When You Come Back to Me (Lost Boys #2) - Emma Scott Page 0,23

believe we’ve officially met.” I offered my hand. “Holden Parish.”

“Miller Stratton.”

We shook and then a menacing sex-on-a-stick shadow fell over us.

“And who’s the Brute Squad?”

Miller clutched his sides, barely able to speak. “R-Ronan Wentz.”

I thrust my hand straight up. “A pleasure.”

Ronan crossed his arms, one of which had blood smeared down to his wrist. “Crazy bastards.”

“How did you do that?” I asked Miller, wiping my eyes.

“Do what?”

“Play and sing like you did. Like…a fucking miracle.”

He shook his head though I could see my words had touched him. “Nah. Everyone’s heard that song. It’s a million years old.”

“They’ve heard the song, but you put your soul out there. That’s not something people hear every day.”

Chance slammed open the front door. “I said, get the fuck off my property!”

He charged down the stairs toward us, River following after, his expression still hard and carefully composed.

I did that. I sucked his smile away like the vampire I am…

A blonde girl brought Miller’s guitar case to him, and then it was time to go. He and Ronan and I raced for the refuge of James and his mafia-looking sedan.

“Good evening, James,” I said. “Would you be so kind as to remove my friends and me from the immediate area?”

James didn’t ask questions but did as I asked, which is what I loved best about him. That, and he drove like Harvey Keitel in Pulp Fiction.

“Home, sir?” he asked, calmly weaving the sedan down darkened streets at break-neck speeds.

“Fuck no.” I turned to my new companions. “Thoughts, gentlemen?”

Miller and Ronan exchanged glances, and then the big guy nodded once.

“My place,” Miller said. “The Lighthouse Apartments.”

James navigated tree-lined streets to a poorer neighborhood called the Cliffs. It was a ten-minute drive. He made it in five, then parked the car in a crappy parking lot with cracked pavement and carports made of aluminum siding.

“Cozy,” I said. “After-party at Chez Stratton?”

“Not quite.” Miller jerked his chin at James. “How long will he wait?”

“As long as I need him to.” I lit a clove cigarette and waved away the smoke and their curious stares. “But fear not, James is being well-compensated for his time.”

“Okay. Let’s go.”

Miller and Ronan led me down and isolated stretch of beach that grew increasingly difficult to navigate. Cliffs loomed over us, and the path became narrow and strewn with rocks. Water lapped at my boots, ruining them with sand and salt.

Maybe they’re going to murder me and dump my body in the ocean.

After the insanity of the party, I wouldn’t have been too surprised.

Eventually, the path led away from the surf and became easier to navigate. After climbing over a particularly large porous rock, we arrived at a small fisherman’s shack, built against a heavy boulder. It had its own stretch of beach and a bonfire pit that faced the ocean, now a safe distance back. Rocks that had spilled down from the cliffside blocked the way farther east, protecting the shack from interlopers.

I peered inside the small space. Not much to see. Moonlight poured in from a window roughly cut into the wall, illuminating a wooden bench and table.

“Not bad. Could use a few upgrades.”

Ronan lit a bonfire while Miller crashed heavily onto one of the three rocks that ringed the firepit like makeshift chairs. He rummaged in his backpack and poured a few gummies into his palm.

“CBD?” I asked. “Sharing is caring, Stratton.”

“Not CBD. Glucose. I have diabetes.”

I sank down on my own rock-chair, the news hitting me surprisingly hard. I barely knew the guy but something told me he suffered enough already. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks,” he said as Ronan got the fire roaring with a bottle of lighter fluid. “What did you do to piss off River Whitmore?”

I put him on the spot, like an asshole.

“I pissed off a lot of people tonight. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“The quarterback. When you were playing that Seven Minutes game.”

“Ah, yes,” I said and cast my gaze to the black ocean bearded in white froth as it crashed and retreated. “Don’t remember.”

“You sure?”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I was hoping you kicked him in the nuts.”

“Do tell.”

Miller thought about answering for a moment, then shook his head tiredly. “Not tonight.”

“Fair enough,” I said, glad that the subject was dropped.

Ronan went inside the Shack (with a Capital S) and emerged with beer bottles in his hands. I gratefully took one, but Miller passed.

“Still feeling low,” he said and took a bottle of orange juice from his backpack.

Twenty yards away, the ocean crashed and retreated, and the