Page 61 of Angel of Water & Shadow

“Shift to first and release the brake.” Ryder’s coarse palm cradled mine, and together we moved the gearshift. His callouses scraped my knuckles, and every single hair, every part of my body responded to that touch.

“You still with me?” That damn unrelenting smirk—and why did it have to highlight the two lone freckles marked beautifully across his jaw?

I nodded, the knob already slipping beneath my sweaty palm. As I went to remove my foot from the brake, his next question stopped me. “What happened to your fingers?”

“Oh…” Tensing, I peeked at my irritated cuticles and the jagged edges of my nails. I was so used to picking and chewing until the anxiety faded, the gnarly state of them didn’t ever really bother me. But now all I could think about was how raw and ugly they were. How obsessive it looked. “I…uh…I bite them.”

“Down to the very nub,” he murmured, bringing my hand towards his mouth. I sucked in a breath as he pressed his lips to my thumbnail. A bolt of awareness shot through me.

“It’s—it’s a nervous habit.” I tried to remain steady as his lips slowly caressed my pointer, gently melting into every bit of uneven skin.

His words were now muffled against my middle finger. “What are you nervous about?”

Right now? That once his lips were done with my fingers, they’d trail to my mouth, and I’d be totally okay with that. In fact, I’d say fuck it and ditch my appointment just so I could see what other parts of my body they’d like to explore.

I gulped, but it did nothing to clear my hoarse throat. “Um, I have these episodes—I mean, I used to. I haven’t had a full-blown one in a while. They take over my senses and I…” My voice trembled at his mouth parting on my ring finger, a brush of hot moisture submerging the skin. “I guess this is just one of my coping mechanisms.”

He took my marred pinky into his mouth, suckling the tip. When he withdrew, our gazes locked. He didn’t release my hand, not until he leaned in so close his jaw grazed the baby hairs around my hairline. The move shattered my inhibitions, and I was seconds away from grabbing the front of his shirt and redirecting his face to mine. His voice was a torrid whisper against my ear. “Ease up on the clutch and slowly press on the gas.”

At that point he could have told me to get out of the car and dance like a chicken and I’d probably have done it. Without thinking, I did as he said, and the truck lurched forward, making such a god-awful screech it might as well have been a piece of metal dragging over my skull. A searing blush hit my cheeks, not just from almost hurling him through the windshield.

His laugh reverberated in my belly with the revs of the engine, as he drew back into his seat and buckled in. “Slow and steady, River.” He draped my name with a velvety coax, gentle and beseeching. A tone I’d never heard out of him before, but one I now craved. My foot tapped the pedal again. “That’s it,” he murmured encouragingly. “You got it.”

Soaring down the street at a whopping five miles per hour, I did it. I was driving. Despite myself, I relaxed a bit. “Javi would be stoked to see me right now.”

“Javi.” There was no obvious bitterness when he repeated his name, but there was a tinge of something, like…sympathy. “He’s in love with you, you know.”

I blew through the stop sign, fully expecting middle fingers and angry honks. Once free of the intersection, I slammed on the brakes. “What? Javi’s my best friend. He doesn’t love me. I mean he loves me, but not like…not like that.”

He chuckled. “Keep telling yourself that.”

I glowered at him, uninterested in debating what he’d stated—so matter-of-factly. And so smug. He was wrong, of course.

Attempting to retain my focus, I stared ahead at the road, the trees’ silhouettes breaking the bursts of light as I drove us through the quiet neighborhood. Each time the sun cleared the shadows over the dashboard, it illuminated an unbidden memory of Javi. Simple ones, at first: dances and holidays and matinee movies. But those quickly snowballed into ones that stole the air from my lungs. Holding me the night of homecoming, after the incident with Chet. Never saying no to a surf sesh, even on days when the rain and unruly waves pummeled our skin and our vision. My birthday gift, the photo he took of me simply in my element. All his photography, really, that seemed to center on one subject—me.

I shook my head. No. I wouldn’t twist these pure, harmless moments to fit Ryder’s very false narrative. We were friends. Best friends. Nothing more, I reassured myself, as I slowed for a crosswalk, my heart ramming against my rib cage.

“Since you’re basically ready for Formula One…” Ryder’s drawl unwound me, just a tad—my fingers still curled around the wheel in a death grip. He dipped his head towards the odometer. It read fifteen miles per hour. “I’m going to start calling shotgun from now on.”

My attention veered from the road as he stretched his arms behind his head, to the cut of his taut, inked biceps—gaze lingering on the tattoos protruding from his short black sleeves that snaked all the way down to his fingers: an urn, an evil eye, a kettle pouring skulls, a runic cross, the serpent’s head entwined with the Celtic N and S.

After my eyes darted to the road to make sure we weren’t about to crash, they instantly flicked back to a flash of color that flickered just beneath his shirt cuff and wrapped around his muscle. It was the only mark not drawn in monochrome, hints of white and vivid blues sticking out with specks of pewter droplets bursting from the flowy aquamarine outline of a traced-on body of water.

“Is that—” I began to ask, until the engine sputtered viciously, and the entire car started to shake.

“Clutch and foot on the brake.” He quickly maneuvered us into neutral, the tattoo falling behind his t-shirt again. If he sensed my curiosity, he ignored it and soon, I forgot about it too, as he directed me into the flow of traffic.

Chapter 21

Cruising through the residential communities had been one thing—turning onto one of the busiest roads in town gave me heart palpitations that mimicked last night’s escape from the werewolves. It’d been easy-ish to focus on the road when there was nothing but the hum of the tires, the chirps of the birds, and my pounding heart filling my ears. But now there were so many competing colors and sounds and restless activity that I was one swerve away from crashing.

And the digs from Ryder that I hovered over the wheel like a grandma didn’t make the transition easier. I glared at him, but he was too busy taking in the sun with his eyes half-closed and his arm out the window to notice. My irritation flared even more. How could he even make those annoying comments when he was basically asleep next to me?

I pulled into the complex of my therapist’s office, the usual fluttering in my chest hitting me hard when I saw the brown stucco building and drove through the two-level garage. Breath shallow, I channeled all of my energy into my grip on the steering wheel, the tips of my fingers turning white. About to jump out of my own skin, I took a ragged inhale, and it reminded me of my last session with Dr. Fairmore, and the breathing exercise she’d had me try.

Not able to close my eyes and mentally transport myself to the ocean, I rolled my neck, inhaled a lungful of fresh air, and held it in for ten seconds. I gradually released it, shocked at how not-sweaty my palms were, how not-racy my pulse was, how not-bouncy my legs were.

I released a laughy breath at the simplicity of it, but shoot, this little breathing trick was effective. Even a simpler version, like what I just did. Dr. Fairmore would be stoked to hear it.

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