Page 13 of Highball Rush
“Thanks, but—”
I didn’t wait to see if he was going to keep talking. Hardly aware of what I was doing, I unlocked my car, got in, and drove away without looking back.
I’m Maya. My name is Maya Davis.I gripped the steering wheel, chanting it in my head, over and over.I’m Maya. My name is Maya Davis.
My crappy motel wasn’t far from the bar. I parked and got out, feeling dazed, like I’d just hit my head. My hands shook, making my motel key rattle against the big plastic keychain. I couldn’t get it in the lock. Was this the right room? I glanced up at the number on the door. One-oh-five. This was mine; I just couldn’t seem to make my hands work properly.
I never should have come here.
The door opened—finally—and I shut and locked it behind me. Touched the lock a few times to make sure it was secure. My heart raced and my limbs tingled with adrenaline. I leaned back against the door and took a deep breath. I needed to calm down.
The room was a riot of maroon and blue with carpet that made me dizzy if I looked at it too long. The light over the sink flickered, but everything smelled faintly of lemon and bleach, so at least it seemed clean.
The motel’s version of a minibar was a basket of packaged snacks and some tiny bottles of Jack Daniels. I grabbed a water glass from the counter next to the sink, unscrewed the cap, and dumped in the whiskey.
It burned going down my throat, making me wince. I wasn’t much of a whiskey drinker, but I took a second sip anyway.
Sip? Gulp? Semantics.
He’d called meCallie.
No one had called me by that name in thirteen years. I wasn’t Callie Kendall anymore. I’d left her behind a long time ago.
But this was Gibson Bodine. Why had I thought he wouldn’t know me?
The box in my mind—filled with old secrets—shook. It had been the key to my survival when I was a kid. I’d put away all the bad experiences I had at home and left them there. It was what had allowed Callie to put on a smile in public. Go to school. Hang out with her friends. Act like a normal girl. And the lock I’d put on it was indestructible. It had to be. Callie’s life had depended on it.
After I left Bootleg Springs, everything that had been Callie had gone into the box. Not just my home life—all of it. Who I’d been. The people I’d known. The places I’d loved. My old friends. Gibson.
And Bootleg Springs. My favorite place in the world. It hadn’t just been a summer home to me. It had beenhome.
But I’d had to put it all away. Lock it up tight.
Seeing Gibson’s video when I was thousands of miles away in L.A. had made the box rattle, just enough that I was reminded of its existence. But moments later, it had stilled. The lock had held. I was safe from its contents.
But being near him, breathing the same air, hearing his gravelly voice, had broken the lock and popped the lid open a crack—enough that the contents whispered their dark secrets. Memories beat at my subconscious, trying to break free.
They still threatened to come out. All those demons I’d worked so hard to hold back.
Closing my eyes, I visualized the box. It sat in an otherwise empty room. Its form had always been the same—an old-fashioned cedar chest with an enormous metal lock hanging from the latch. The lock was on the floor, open. The lid was ajar, as if something unseen was in the way, preventing it from falling closed.
In my mind, I crouched low and picked up the lock. Pressed the lid down to close it and locked it up tight.
Letting out a slow breath, I opened my eyes. Better.
Except… Gibson Bodine wasn’t in the box anymore.
He’d been one of the hardest casualties to bear when I’d left. Fear had kept me from contacting him. I’d fled for good reason, and my fears for my safety had been very real. They still were. The fewer people who knew where I’d gone—that I was even alive—the better.
But god, it had hurt.
I lowered myself onto the edge of the bed, old memories flitting through my mind. Afternoons spent by a little fire, deep in the woods so no one would find us. Gibson sitting on a log, strumming his guitar. Those icy blue eyes. Stubble on his square jaw. Me singing along, finding harmony to his melody.
I’d lived for those afternoons. Just the two of us, isolated from the world. We’d talked about our favorite bands. About album covers and song lyrics. He’d taught me to play guitar and I’d filled journals with half-written songs.
When I’d left, I’d had to let that all go. Gibson and all of Bootleg Springs. I’d put it in the box and locked it. I wouldn’t have survived if I hadn’t.
But now that he was out, I didn’t think I could put him back in.
