The Rivals - Dylan Allen Page 0,30

first, singular hit of its new favorite drug. He pulls back after one of the men working on my harness coughs loudly. I hold onto his lips until simple biology makes it impossible for me to hold on anymore. We smile like lunatics at each other. He looks like a kid on Christmas morning and that’s exactly how I feel. When they pull the harness off me, I know two things for sure. One, this was just the first of many kisses I’m going to share with him. And two, that I’ll never forget him or this trip as long as I live.

“I still don’t forgive you,” I remind him.

“I want to make it up to you.”

“Okay,” I whisper when he leans away.

“Hell yeah, TB!” Cass calls from over Hayes’s shoulder.

The harness loosens and the men crouched in front of me working it loose all stand. Hayes lets go of me, and I drop my leg back down for balance. I immediately regret my decision because pain—almost blindingly sharp—shoots up my leg from my ankle.

We’re in my bed. The EMTs decided my ankle was only sprained. They put me in a soft knee length boot to mobilize it. Considering that I fell down that ledge, I’m amazed I walked away with that being the only thing wrong. I also walked away with the most unexpected, beautiful surprise. Hayes Rivers. He’s still mostly pretty rude, but he’s been attentive and tender. And I can’t keep my hands off him.

“So, tell me, what’s TB mean?” he asks. His breath is warm and tickles the fine hairs near my temples.

“Turd Blossom,” I say, and his chest tightens against my cheek.

“What in the world is that?”

I laugh hoarsely and pat his chest softly. “And you call yourself a Texan,” I say.

“Is knowing what a turd blossom is a prerequisite for being a real Texan?” he asks.

“No, it’s not a prerequisite, it’s a requirement. To call yourself a real Texan, you’ve got to have had some shit dumped on you and come up smelling like roses,” I tell him.

“And how do you know so much about being a Texan?”

“I went to college in Texas,” I tell him.

“UT?”

“Not UT, I couldn’t afford that. I went to Texas State in San Marcos. It was like Paris, France compared to Amorel,” I say and laugh as I remember how googly-eyed I’d been for the first couple of weeks.

“Where’s Amorel?” he asks.

“It’s where I’m from. Right in the armpit of Arkansas, just across the Tennessee border, and along the banks of the great Mississippi River.”

“Is it a small town?” he asks.

I laugh. “That would be a generous description. We have one road running through town and really, it’s just there because the railroad tracks need a place to cross.” I laugh.

I wiggle the toes of my healthy foot along his shins. “It’s why my feet are extra wide.”

He laughs. “This because of your childhood? Or is this a random Confidence fact?” he asks.

“My childhood,” I clarify. “I was barefoot all the time. Walking on hard ground with no shoes makes your feet spread and hardens them.” I miss the springy, fertile, cool soil of Amorel beneath my feet suddenly.

“I played barefoot all the time,” he says

“I didn’t play barefoot. I lived barefoot. I even went to school without shoes. And so did a lot of the other kids.”

“Barefoot? Were you …” He trails off like he doesn’t want to say it.

“Was I poor?” I ask and laugh. “It’s not a dirty word. I’m not ashamed of where I come from. Because look where it got me,” I tell him.

“Well.” He hums low in his throat like he’s thinking deeply. “I think you defied the odds, getting out of there to where you are now.” He leans back and looks down at me. “I have a feeling you left a string of broken hearts in town when you left, and I’m sure half of them never managed to make it out and come after you,” he quips.

“Yeah, no.” I laugh out loud at the idea. “There was nothing romantic about my existence. It was a hard life, but my town did everything they could to make sure I got out. And, there was no string of broken hearts.” I nudge the center of his chest with my nose. “I was too busy doing chores, hunting, cleaning, going to school, and reading everything I could get my hands on.”

“See? You did what it takes to get out of there and your