Now I would lie to Matt’s family. I would show them my phony grief. I would watch their sincere suffering. I would go to Matt Sky’s memorial.
“This is crazy,” I whispered. “I feel sick every day. I’m lonely. I have a z-zillion questions. Are you okay? Do you have enough food? The book … I mean, did anyone—”
“Hannah, I miss you so fucking much. Please…”
Simple longing filled Matt’s voice, and just like that, the tension between us faded.
“I have to see you,” he said. “Soon. I’m fine. Food’s fine. No word on Night Owl. I put out some feelers, posted questions on forums. No replies.”
“When I’m back, I’ll drive out.”
“Yeah, when you’re back. Soon as you can. It’s been so fucking long. I’m going crazy, bird.” Matt’s breath quickened. He hesitated, and then went on in a rush. “I want to be with you. I want to be inside you. For hours. Here, by the fire. I need you like that…”
The cold of the phone booth disappeared. I pictured Matt in nothing but his skin, and I could practically feel his breath on my lips.
“I need you, too.” I lowered my voice. “Like that. In … inside me.”
“God, you’re so good. So good to me. Hannah…”
Matt was probably touching himself. I heated at the thought. How unfair, his unimpeded access to that beautiful body. And how strange that our romance reverted to this: furtive phone calls, lonely nights, waiting, touching ourselves.
Were we moving backward, or was this new and exciting?
“How…” he said. “This thing with us—how is it still so—”
“Intense,” I murmured.
A car door slammed.
I lingered a moment over my vision of Matt—his body draped across the couch, his back arching and hips seeking mine as he played with himself—and then I opened my eyes. The morning light stung.
“Shit,” I hissed.
A silver Cadillac sedan was parked across the street, and striding toward my phone booth was Nathaniel Sky.
Chapter 2
MATT
I gazed at the cabin’s vaulted ceiling. Thick stained beams formed a truss from wall to wall and they gleamed in the firelight.
I needed Hannah on top of me, riding me hard.
My dick rose against the fabric of my lounge pants.
“Intense,” I repeated. “Mm … say that again. Talk, I want to hear your voice. Tell me what you want. Are you alone?”
I strained to catch the sound of Hannah’s breath.
I lay on my back on the couch, my fingertips skating up and down my stomach.
“Shit,” Hannah said.
My hand paused. “What’s up?”
“Nate’s here.”
“God, I don’t care,” I said, and for a moment, I didn’t.
I sneered and sat up. My T-shirt flopped into place.
“I have to go,” she said.
“I know. Fine. Good luck.”
“Don’t be angry, Matt.”
“I’m not. Are you? Is he listening?”
“No, he’s waiting outside the phone booth.”
“The phone booth? What the fuck, Hannah?”
“I can handle it. Gotta go. Bye.”
“Fuck.” I dragged a hand through my hair. “Fine. All right. I love you…”
“Yeah. Bye.”
The call ended with a loud click.
I frowned and flipped my TracFone shut.
“Goddamn it,” I whispered.
That was my first conversation with Hannah in three weeks. We spoke a few times before that—when she told me she planned to attend the memorial, when Night Owl happened, and of course when I first got to the cabin. I was in bad shape then.
“I love you,” I said again. The wind answered, pressing against the cabin. Hannah would have told me she loved me, but Nate was watching. I understood that.
I tried to picture them together: Hannah and my brother somewhere in New Jersey. Hannah in a phone booth. Nate waiting outside.
Jealousy rose like bile in my throat.