Fish laughs as he backs out of the parking spot. “Oh, Cruz and I were paired up from day one. I remember going into a meeting with Colton to introduce us to our new driver. I was fairly new too and had no idea what to expect. It sure as shit wasn’t cocky, had no clue how to drive an open-wheel race car, pretty boy, Mack Cruz.”
I can’t help but smile at his description. Before I can even stop the words, I ask, “Was he that bad?”
“Oh, darlin’, you haven’t seen bad until you watch his footage. I have some at my place. I’ll show you sometime. He was all over that track, practically bouncing between the wall and the white line. Horrible,” he says with emphasis.
“But he obviously got better,” I argue, knowing Mack’s stats like the back of my hand, though I’d never admit that aloud.
“Oh, he did. Took a lot of work, but I got him there. I’m the brains of the operation,” he says, a cocky smile on his face. As soon as the words are out of his mouth, I burst out laughing. “What?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Oh, nothing,” I retort, trying to keep a straight face, recalling Mack’s text.
“He told you he was the brains, right? Pfft. Damn drivers. They think they’re all that,” he replies like a sassy girl, and adding his obviously Southern twang, he sounds ridiculous. “Anyway, we’ve been buds since. Lived together when we first started off here. Then, he got all famous and bought a house, told me I was cramping his style,” he adds with a chuckle, but I can tell by his tone and his facial expression, he’s not serious.
Then another thought enters my brain. Mack entertaining ladies, probably by the dozens. I once ran across an article online featuring him. It went on to ask questions “every woman under the age of fifty” wanted to know. Namely, why he was still single. He laughed, said he wasn’t ready to settle down, if you know what he means, and gave the reporter a wink. I stopped searching his name online after that day.
We make our way through the streets of Burbank, Fish mentioning landmarks along the way, most of them his favorite places to eat. I realize, as we’re driving through a small subdivision with modest houses with large yards and gates for security, I really like Fish. He’s funny and laid-back and makes me feel comfortable without even knowing him. That’s probably how Jeffrey Dahmer’s victims felt right before he hacked them to pieces and shoved them in the freezer.
But Fish doesn’t seem like a serial killer. He seems like a guy I’d be proud to call a friend back home. Easygoing, fun, always cracking jokes.
I can see why Mack likes him.
He slows his car and turns into a driveway. There are several manicured shrubs and small trees along the roadway blocking the view of the house, but the moment we get past them, the house is there. It’s not too small, but not huge, by any means. It’s a white structure with a large concrete porch and a black front door. The landscape looks well maintained, as does the fence around the perimeter, but what really catches my eye, is the garage. It’s massive and extends all the way to the back of the property.
“This is Mack’s?” I whisper, taking it all in as he stops his car in front of the first garage door.
“Sure is. This is what he left me for,” he teases as he shuts down the car. “But I don’t blame him. I woulda had a hard-on a mile long for that garage too,” he adds with a shrug and gets out.
Before I can get my own door open, he’s there, extending a hand. The chivalry feels weird, but yet so familiar. Mack used to do the exact same thing when we were together. Though, he used it as an opportunity to maybe pull me into his arms or steal a kiss. Fish, on the other hand, doesn’t try anything, and the moment I’m standing beside him, he releases my hand and steps back.
“Thank you,” I tell him, turning to meet him at the trunk to grab my suitcase. I already know he probably won’t let me carry it myself, but that doesn’t mean I’m just going to leave him alone to deal with my belongings.
The moment the trunk is popped, he’s got my bag in his big hand. Smiling, he tells me, “I got it.” He reaches up and shuts the trunk with a thud.
That’s when we see him.
Mack.
He’s standing by the stairs, his arms extended up and gripping the framework on the porch. His basic black T-shirt is riding up, a little sliver of dark tanned skin showing above his belt. Just the sight of him, standing there in the flesh, has my heart ready to beat out of my chest and my lungs forgetting what their main function is. He’s wearing well-worn blue jeans and nothing on his feet, which brings back all sorts of vivid memories of when we were young and dumb and in love.
He always loved to walk around my room barefoot. He said he didn’t dare do it at the trailer for fear of what he’d step on.
I’m stuck in this weird trance, alternating between past and present. My mind keeps telling me he’s not the same boy I once knew, while my heart is crying out in some desperate attempt to right all the wrongs of the last few years.
I ignore my heart.
There’s no going back.
Only forward.
So I take a step toward him, my carry-on bag held tightly against my chest like a protective shield. I can feel his eyes on me, everywhere. They run across my face and down my neck. My body tingles with awareness as they sweep across my body, finally making their way to my feet.
Then, they travel back up again.
By the time I’m standing in front of him, I’m slightly out of breath and feel as if his eyes were a physical caress to my entire body. I glance up into his startling dark brown eyes. They look…tired, yet elated. He tries to mask his features. I’m not sure which one he was trying to hide, but I saw them. Both of them.
“You gonna let us in or are we supposed to stand on the sidewalk all damn day?” Fish asks his friend, as he walks right by me and up the stairs. He brushes his shoulder against Mack’s, which makes him shake his head and grin, before continuing through the open front door.
When we’re the only two left outside, I finally find my voice. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he parrots. He stands up tall and takes a step back. “Come on in.”
My legs feel heavy as I walk up the steps. When I’m a mere foot away, his scent hits me, strong and familiar. It reminds me of our date nights, when he was freshly showered and in clean clothes, but the more I notice his appearance, he looks a little frazzled too. His black shirt is wrinkled and his hair, which is longer than before, is wild and uncombed. The exhaustion surrounding his eyes is more pronounced now, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s slept.
Something hits me as I gaze at his unkempt appearance.
Is he sick?
Is that why he’s brought me here? He needs help because he’s ill and has no one else in his corner?
His eyes land on mine, and they seem to smile back at me. “You look good, Lean.”
There it is. The old nickname. The one he used when we were alone, and usually intimate. Way back when, I thought there was nothing better than to hear him call me Lean in the quiet of my apartment, when we were tangled in the sheets. Apparently, I was wrong. Hearing him say it now, after three long years, holds just as much of a punch as it did then.
“You too,” I tell him, rocking on my feet. I wish I knew what to do, but I doubt there’s a ‘What to do when you see your ex after three years’ handbook.