Diana Perry
The paper crackles as Echo folds it again, and her heels click against the blacktop. Her sweet scent surrounds me followed by the butterfly touch of her fingers on my wrist. “Noah.”
She lowers her hand to my thigh and damn if fire doesn’t lick up my leg. Even when I’m drunk, my body responds to her. My legs automatically drop open, and the tension melts as she eases herself closer. Her fingers caress my face and with gentle pressure, she edges my chin up. I lose myself in those green eyes.
“What are you going to do?” she asks.
I wind my arms around her waist and slide one hand down her spine. Echo’s my solid, my base, my foundation. She has no idea that the single fear that keeps me up at night is knowing one day she’ll discover she doesn’t need me like I need her.
“Noah,” she whispers again. Echo’s always been a siren, calling me to her even when I don’t want to be captured. “Please talk to me.”
Her lips brush the corner of my mouth, and my fingers fist into her hair. Echo’s warm and soft. I shouldn’t kiss her now. I shouldn’t crave to kiss her now, but damn, she owns me.
“Talk to me,” she murmurs. “I can’t help if you don’t talk to me.”
As she sweeps my hair away from my eyes, I hear myself say, “They’re in Vail.”
Her head nods against mine in understanding. “We’ve got time before we have to be back.”
“Mom ran from them.”
“You don’t know that.” She pulls back to look at me, but my grip on her hips keeps her near. “There could be a million reasons why your mom left.”
“Carrie and Joe said that Mom’s family is bad news.”
“Carrie and Joe said that you shouldn’t have been around your brothers. They were wrong then. They can be wrong now.”
The same thought has circled in my brain since Carrie broke the news. “What if they’re right?”
“What if they’re wrong? And if they are right, what if your mom’s family did screw up? Maybe they deserve a second chance.”
My eyes flash to hers, and my blood goes ice-cold. “Are we talking about my situation or yours?”
She tilts her head. “They may not be so different.”
“Fuck that. There’s no comparison.”
“You’re drunk, Noah.”
“I am.”
Her foot taps against the ground, and she does that thing where she glares off in the distance. It’s not hard to read she’s silently tearing me a new ass, but has enough grace to leave the internals internal. One of these days, she’ll snap.
She’s torn into me before, and the last time she did, she left me. My stomach plummets as I wonder if she’ll walk again.
Reaching behind me, Echo lifts the glass of champagne she brought with her from the gallery. “Well, there’s good news. It looks like we’ll be free tomorrow. The curator and I decided it would be best if we no longer share breathing space...or continents.”
Echo presses the glass to her lips, but I lift it from her hand. I’ve had a few of those tonight. More than a few. Enough that walking a straight line could be a problem.
My girl throws me a hardened expression that could send me six feet deep. “Damn, Echo. I’m not stealing your firstborn. I’m the drunk one, remember?”
She releases a sigh that steals the oxygen from my lungs, and she moves so that her back rests against me. I mold myself around her and nuzzle my nose in her hair. Echo inclines her head to the glass now in my possession. “How many of those have you had?”
* * *
I drink half the champagne while eyeing the prairie dog again through the gallery window. Champagne’s not my style, but free alcohol is free alcohol. “Not enough to understand that.”
“It’s a prairie dog,” she answers.
“With headphones.”
“It’s a commentary on how we are destroying nature.”
“That’s wood, right?” I ask.
Echo rolls her eyes, and I smirk. She hates it when I do this.
“Yes, the artist cut down a tree, used a chainsaw that required gas, and the whole process defeats the purpose.”
“Chainsaw?” These bastards are strange.
“Yes.”
I finish out the glass. “As I said, not enough.”
A couple exits the gallery, and they’re way too loud and way too full of themselves to peer in our direction. While I could give a shit about everyone inside, Echo cares, and the longing in her eyes as she watches them hurts me.
“Want to talk about the stuck-up bitch in there?” I ask.
“Nope.”
Good. Odds are I’d say things that would make Echo cry. “Then let’s get the fuck out of here.”
Echo
Noah and I slept deeply, we slept long, and then we held each other for longer than we should have. Now, checkout is looming.
Cross-legged on the middle of the bed, I cradle my cell and stare at three messages: one new voice mail, one missed call, one new text. Each one from my mom. There’s a pressure inside me—this overwhelming craving to please my mother, to gain her approval—that prevents me from deleting them. The memories don’t help...both the good and the bad.
Mom said she’s on her meds. She said that she’s in control of her life. If that’s true, is she mimicking my father’s parenting style by attempting to dominate my life?