I pinch my eyes closed, still cradling his hand in mine. “Hollis.” His name spills from my lips in a breathy wisp.
“I’d do it again in a heartbeat.” His deep voice, the threaded steeliness in his tone indicative of his remaining anger toward Preston, wraps around me like a safeguard. I open my eyes and find him staring down at me. “I’m sorry, Shortcake.” Remorse etches his face. “I thought he was a good one.”
He feels bad for introducing us. “It’s not your fault.” I hold his gaze for a long beat until he finally gives a curt nod. Then I switch gears. “Now, we need to get this”—I tip my head, gesturing to his hand—“cleaned up.”
“It’ll be fine.”
I squint at him sternly. “Do you have a first-aid kit?”
A huff of a laugh breaks free, and he shakes his head. “I think there’s one stuffed in the back of my closet.”
I point at him. “Sit and I’ll get it.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Yes, ma’am.”
By the time I finally uncover the first-aid kit, I’ve disrupted Hollis’ closet a bit and a few well-worn cotton shirts have slid off the hangers. I replace them on the hangers aside from one.
“For heaven’s sake, this shirt is the softest thing I’ve ever felt.” I emerge from his closet grasping the kit in one hand and the shirt in the other.
He wrinkles his brow. “It’s older than sin.”
A thought hits me. “Do you wear it a lot?”
At my hopeful expression, he laughs. “You can have it as payment for this.” He holds up his battered hand.
A few minutes later, I’ve cleaned his wounds and applied some antibiotic ointment. Ignoring his grumbling, I insist on wrapping his knuckles with nonstick gauze, and something flickers in my memory.
I realize the last time I bandaged up my best friend was that night long ago. My eyes drift from his hand up to his forearm and I run my fingertip over the area that now shows no evidence of the cut from his mom. His other hand snags my wrist and my eyes dart up to find him watching me curiously. I place a quick, light kiss to his bandaged knuckles and gather up the first-aid kit.
Replacing the kit and ensuring his closet isn’t a god-awful mess, I turn to find him lying on his side on his bed that’s flush against the wall, his head on the pillow, and a watchful expression on his face.
I gingerly lower myself on the mattress, face-to-face with him. He rests his bandaged hand on my hip and, as though this simple contact comforts him, his eyes fall closed even though it’s clear to see the self-recrimination in the crease between his brows and slight tic in his jaw.
I take advantage of this moment to study him. A small smile tugs at the edges of my mouth as my eyes trace over his features. He’s changed from the young boy who made a little girl—a girl who never fit into the world that stressed perfect appearances—feel true acceptance.
The boyish curves of his face have given way to sharper, more distinctive lines of a young man. His lanky build has grown into lean, honed muscles that slink together with inherently smooth movement. His dark hair is longer on top and shorter along the sides, and I know without touching it that it’ll be as soft as it was years ago.
Regardless of the changes in Hollis’ appearance, some things remain the same. He still has the biggest heart and the kindest soul of anyone I’ve ever known. I reach out a fingertip to trace that troublesome crease between his brows before veering off to run the pad of my finger over that scar bisecting his eyebrow.
His eyes flash open, locking with mine, and my breath catches in my throat at the intensity in his gaze. I pull back, but he catches my wrist gently and draws my hand close to press a light kiss to the center of my palm.
My lungs seize, and I swear my heart skips a beat at the sensation of that tender kiss. As quick as it happens, he startles me with his sudden question.
“You know what we need to do?”
“Nooo,” I draw out the word slowly. “What’s that?”
“We need to get outta here. I mean, after all, you’re all dressed up with nowhere to go.” His eyes spark with excitement. “And I know just the place.”
“This is…not quite what I was expectin’.”
I stare—gawk, if I’m being honest—at the most dilapidated bar front I’ve ever seen. The Pink Elephant—or ink Elhat, according to their sad excuse for a sign with multiple letters missing—looks as though it’s a front for something much seedier than just serving alcohol.
Hollis chuckles. “Ye of little faith.” With a wink, he adds, “Trust me?”
I stare at him with wide-eyed apprehension. “Right now, I’m not so sure.”
His grin is wide and makes him even more endearing. Even if he is trying to coerce me into entering the seediest bar around. “Come on, now. What’s the worst that could happen?”
I flick my eyes to the darkened windows of the bar. Good Lord, the tint is so dark, you can’t even see if the lights are on inside. “The worst that could happen?” I give him a skeptical look. “I reckon I could get an STD just by—”
He dips his head closer and levels me with a look. “Never thought you to be judgmental and close-minded like your mama.”
Ouch. Well, that just flat-out stung, but now that I think about it, Hollis has a point. Just because I’ve never been inside a place that looked like this one shouldn’t necessarily mean anything bad.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” I dart another curious glance at the door of the bar. “How’d you find out about this place?”
His expression softens, and his lips quirk slightly. “I was at the junkyard lookin’ for a part for the truck and came across this gentleman. Got to talkin’. He told me about this place.
“Turns out he owns a garage where he does body work and offered to let me use his equipment after hours.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and lowers his gaze to his shoes. “Said I reminded him of his son.”
“Aww, that’s sweet.” I pause at his somber expression. “Does his son live far away?”
As soon as I ask, his lips turn down, and I instantly know I won’t like his answer.
“He died overseas. Army.”
I reach out and lay my hand on his arm. “Oh no! Poor thing.”
“You’ll like Mr. Ted.” His eyes brighten when they rise to meet mine. “He’s a straight shooter.”
“I can’t wait to meet him.” With a bit more pep in my step, I start for the door, but Hollis’ hand on my wrist draws me to a stop. I toss him a questioning look.
“Anytime you want to leave, you say the word, ’kay?” His eyes hold mine with such intensity, my breath hitches. “You’ve had a rough night, but I wanted to try to get your mind off things…” Hollis darts a quick glance at the door before returning to me as if he’s second-guessing bringing me here.
“And I’m grateful for this.” My soft voice seems to echo in the night air. The blaring of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama” ekes out even from behind the closed door of the bar.
A corner of his mouth tips up. He holds out a large palm and waits for me to place mine in it. When I do, he doesn’t immediately start for the door. I look at him. His eyes crinkle at the corners. “To turnin’ this night around.”