Loner by Harloe Rae Page 0,24

grips my elbow, halting my retreat. “Hey.”

“What’s up, JoJo?”

“Promise me you’ll try.”

I purse my glossy lips. “I’ll do my best.”

“That’s not good enough.”

She pops out her hip, diva mode activated. “Will you just keep an open mind?”

“Not heart?” I quirk a brow.

“I don’t want my expectations to be too lofty. Your heart should already be leading the charge.”

“Always the romantic,” I fake-coo.

“One of us has to be. The faith lives on—true love exists.” She shakes her fist in the air.

“You make me sound unreasonable. I’ll admit to being jaded. I just don’t see the point in setting myself up for disappointment. We’ve both had our hearts broken so many times. I’m envious of your ability to move forward with so much hope.”

Josey sighs, her smile lopsided. “I have to.”

“Why?”

“Because if I don’t, then what? I end up single and alone forever, with a pack of cats.”

I shake my head with a laugh. “You’ll find Prince Charming. I have faith in that.”

“And so will you.” Her no-nonsense tone has me tamping down another retort.

She’ll have to believe for both of us.

Healing Hug #9: To hold off from doing something far more reckless.

Downtown is mostly deserted at this hour. Only a few places remain open past eight or nine o’clock. Stalking along Main Street isn’t part of my preferred weekend routine. Usually I’d rather be elbow-deep in the vintage Harley tucked away in my shop. Restoring that beauty has been vital in chasing the numb indifference of boredom away. But I couldn’t concentrate on that project for another silent second. I could tinker with shit from dusk until dawn. My focus never breaks, even to take a piss.

Being cooped up in my garage is how I’d usually choose to spend a Saturday evening. All I felt tonight was confinement. There’s an itch under my skin, a coiling tension that needs release. I considered going for a ride, but I’ve done that a lot lately. Going hunting in the woods piqued my interest. The weight of a rifle in my hand centers me with nature, calling to my primitive instincts. In the end, those options weren’t appealing. Only providing further isolation and distance from the underlying trouble. Stomping beyond the borders of my monotony is the solution I sought.

Decker’s advice has been rattling against my skull for days. Blending with society for a bit won’t cripple me. I’m convinced that leaving the comforting, yet restrictive, limits of my compound will ease the knots that are twisting me up inside. An almost obsessive drive propels me to prove I’m not the worthless recluse my father claims me to be. In reality, the one who truly needs to believe that is me.

The street lamp casts shadows across the sidewalk in front of me. My trek continues without pause. I don’t have a destination in mind. Sludge bubbles through my veins, but I ignore it. There’s nothing to guide me, or anyone to notice my efforts. Not that I want them to. Storefronts are pitch black and traffic is nonexistent. Aimless wandering through the dark is more of my style, better intentions be damned, so this suits me fine.

I reach the next block and find a crack in the sleepy ruse. Pounding bass and flashing strobe lights spill out into the languid tranquility I’ve been appreciating. Without moving another step forward, I know the establishment responsible for causing a disturbance of that magnitude. Bronco Buck is one of the few bars in Silo Springs and by far the most popular. This place caters to the partying lifestyle, especially with women. I’ll never understand the interest or desire to stumble through those brightly painted doors.

There’s no hesitation in my stride as I pass in front of the rowdy establishment. That plan is solid until something glints off the window, nearly blinding me. Against my better judgment, I squint and peer into the chaos. What I find almost drops me to my knees. Keegan is inside, smack dab in the center of my waking nightmare.

Regardless of my previous resistance, I remain motionless in front of this awful club, caught in her web. If she’s a flame, I’ll gladly sacrifice myself as a moth. Her arms lift while she spins in rapid circles, full of energy and zero inhibitions. Has she been drinking? Or is she always so carefree? The demand to find out flexes every muscle in my body, pumping white-hot lust through each throbbing vessel.

When she twirls again, a kaleidoscope of rainbow reflections sparkle off her. Her