Page 12 of Off Court Fix

But that memory brings a frown to my face when I think of one time in particular we were on that slip and slide. Mason slicked it down with vegetable oil and I flew, hitting my head against the brick lining her garden beds. He had been high that day. And years later, he would die in that backyard.

The other reason I don’t tell Crosby I inherited Grandma’s house is that whatever this is—whatever started in the church down the street—isn’t a for-eternity kind of thing. It’s afor-tonightkind of thing, not to be repeated.

“Forty-three is hardly old,” I offer, trying to lighten the moment, but I can’t say for certain I accomplished that.

Crosby shifts in his seat. It should make me feel better—the way his palms are pressed flat against his thighs in what seems to be a sign he’s keeping them in sight. Maybe someone might think I’m crazy, potentially writing myself into a plotline forLaw and Order: SVU, because Crosby is making it painfully obvious he’s now trying to stay away from me when, just minutes ago, he held my hand like it was the most precious thing in the world.

He held it like hewantedto, like he wanted me—just me.

I tsk quietly, trying to accept that the moment is gone, as well as the fact he wanted to holdAmy’shand, not mine.

“I should go.” I reach for the door handle, preparing to jump into the rain and leave the ghost of Amy in the car with Crosby. But Crosby reaches out, I imagine to place a hand on my arm, but instead, he misses and his palm—warm,sizzling—lands right on my bare thigh.

“It’s pouring.” He doesn’t move his hand, and I swear I feel the lightest flex of his fingers against my skin. “Shit, you’re freezing.”

But as much as I’m not Amy, I’m equally not cold. Not in the slightest.

Crosby snatches his hand. “Let me turn the car on, warm you up.”

“No,” I say immediately. “Don’t.”

There’s something about the dark. I’munafraidin the dark. There are no lights, no cameras, no thousands of eyes on me. There’s only one pair, and I’m so drawn to them that I find them in the near black when I lift my head from my lap.

I still can’t see anything outside of the windows apart from the faintest glow of street lights. The rain is soheavy it’s almost blinding. But Crosby... we find each other in the dark of the car, like magnets with nowhere else to go but toward each other.

“Amy...”

I don’t know if I love the way Crosby is saying that name, or I’m just so happy he isn’t sayingmine. But he sees me, hears me, even if I’m wearing Amy’s mask.

My phone buzzes again, and I see Alyssa’s name flash again.

“Do you hate her too?” he asks and sighs when I shake my head. “Maybe she’s worried about you.”

I drag that warm hand back to my lap and slide it to my thigh. “Should she be?”

My pulse beats deeply from what feels like everywhere all at once. And I know Crosby can feel it pounding from one place in particular, not far from where his hand rests. It’s still dark, and I’m still Amy, I’m still brave, I still go after what I want with no apologies. I press down on his hand, my breath hitching in the back of my throat as I slide him up and over.

“No,” Crosby says, his voice deep and husky.

This time there’s no mistaking it. He grabs my thigh, holding still.

And like I can be brave in the dark, I can be just as embarrassed.

Quickly, I sandwich my thighs closed and lift my hand from his, but Crosby grabs a hold of it.

“Touch yourself,” he whispers, and even though the rain is pounding, I hear him clear as day. “I want to feel you do it.” Firmly, Crosby presses my hand to my thighs, wedging them open. I stop breathing and shut my eyes when he slides us up and my fingers brush against the lace of my underwear. “I want tohearyou while you do it.”

My shaking thighs fight to stay open, and the only part of my voice I find is a soft gasp when he pushes my hand harder against my center. Tenseness strangles my body.

“Do it.”

I mewl as I hook a finger around the lace, but the weak sound morphs into a full moan.

“Tell me, Amy.” Crosby presses the smallest kiss below my ear. “Why did you leave with me?”

My finger is circling and circling, Crosby’s hand still resting on mine. He’s holding back, but his hesitancy adds to the pressure I want us to drown in, refusing to be saved. I lower my finger, slipping inside, taking him with me, and he lets out the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard as I grind into my palm held by his.

“Say it,” he demands, gripping my hand and holding it still. “Confess.”

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