again when all I get is radio silence from her.
“I don’t want to hear another peep out of you, quarterback. Not until I say so,” she orders, her voice cold as steel and just as punishing.
I keep my head down like a scolded child but do as she says. It’s clear that, even though Stone has come to see me, she’s still pissed as all hell. The only thing that comforts me is the way she keeps hold of my hand, squeezing it from time to time, letting me run my thumb lightly over hers. I’m still focusing on the little patch of skin she’s allowing me to touch, almost crashing into her when she begins to slow her steps. She takes one long look around before giving me a curt nod to confirm she’s found her spot.
“This will do nicely,” she says, letting go of my hand to take the book bag off her shoulders.
My frown deepens as I shove my hands into my pockets, trying to hide the fact that my hand feels naked without hers. I keep rooted in place as she goes to her haunches and begins to take some stuff out of her bag.
“Stone?”
“I said zip it.”
I look up at the heavens to give me the fortitude to keep silent, but my confusion only heightens as I watch her throw an old blanket over the cold grass.
“Sit,” she orders, her head tilting up at me, commanding me to do as she says.
I’m tempted to call her out on her bossy behavior, but I doubt my playful teasing will change her stern disposition. So instead, I sit down on the edge of the blanket, the spiky, hard grass biting into my butt cheeks, even through the blanket and my thin, gray sweat pants. If I knew we were going to have a tête-à-tête in the woods, I would have worn jeans and spared my ass some grief.
Stone sits cross-legged just a few inches in front of me, placing her bag in between the hollow of her bare thighs. While she has her head bent down, rummaging through it, I take the opportunity to just look at her. She’s not in her usual in-your-face gear today. Actually, if I didn’t know any better, it looks like she just came from church, which is silly since I know everything there is to know about Stone, and going to Sunday Mass isn’t on her weekly to-do list.
She still looks good, though. More than good. In a simple, sleeveless, white turtleneck, and knee-length, black skirt and boots, Stone continues to be the sexiest woman I have ever laid eyes on.
Some people say that you don’t know what you have until it’s gone. This couldn’t be truer for me when it comes to Stone.
Funny thing is, in my case, I always knew that she was one of a kind. In my very soul, I felt that the Southie was someone I would be a fool to let go of, regardless of the reason. To me, she will always be Stone—beautiful on the outside as she is on the inside.
I’m probably the only lucky bastard who can say I know all her facets. The world may know the fierce brat who doesn’t take shit from anyone, but I saw the vulnerable, scared girl who didn’t want to give her heart away. I held her in my embrace, where I would have kept her if The Society hadn’t fucked everything up.
After me, I wonder who will earn the privilege to hold her. To dry her eyes. To kiss her lips. Whoever he is, I’ll surely hate him with every fiber of my being. I will hate the man who wins her heart when I lost it so ruthlessly.
Stone’s jet-black hair is all over her face as she continues to ransack through her bag. I’m about to take advantage of her absentmindedness and touch a fallen strand, when she finally pulls out a small bottle of tequila, tilting her head back up to face me once more.
The minute my eyes see her beloved Jose Cuervo in her hands, a chill runs through my bones. My sudden apprehension begins to yell at me to get myself up and haul ass out of here as fast as I can. Even though I might miss the hell out of Stone, I know all too well what that bottle signifies.
As they say, loose lips sink ships, and with the state of my mournful heart, I’m not sure I