Willow
"EASY," HE SAYS, HOLDING UP HIS HANDS. "JUST GONNA TAKE A LOOK.
You wouldn't be the first to run dry in the middle of the road."
This close, I see it — The scars.
There's a jagged track that goes from his hairline, down his forehead, follows the curve of his eye socket, and bisects his cheekbone all the way to his jaw. There's another big scar across his other eye, right through his eyebrow. And yet another vertically slicing through his lips.
It looks like someone took a knife to his face. It doesn't look like the desperate, haphazard slashes like you'd get in a fight or accident. It looks like evidence of torture. He must see the shock on my face, because his own expression hardens. The energy drink churns in my stomach. "Okay," I whisper. "You can take a look."
He nods in acknowledgement. We're both pretending like I have some power in this situation, when the truth is, I've never been more vulnerable in my life.
Who is this stranger?
And what the hell happened to him? He turns, moving to the back of his truck. He grabs a gas can and a lantern, flicking the old-fashioned flame to life before handing it to me.
That's when I notice his hands are covered in intricate tattoos, including his fingers. The hand holding the lantern is inked with a rose. There are more words and symbols I don't recognize trailing down his knuckles. It looks like pictures I've seen of mafia tattoos. Something to denote membership and rank. Achievements. This guy might be in a gang.
I swallow down a surge of fear. The moment we touch, his gaze flicks up to me. There's something intent there, almost searching. I try not to stare at his scars, but it's impossible. If you stare into his eyes, you must also be confronted by the scars.
I wonder if whoever did that to him had exactly that in mind. This close, with the lantern's light bathing us, I can see the color of those eyes. One is blue, the other a brown so light it's almost gold.
"Heterochromia."
I don't realize I say the word aloud until his brows draw together and he says, "What's that, now?"
I swallow, embarrassed by the slip. "Your eyes. They're two different colors. Heterochromia."
"My father called them ghost eyes. Thought it gave me the power to see spirits."
A breeze ruffles his dark hair and I catch a whiff of his scent. He smells crisp and wild and clean all at once, like a forest after a storm. "It's a gene mutation," I say. "Nothing supernatural about it."
We're still grasping the lamp together, neither of us making a move to let go.
There's a flicker in his expression, like he's remembering something. Like he recognizes me. "You sound so sure," he says.
"I learned about it on the back of a Snapple cap. So it must be true."
He blinks. Processing that I maybe just made a joke. Not a very good one, apparently. He doesn't smile.
"Careful." He finally relinquishes the lantern. "Lamp gets hot."
"Do you need me to follow you with the light?"
"No need."
He crouches by my car, working with effortless efficiency as he fills the tank. Then he checks a loose lug nut and runs a hand under the hood. His movements are deft, completely at ease. No one has ever treated my old little Honda with such care. I really should be embarrassed, standing uselessly while he looks over my car. But I'm too distracted, trying to figure him out.
He's tall and muscular beneath his clothes, so he either spends a lot of time at the gym or does a job that requires physical labor. When his fingers touched mine, his own felt callused. Could he be in construction? Or a mechanic? He certainly knows his way around my car.
He rolls up his sleeves. Like his jeans, his shirt is faded but looks soft and clean. The tattoos on his hands extend all the way up his muscular forearms. I can't quite make out the details in the dim light, but I see there's a smudge of black grease on his other arm.
Mechanic, I decide.
I eye the tattoos. Hopefully not a mechanic that belongs to a motorcycle gang. Or organized crime. After capping the gas can, he stands to his full height. Much taller than me. Everything about him is much. His honed body. His bone structure. His voice. He tilts his head as he studies me. "I feel like we've met before." "We haven't. I would've remembered." I flush. My answer has given too much away. "Are you from around here?" I ask, trying to smooth over how flustered he makes me. "Something like that."
Part of me wants to keep him talking so I can get a better sense of him. He still has that aura of danger about him. But some instinct makes me want to draw closer to him, to know more. I have terrible instincts, I try to remind myself. If there's a man I'm drawn to, it means he's bad news. I should be tightening my shoelaces now and preparing to run. Or, at the very least, sending him on his way with the hopes of never seeing him again. Unfortunately, I follow my instincts anyway.
"Do you work in town?" I ask, a little breathlessly.
God, why did I say it like that? Like it's a cheesy porn movie, and I'm about to invite him in to "check my plumbing." "I do a little bit of everything."
"That's not an answer."
"No, it's not."
Okay, I know how to take a hint. This guy doesn't want to make conversation, which is fine.
Totally fine. Preferable, in fact. If I can get out of this interaction with a full tank of gas and minimal to no bloodshed, that's a win.
Things could have gone very badly for me here, and they didn't.
I should be grateful it's not going any further than this. Not disappointed.
"Well, thanks for your help. I'll let you get on with your day."
He makes no move to leave. He leans a denim-clad hip against my car like he has a right to it. He's studying me, just like I studied him.
A lingering silence stretches between us.
As I search for something to say, I tug at my sweater. I borrowed it from Dad. It's several sizes too big for me and has a hole in it. My long hair, which I somewhat neatly braided this morning, has begun to frizz hopelessly in the damp cool air. There isn't much to look at. So why is he staring at me like he couldn't stop if he tried?