Crash Lights and Sirens, Book 1 (20 page)

That makes her laugh. “Seriously?” she asks, taking another gulp of her wine. “You realize you’re probably, like, the only man in the universe who would complain about that, don’t you? That I talk too much about food and sex?”

Nick’s lips twist. “Shut up,” he says, shaking his head. “You know what I mean.”

Taryn raises her eyebrows. “You want me to shut up, or you want me to tell you stuff?” she teases. Then, off his deadpan, unamused expression, “You know stuff about me! What don’t you know?”

Nick cocks his head to the side. “What’s your family like?” he asks.

And there it is. He doesn’t hesitate at all before he says it, like he’s been sitting on that one for weeks and weeks, waiting for the exact right time to whip it out. She thinks of Pete showing up uninvited at her house with a bakery box,
there are programs,
and people who just won’t quit sticking their noses where they don’t belong. She knew this was going to happen, that eventually she was going to get to this point with Nick too, and she pursued it anyway. It’s her own fault.

“Freckly,” she replies.

“Okay.” Nick blows out a breath like he’s truly irritated all of a sudden, like he doesn’t know what to do about her at all. “Fine. If you’re gonna be that way about it, then—”

“Which way?” Taryn protests. “I’m kidding.” And again, trying for levity, “I’m kidding! You know about my family. Mikey’s in kindergarten, Connor’s in third grade, Caitlin’s really smart and girly, and Jesse’s a pain in the ass.” She shoves the last cracker into her mouth without bothering to put anything on it. “We don’t own any diners.”

It’s a pretty solid strategy, she thinks, bald denial plus information overload, but Nick isn’t satisfied. “And your mom?” he persists. “What’s she like?”

“My mom?” Across the room the fiddle’s started up, the kind of folky Irish music her grandfather used to listen to on Sundays. Nick’s got one hand curled around his pint glass, long fingers leaving marks in the condensation. Taryn looks him in the eye and lies. “My mom’s great.”

Nick’s eyebrows arch, infinitesimal. She’s not sure if he believes her or not, but it’s not like he’s gonna call bullshit on whether or not she loves her fucking mother, so. “What’s she do?” is how he follows up.

Taryn shrugs. She can see the waitress approaching with their dinners, knows she only has to stall a tiny bit longer. “She’s got some health stuff,” she says vaguely. “So she only works part-time. Jesse and I help out. Thanks so much,” she tells the waitress as the moonfaced girl sets the plates on the table, her pot pie plus a burger for Nick. “That looks great.” The girl only smiles, retreating way faster than Taryn would like.

The pie tastes great too. Taryn burns her tongue on the bubbling gravy in her haste to shove a forkful in her mouth. She’s hungry, but more than that she wants to put this conversation behind them, use the food like a giant punctuation mark or the STOP in a telegram. Wants the same chance she offers to Mikey and Connor after one of their time-outs:
Okay, monsters, now how about a do-over?

It doesn’t look like she’s going to get it. Nick hasn’t so much as picked up his burger. When Taryn works up the courage to glance at his face, his eyes are dark and serious. Then he shakes his head. “Look.” He sighs, twisting his pint glass. “You don’t want to tell me, that’s fine, that’s on you, but at least own up to not telling me. I’m not an idiot, Falvey. You wait on the curb like the world is going to end if I so much as set foot on your property.” He puts down the beer and picks up his water, taking a drink. Taryn’s fork is frozen halfway to her mouth. “Something happened with Pete,” he continues, staring at her hard over the rim. “And it sure as shit wasn’t just a botched family dinner.”

Fuck do-overs. Just like that, Taryn is furious enough to spit. “So what, you think you put it all together, like you’re one of the freaking Hardy Boys?” His tone, Jesus Christ, like he’s a goddamn priest taking her confession. Taryn sets her fork down across her single-serving casserole dish with a clatter. “It’s none of your fucking business, Nick.” Part of it is fear, if she’s being honest with herself. No one has ever called her so blatantly on her bullshit before.

Nick’s eyes narrow. “Oh yeah? Then how come you know everything about me, my sisters and Maddie and—”

It’s childish, but Taryn’s entire stomach twists at the mention of his wife.
I’m not trying to marry you, Falvey
. “So?” she hisses, as nasty as possible. “Who cares? No one asked you to tell me about that stuff.” As soon as it’s out of her mouth, she knows it’s a mistake, no take-backs.

And then, just for a second, everything stops.

Well. That’s what Nick gets for pushing, he guesses. It burns anyway. “You asked, actually,” he tells her after a long minute. “About Maddie. You asked.”

Taryn bites her lip. She’s wearing lipstick tonight, bright mouth like a hothouse flower. “Yeah, that’s—I’m sorry. I know I did.”

“It’s fine.” Nick shakes his head. This is going a fat lot of no place, and he knew it, and he let himself get involved anyway. “Don’t worry about it.”

“No, I am worried about it. Hey.” Taryn nudges his foot underneath the table, like she’s trying to make sure they’re still buddies. Nick has never in his life wanted to be friends with someone less. “That was bitchy. I don’t want to fight with you.”

Nick picks up his knife to cut the burger in half, feeling profoundly unhungry. “We’re not fighting,” he says.

“No?” She’s upset, he can tell she is, how that pale, pretty forehead’s wrinkled clear down to the bridge of her nose. She dressed up for dinner, wavy hair and dangly earrings. “What are we doing then?”

Nick shrugs. It’s like all the backbone’s gone out of him, a dull, tepid resignation he remembers real clearly but hasn’t felt in a while. He wonders what it is about him that keeps him from walking away from shit he knows is hopeless. “S’a good question, Falvey.”

Taryn’s fussing with her wineglass, rolling the stem back and forth between her fingers. “Hey,” she says again, more quietly this time. “Come on.”

You come on
, he wants to tell her. “It’s fine,” he repeats and picks up a steak fry. They eat their dinners mostly in silence, eyes on the band across the room as the singer segues from “Loch Lomond” to “Sweet Thing” to a James Taylor song that’s always been one of Alexandra’s favorites. Neither of them order dessert. Nick picks up the check over Taryn’s protests. “I invited you,” he tells her, and he must sound just as pissed as he feels because she shuts up about it right away, shrugging her parka on and following him out into the chilly parking lot, her skinny heels crunching on the gravel.

Nick fishes his keys out of his pocket. He’ll take her home is the smart move here probably, call it off once and for all. If the options are feel like shit now or feel like shit later, he guesses he’d rather feel like shit now. Work will be awkward as all hell for a while, but they’ll get over it. They did it after the fire last year. They can do it again.

When they get into the truck though, she throws him a curveball. “Look,” Falvey says, turning to look at him. Her lipstick’s mostly worn off, the color faint on her mouth in the dome light. It clicks off a moment later, and then they’re sitting in the dark. “Can I, like—can I come over for a bit?”

Which—that is not what he is expecting.

Nick exhales. “Taryn—”

“Nick,” she says. She sounds like she’s either about to scream at him or burst into tears. “Please.”

It’s a bad idea. He has to end it, and it’s only going to hurt more if he lays her out across his bed—Maddie’s bed—first. But the sound of the fiddle from dinner is caught in his skull, high and wailing, and he can’t think. “Okay,” he says, turning the key. The dashboard lights flicker on to illuminate Taryn’s sharp face. Just for a second, Nick imagines she looks stricken.

The drive is even quieter than the meal, no music or clanging dinnerware to drown out the awful, all-consuming hush. Atlas provides a brief distraction when they arrive, bounding up in a flurry of yips and skittery claws as soon as Nick unlocks the front door. His tail wags so fast it looks like it’s going in a circle. But it’s far enough past the dog’s bedtime that he settles down again after a few cursory pats from Taryn, slinking off through the dark house to find his bed. Nick scrubs a hand over his face, wishing he could do the same. “Taryn.”

She just shakes her head, unzipping her parka and shrugging off the jacket she’s wearing underneath. Her milky arms are almost glowing in the darkness. Normally she’s all golds and reds, but right now it looks like someone dipped her in the palette from van Gogh’s
Starry Night
, deep blue shadows in the hollows of both collarbones. “Please,” she says again. Her eyes are wide and solemn.

So. Nick leads her upstairs, not bothering to turn on any lights. Taryn follows him straight through to the master bathroom like a stubborn ghost, finally stepping out of her heels in the doorway. When Nick looks up from splashing water on his face, he sees she’s decided to step out of her pants too. Her thong is black and lacy, little ribbon ties holding it together at either hip. She took it seriously, it looks like, dressing up for dinner.

Nick hates himself, but even through the anger he still feels a wave of desire strong enough to knock him over. The dip of her spine to her ass is one of the few places on her body where the freckles disappear altogether, he knows, smooth and white as a china doll’s and the dark blue curl of her tattoo. Right now, all he wants is to turn her around and investigate the phenomenon again. “Falvey,” he says instead, gripping the counter. “What are you after here?”

Taryn shrugs, eyes everywhere but his face.

Then she nods at the claw-foot tub.

“It’s cold,” is all she’ll say.

Christ. Nick sits on the closed toilet lid and drags his sweater over his head while she runs the water, shedding her own clothes like so many husks of corn. Her bra matches the thong, sheer and delicate, but she unhooks it before he has time to appreciate the full picture. Nick can’t tell if she’s trying to make up or say goodbye.

Once she’s naked she crosses the tile to stand between his knees, hands out so he’ll lace his fingers with hers. “Don’t be mad at me,” she says, getting closer. God, but she’s a beautiful girl.

“I’m not mad at you,” he tells her. It’s only half a lie—even as he’s trying to hold on to the feeling the worst of it’s seeping away, her quiet voice and how young she looks in the amber glow of the night-light plugged in above the sink. She’s offering him something here, no question. In spite of himself, Nick turns his head and presses his mouth to the side of one pale breast. “I’m not.”

“Yeah you are.” Taryn lets go of one hand, reaching up and threading her fingers through the hair at the back of his neck. It’s warming up in here, the faucet running and vanishing wisps of steam curling off the surface of the water in the bath. “Get in the tub with me, okay?” she murmurs into his scalp.

Nick sighs. “Taryn,” he says again, using her name for the third time in a row like a prayer, and just as useless. He lets her tug his undershirt up, unbuttons his own jeans. She twists her hair into a knot without the benefit of an elastic, glancing behind her to make sure he’s following before she climbs in and shuts off the faucet. The water’s hot enough to sting. As soon as he’s settled, Taryn leans back against his chest, the movement sending a small wave sloshing over the side of the bathtub.

“Easy,” Nick murmurs into her ear. He’s still not sure if she’s trying to break it off with him or not. She tucks herself into the line of his body, tilts her sharp chin up to kiss him tentative and slow.

“You know me,” she promises, against his mouth and urgent. Underneath the water, her pretty skin is mermaid-slick. “Maybe you think you don’t, but you do.”

Nick can’t begin to figure out how to answer that, so he just keeps on kissing her, jaw and neck and shoulder until she’s grinding her ass back against him, impatient. He’s been hard since she peeled her jeans off, that dumb animal need he’s got for her like he’s seventeen all over again. He breathes out a slow, careful breath. He can’t keep himself from pulling her even closer, wrapping his arms around her front and mapping the flat plane of her stomach. Taryn whimpers. When he gets his fingers between her legs, she’s the kind of proper wet that isn’t from bathwater.

“Easy,” Nick murmurs again, her bucking hips and two more waves cresting over the edge of the tub. He opens her up carefully, just the tip of his pointer finger on her clit, trying not to let the water wash away her natural slickness. But already Taryn’s angling for more of it, grinding her pubic bone against his palm.

For a second Nick gives her what she’s after, full pressure and speed, but then the water does its job and his fingers are catching on her squeaky-clean skin. Taryn makes a frustrated noise, sitting up.

“I want—” She’s on her knees facing away from him now, pink toes brushing against either side of his hips. It’s a tight fit. Still, when she sinks down again and pushes her ass back, there’s no room for misinterpretation. Nick bites at her shoulder, soft-toothed.

“Let the water out some,” he tells her, leaning his forehead against the wet pleat of her spine. He wants to talk about this, why she’s at him like it’s the end of the world, if she’s staying or going or what any of it means, but she’s turned so he can’t see her face. “I’m not mad, okay?” he says instead, petting her hips while she pulls up the old-fashioned drain stopper. The curve of her back is as tight and elegant as a dancer’s. “Hey, Falvey. Listen, you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want.”