this place—it’s a diner in Thistle, Arizona—even though I’ve never been there. It hits me then that this is a dream.