Eric had been trying so hard to walk the line. Head down, eyes forward, pocketing every spare penny to put toward his future. Then Demi Vaughan came into his line of vision, with her glossy brown curls and her hip-swaying walk, and whammo. His better judgment got coshed on the head, tied up and stuffed into the trunk of a car.
This was such a dumb move. On so many levels. He was the Prophet’s spawn, she was a rich girl, the town princess, the college grad. He was practically broke, she lived in the biggest house in Shaw’s Crossing. He was an orphan with a past best not talked about, and she was the granddaughter of the guy whose family gave the town its very name.
That was the girl he got a raging hard-on for. Because evidently he liked to punch up the challenge. Keep it interesting for himself. True to form.
He kept seeing the scene tomorrow, at the river, in his mind’s eye. Demi soaking wet. Clingy, scanty clothes. Her cloud of dark hair floating around her. Nipples tight from the cold.
He hit the accelerator. The sudden burst of speed knocked the wobbling window right off its track, and it fell down inside the car door with a loud, decisive thunk.
He could still hear his better judgment back there, trapped in the trunk. Howling, kicking out the taillights, trying to be heard. But he just couldn’t listen to it.
Stay down, you noisy dickwad. I got things to do.