They shake hands, and he continues wiping the grease off his fingers as he walks around the bikes, taking a look at what the guys are driving.
“Hey, how’s it going?” he greets another. “Did you run today?”
They talk, and Jake tightens his hold on my hand before spinning around and pulling me after him into the shop.
Heading over to a workbench, he flips on a lamp and holds my palm under it to get a better view.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“What?”
I turn my eyes on him.
“The taunt about your dad,” he explains, still inspecting my splinter. “I’m a prick. I’m sure I screwed up my own kids ten different ways to Sunday, so I have no room to talk.”
I turn my head, seeing Noah make the rounds to his friends, one of them still straddling his bike and lighting a cigarette. He peers over at me.
“You’re different than I thought you’d be,” Jake says softly.
I look back to him.
“Complicated,” he explains. “Tough to read. And even if I could read you, I’m not sure I can be a comfort to you.” He gives a weak smirk. “I’m not upset by their deaths, Tiernan, but I am sorry you are.”
I turn my eyes away again, toward the guys outside. “I’m not upset.”
The guy in Noah’s group of friends with the frat boy haircut and crystal eyes is still staring at me, a mischievous smile playing on his lips as he smokes. Is that Kaleb?
I feel Jake’s eyes on me, too.
“I don’t want to talk about my father,” I state again before he has the chance to keep going.
But pain slices though my hand like a spider bite, and I hiss, meeting his eyes again.
What the hell? That hurt!
But as I glare up at him, the splinter is forgotten, and I stop breathing for a moment.
Warmth spreads up my neck as his gaze hovers down on mine, hard and angry, but… kind of puzzled, too. Like he’s trying to figure me out.
His eyes aren’t blue. I thought they were. Like Noah’s. They’re green. Like summer grass.
A breeze blows through the open doors of the shop, the chatter and laughter outside miles away as a wisp of my hair, loose from the ponytail, blows across my lips.
His eyes drop to my mouth, and I stop breathing, everything getting warm.
A trickle of sweat glides down his neck, and the hair on my arms stands on end, aware of his naked chest.
We’re too close.
I…
I swallow, my mouth sandy and dry.
He finally blinks a few times, and then he brings the palm of my hand up to his lips, the warmth of his mouth trying to suck the wood from my hand.
My mouth falls open a little as his teeth gnaw and tease the splinter, and my skin is sucked and tickled.
My fingertips graze the scruff on his cheek.
I can do that. I don’t need your help.
But I can’t manage to say it out loud.
“Oh, shit,” I hear someone say outside.
Pulling my attention away from my uncle, I look outside to see Noah checking out someone’s bike.
The magazine cover turns his eyes on me again. “Who’s that?” he asks Noah.
Noah follows his gaze and sees me but ignores him.
“Stay away from the local guys, you understand?” Jake tells me.
I look up at him.
He continues, “If you get a boyfriend, you won’t be able to see him once we’re snowed in anyway. Besides, they’re not your type.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m telling you they’re not your type,” he shoots back. “I will let you know when one is.”
What a Neanderthal. For Christ’s sake.
I keep quiet, no desire to argue with him. I’m not looking for a guy, but I can take care of myself. His sons grew up with him in their faces. I’m used to making my own decisions.
“They’re bored,” he tells me. “And when you’re bored, you only want two things, and beer doesn’t last forever.”
So they’re different from other guys my age, how? I know what teenagers are into. I know what men want from women. I’m not a fragile rose petal.
His teeth work my palm, and flutters hit my stomach.
I look up at him, the fact that I now live with three healthy, semi-young males, all of who are also part of the “local guys” he’s warning me about.
“You don’t get bored up here during the winter?” I taunt, dropping my voice to just between us. “When the beer runs out?”
His eyes tighten at the corners, getting my meaning. Are he and his sons any different? Will there be more naked women hanging out around the bathroom?
He finally gets hold of the splinter and pulls it out, but I don’t look away, even as it stings.
He lowers my hand, rubbing his thumb over the small wound.
“It’s fine.” I pull it away, wiping whatever little blood was there.
“Are you sorry you came?” he asks me.
Surprisingly, I’m not taken off guard by the question. Probably because I wouldn’t be scared to be rude if the truth was in the negative.
“I don’t know,” I tell him honestly.
I’m not happy, but I wouldn’t be happy at home or at Brynmor or probably anywhere. I didn’t expect to be happy coming here, so it doesn’t matter.
I look out of the shop, all of the guys revving their engines and turning their bikes around to leave. Noah backs away, obviously not joining them.
“Do you like being here?” Jake presses.
“I don’t know,” I tell him again.
“Where would you rather be?”
I don’t know. Why does he want to know? I don’t…
I finally meet his eyes, chewing the corner of my mouth.
“I don’t want to be…” I trail off, trying to find the words. “I don’t want to be…”
But the sentence comes out sounding complete. Like that’s my answer. I don’t want to be.
His eyes turn guarded as he looks at me.
“I don’t want to be anywhere,” I quickly say.
I might’ve had some misperceptions about what to expect here, but I at least thought three single men wouldn’t desire a lot of touchy-feely conversation. This guy seems to want to connect, and it’s aggravating me.
I turn and start to walk out of the shop, just as the dirt bikes are all speeding away.
“Make some sandwiches, please,” Jake calls after me. “Just put them in the fridge to grab and go. Doesn’t matter what kind. We’re not picky.”
We’re not picky.
I walk into the house, head for the kitchen, and yank open both fridge doors. Then I pull open the crisper and freezer drawers below as I take stock of everything I have to work with.
He’s keeping me busy. I should be grateful. And he’s giving me a chore where I don’t have to talk to anyone. I like to cook. I can listen to music and be left alone.
And sandwiches aren’t hard.
I tap my fingers on the door handle as I hold open the fridge. I don’t know. He just rubs me the wrong way, like he’s enjoying his guardianship a little too much. My parents wouldn’t have cared if I’d had orgies in my bedroom as long as nothing wound up on Snapchat.