Bentley toward the highway.
One hand steers the car and the other stretches across the center console. He nudges back the cotton of my skirt and rests his hand just above my knee, curling his fingers around my thigh. A blast of heat sends sparks of energy sizzling through my body, trying to distract me from the task at hand.
Gently he squeezes my skin. His voice is low when he speaks. “After today you’ll know it all. But this is my only other car, I promise you.”
Sinking back into the decadent leather seat, I close my eyes briefly and soak up the moment, Harris’ grip on me emotionally and physically. The rest of the day promises to be difficult, but for now I indulge in the pleasant sensations. Harris releases my leg and I follow his hand with my eyes to the control panel where he begins pressing buttons. “Timekeeper,”the first song I performed at Rusty’s open mic night, fills the air around us.
“Nice song,” I comment drily.
Harris flashes me a wicked grin, though I can’t see the emotion in his eyes because they’re hidden behind his shiny, mirrored sunglasses.
“My supremely talented girlfriend introduced me to this band.”
On impulse I reach down and cover his hand with mine, squeezing lightly.
“When you’re in the audience at Rusty’s, it makes performing in front of a group much less daunting,” I murmur. When my hand drifts away, he begins lightly drumming his fingers against my bare skin in time to the music.
The ride southeast mostly remains quiet, though occasionally Harris catches me studying his profile and offers his playful smirk. Harris hasn’t told me where we’re going in Michigan, but instinctively I know it’s the town where his brother died. Despite what looms ahead of us, I’m comforted by his reassuring presence.
A little over an hour later, he exits the highway, navigating the streets like he’s done it many times before. We pass by a large, white sign welcoming us with cheerful green letters to New Point, Michigan. The route takes us through the main drag of a quaint beachside town. There are boutiques, restaurants and bars, a school, library, and town hall.
Not long after we exit downtown New Point, Harris turns the car into a narrow, tree-lined road. A massive, shingled house with a four-car garage stands proudly at the end of the driveway. He turns the car around the circular drive and puts it into park outside the two story entryway. With the car turned off, the music disengaged, it’s silent. Harris watches the house with his lips pressed into a flat line.
“Beautiful home,” I say softly when he doesn’t make any comment.
Reluctantly, he pulls his sunglasses off his face and places them in their case. Harris’ eyes flutter closed and he inhales a deep breath, releasing it slowly.
“I won’t go inside,” he informs me gruffly.
My chest aches at his tremulous expression. The immensely painful memories that this place evokes are obvious.
“Whatever you want, Harris.” In a mirror of one of his gestures, I tug his hand into mine, so I can brush my lips against the back of his hand. At the sensation, his eyes pop open, revealing raw emotion.
“Walk with me?”
“Anywhere,” I agree, unbuckling my seatbelt and climbing out of the car. When I meet him outside the driver’s side door, I wind my arm around his waist, letting him lead the way toward a stone path to the left of the front door. He swings an arm around my shoulders, clinging to me. The walk is short. We stop on the side of the home next to a swinging bench chained between two sturdy trees. Harris pulls me with him as he moves to sit in the corner of the bench. He arranges me so his chest nestles my back and my legs stretch out across the length of the cranberry bench cushion. One arm drapes along the length of the backrest and he drops his chin to rest on top of my head. Behind me, he’s rigid.
We sway back and forth silently for a few minutes, listening to the sounds of birds
One hand steers the car and the other stretches across the center console. He nudges back the cotton of my skirt and rests his hand just above my knee, curling his fingers around my thigh. A blast of heat sends sparks of energy sizzling through my body, trying to distract me from the task at hand.
Gently he squeezes my skin. His voice is low when he speaks. “After today you’ll know it all. But this is my only other car, I promise you.”
Sinking back into the decadent leather seat, I close my eyes briefly and soak up the moment, Harris’ grip on me emotionally and physically. The rest of the day promises to be difficult, but for now I indulge in the pleasant sensations. Harris releases my leg and I follow his hand with my eyes to the control panel where he begins pressing buttons. “Timekeeper,”the first song I performed at Rusty’s open mic night, fills the air around us.
“Nice song,” I comment drily.
Harris flashes me a wicked grin, though I can’t see the emotion in his eyes because they’re hidden behind his shiny, mirrored sunglasses.
“My supremely talented girlfriend introduced me to this band.”
On impulse I reach down and cover his hand with mine, squeezing lightly.
“When you’re in the audience at Rusty’s, it makes performing in front of a group much less daunting,” I murmur. When my hand drifts away, he begins lightly drumming his fingers against my bare skin in time to the music.
The ride southeast mostly remains quiet, though occasionally Harris catches me studying his profile and offers his playful smirk. Harris hasn’t told me where we’re going in Michigan, but instinctively I know it’s the town where his brother died. Despite what looms ahead of us, I’m comforted by his reassuring presence.
A little over an hour later, he exits the highway, navigating the streets like he’s done it many times before. We pass by a large, white sign welcoming us with cheerful green letters to New Point, Michigan. The route takes us through the main drag of a quaint beachside town. There are boutiques, restaurants and bars, a school, library, and town hall.
Not long after we exit downtown New Point, Harris turns the car into a narrow, tree-lined road. A massive, shingled house with a four-car garage stands proudly at the end of the driveway. He turns the car around the circular drive and puts it into park outside the two story entryway. With the car turned off, the music disengaged, it’s silent. Harris watches the house with his lips pressed into a flat line.
“Beautiful home,” I say softly when he doesn’t make any comment.
Reluctantly, he pulls his sunglasses off his face and places them in their case. Harris’ eyes flutter closed and he inhales a deep breath, releasing it slowly.
“I won’t go inside,” he informs me gruffly.
My chest aches at his tremulous expression. The immensely painful memories that this place evokes are obvious.
“Whatever you want, Harris.” In a mirror of one of his gestures, I tug his hand into mine, so I can brush my lips against the back of his hand. At the sensation, his eyes pop open, revealing raw emotion.
“Walk with me?”
“Anywhere,” I agree, unbuckling my seatbelt and climbing out of the car. When I meet him outside the driver’s side door, I wind my arm around his waist, letting him lead the way toward a stone path to the left of the front door. He swings an arm around my shoulders, clinging to me. The walk is short. We stop on the side of the home next to a swinging bench chained between two sturdy trees. Harris pulls me with him as he moves to sit in the corner of the bench. He arranges me so his chest nestles my back and my legs stretch out across the length of the cranberry bench cushion. One arm drapes along the length of the backrest and he drops his chin to rest on top of my head. Behind me, he’s rigid.
We sway back and forth silently for a few minutes, listening to the sounds of birds
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