Page 13 of The Second Deal

ThisZakis a man who’s been working on himself, hitting up the gym as much as the tattoo studio.Heisn’t the guy with a taco bellyIfell head over heels for in high school.

Butunderneath the spiffed-up exterior, a flash of my high school sweetheart appears.

Thecorners of my lips twitch at the thought of myChiquitowithout all the tattoos and muscles.Hegot all his piercings before graduating high school and had a lot of work done beforeIleft, but with his knuckles, elbows, and neck now all filled in, it looks like he finally got all the painful parts done that he was avoiding.

Zak’sexpression falls, sinking like he recognizes something he wasn’t prepared to see.

Likehe sees his high school sweetheart, too.

Maybehe can still see the girl that had a plan for everything, the one that had a carefully laid-out twenty-year trajectory forTimelessto take over the world likeMeshuggahorGojirathat he bought into wholeheartedly.Theone that was his biggest fan.

Standinghere in the middle of a midnight road, facing my past that was supposed to be my future, finally makesAtlantadisappear.

Weboth might have a lot to show for the past year and a half—tattoos and muscles and an album for him, an extra fifteen pounds and so many tracks produced for me—but the fight earlier and the tension between us says it all.

Neitherof us have done any better sinceI’vebeen gone.

Acidgnaws at my heart.

Ormaybe it’s the goddamn guilt renewed all over again.

Awhining buzz in my ears shakes me out of it to offer him a hand. “Comeon.Let’sget outta here before we get eaten alive by these damn mosquitoes.”

Heshakes his head. “No.”

Groaning,Itell him, “You’vehad too much to drink.Youcan’t walk home.”

“Ha, watch me.”

Rollingmy eyes,Igrab his brawny arm, anyway, and pull him up.Hecareens forward too quickly and sends me stumbling back into the car.

JesusChrist, he’s got abs now?

Itry pushingZakaway asIpeek over his shoulder, into the trees and over the abandoned approach, wondering if the owl is still there.

Myskin crawls.

Zak’sstare is both fiery and icy.Hisbody heat is unmistakable from theTexasswelter, even with the gentle breeze that doesn’t do shit except make stiflingSouthTexasair swirl and choke lungs.

Afamiliar feeling stirs deep in my stomach with his body still pressed to mine.

“What’reyou doin’ here?”Zakasks with furrowed brows.

Inudge his hips to give him a hint. “Didn’tyou hear?I’mthe creative director atNYBnow.”

Thestreetlight flashes and glints off his golden frames.

“Thoseglasses make you look like a douchebag, by the way.”

Hechuckles, gaze softening.Hishands cradle my face and thumbs graze my cheeks, and his lips part like he’s about to say something, but nothing comes out.

“Y-y—you’re…,” he finally stutters.Hiseyes close and he bites his lip.Heshakes his head slightly before taking a deep breath. “You’rea lot prettier thanIremember.”

Theway he gazes down at me with hitched breath as frogs and crickets sing their chorus around us sends me all the way back to high school, back to when he pulled me aside after our first gig post-label signing and kissed me for the first time.

Theway he trembled that night resonates in his fingers touching my face now.

Allof it makes my eyes burn.EspeciallywhenIglance at his mouth so close now.

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