I look away, hearing the faint, high-pitched sounds of motorcycle engines growing closer. “I don’t want to talk about my father.”
“Yeah, me neither.”
He digs his thumb under the splinter, trying to push it up and out, and I try to yank my hand away. “Stop that.”
But he tightens his hold and pulls my hand back to him. “Stop moving.”
While he keeps working the splinter, trying to push it out, I hear the buzz of engines grow louder and spot a team of dirt bikes speeding up the gravel driveway. About five guys crowd the area behind my uncle’s truck and pull to a stop, pulling off helmets and chuckling to each other. They’re all dressed in colorful attire, looking very Motocross. Or Supercross or whatever it is they do here.
Noah trots out of the shop and approaches one of the guys. “Hey, man.”
They shake hands, and he continues wiping the grease off his fingers as he walks around the bikes, taking a look at what the guys are driving.
“Hey, how’s it going?” he greets another. “Did you run today?”
They talk, and Jake tightens his hold on my hand before spinning around and pulling me after him into the shop.
Heading over to a workbench, he flips on a lamp and holds my palm under it to get a better view.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“What?”
I turn my eyes on him.
“The taunt about your dad,” he explains, still inspecting my splinter. “I’m a prick. I’m sure I screwed up my own kids ten different ways to Sunday, so I have no room to talk.”
I turn my head, seeing Noah make the rounds to his friends, one of them still straddling his bike and lighting a cigarette. He peers over at me.
“You’re different than I thought you’d be,” Jake says softly.
I look back to him.
“Complicated,” he explains. “Tough to read. And even if I could read you, I’m not sure I can be a comfort to you.” He gives a weak smirk. “I’m not upset by their deaths, Tiernan, but I am sorry you are.”
I turn my eyes away again, toward the guys outside. “I’m not upset.”
The guy in Noah’s group of friends with the frat boy haircut and crystal eyes is still staring at me, a mischievous smile playing on his lips as he smokes. Is that Kaleb?
I feel Jake’s eyes on me, too.
“I don’t want to talk about my father,” I state again before he has the chance to keep going.
But pain slices though my hand like a spider bite, and I hiss, meeting his eyes again.
What the hell? That hurt!
But as I glare up at him, the splinter is forgotten, and I stop breathing for a moment.
Warmth spreads up my neck as his gaze hovers down on mine, hard and angry, but… kind of puzzled, too. Like he’s trying to figure me out.
His eyes aren’t blue. I thought they were. Like Noah’s. They’re green. Like summer grass.
A breeze blows through the open doors of the shop, the chatter and laughter outside miles away as a wisp of my hair, loose from the ponytail, blows across my lips.
His eyes drop to my mouth, and I stop breathing, everything getting warm.
A trickle of sweat glides down his neck, and the hair on my arms stands on end, aware of his naked chest.
We’re too close.
I…
I swallow, my mouth sandy and dry.
He finally blinks a few times, and then he brings the palm of my hand up to his lips, the warmth of his mouth trying to suck the wood from my hand.
My mouth falls open a little as his teeth gnaw and tease the splinter, and my skin is sucked and tickled.
My fingertips graze the scruff on his cheek.
I can do that. I don’t need your help.
But I can’t manage to say it out loud.
“Oh, shit,” I hear someone say outside.
Pulling my attention away from my uncle, I look outside to see Noah checking out someone’s bike.
The magazine cover turns his eyes on me again. “Who’s that?” he asks Noah.
Noah follows his gaze and sees me but ignores him.
“Stay away from the local guys, you understand?” Jake tells me.
I look up at him.
He continues, “If you get a boyfriend, you won’t be able to see him once we’re snowed in anyway. Besides, they’re not your type.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m telling you they’re not your type,” he shoots back. “I will let you know when one is.”
What a Neanderthal. For Christ’s sake.
I keep quiet, no desire to argue with him. I’m not looking for a guy, but I can take care of myself. His sons grew up with him in their faces. I’m used to making my own decisions.