She was looking at one of the Amos boys. Dylan, the oldest. “It’s a bit chilly.” She assumed the conversation would end there. Presley knew the Amoses; she didn’t. But he spoke again.
“Who let you out of the house?”
“Excuse me?”
Propping one foot against the wall behind him, he lit a cigarette, which illuminated his face. “Presley said you never go anywhere.”
“That’s not true.”
He paused before taking another drag. “She also said you’re too uptight to have any fun.”
“Why would she tell you that?” Cheyenne couldn’t imagine the Amoses talking about her at all. She was as different from them as night from day, and that was apparent long before any conversation.
“I promised her that if she’d bring you along someday, I’d show you a good time. But she said you wouldn’t let me, that you’ll probably remain a virgin till you die.”
Rumors about her lack of sexual experience had circulated through town before, along with plenty of speculation on whether it could be true. But she was surprised he’d confront her like this. “My personal life is none of your business.”
He blew out a mouthful of smoke. “Doesn’t stop me from being curious.”
“You can’t believe everything you hear. Presley must’ve been high when she said that. Which doesn’t make her particularly reliable.” She wasn’t sure why she’d dignified his remark with a response, except that she didn’t want him poking fun at her innocence.
“I gotta take what I can get.”
She shot him a frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“She’s the only person we have in common,” he said with a shrug. “Anyway, she’s always high when she’s at our place. That’s why she comes over. She’s looking for a party. And my brothers are more than happy to give her one.”
Cheyenne continued to grimace. It didn’t help to have her worst fears confirmed. “As I thought.”
“You blame us for your sister’s addiction?”
He’d obviously picked up on her tone.
“You could be a better influence.”
“It’s not my job to set her straight. She makes her own choices.”
“I’m not happy about the drug use.”
“Duly noted.” A laugh rumbled from deep in his throat. “Your lack of approval changes everything.”
Stung by his flippant remark, she reacted angrily. “I hope no one’s taking advantage of her while she’s there. Because if I find out that’s the case—”
“You’ll what?” He shoved away from the wall to move closer. He wasn’t bad-looking, but he wasn’t particularly good-looking, either. He had a wiry build with broad shoulders and plenty of muscle, apparent even beneath his denim jacket and jeans. She couldn’t find fault with his body. It was his face that bothered her. With an abundance of angles, cruel, dark eyes and a jagged scar on one temple, he looked…dangerous. The fact that he was reckless and had a history of getting picked up by the police only added to her sense that it was smarter to keep her distance.
“I’ll do whatever I can to protect her,” she said, folding her arms to appear more resolute.
“Relax. Nothing’s going to happen to Presley at my place,” he told her. “But, like I said, she makes her own decisions. And there isn’t anything either of us can do about that.”
When he continued to advance on her, she glanced around. It was three o’clock on a Sunday. She could reasonably expect to find other people in the park, even on a cold afternoon, like this one. A few dog walkers, if nothing else. But they were alone and being alone with Dylan Amos made her uncomfortable. He had a powerful presence that encouraged others to give him a wide berth. No one wanted to cross the Amos boys, especially the biggest and baddest.
But Cheyenne was in no mood to skitter away. “Are you the one she sleeps with when she’s there?”
He stopped a foot or so shy of her. “Me? No. I’ve never been interested in Presley.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Are you suggesting there’s something wrong with her?”
With a laugh at how quickly she’d grown defensive, he shook his head. “You can say what you want about her but I can’t? Is that it?”
“She’s my sister.”
“She’s also a lost soul. Deep down, I think you agree with me.”
“And you’re not?”
He gazed at the end of his cigarette. “We aren’t talking about me,” he said.
“Maybe we should be. Who are you to point a finger at anyone else?”
He took a long drag before flicking away the ashes. He looked like such a badass with that scar and slightly crooked nose. “You’re the one making judgments. But it’s nice to see you’ve got some spunk. After what you’ve been through, that surprises me. I’m impressed.”
She hadn’t been trying to impress him. She’d rather he gave her a target. She had to play nice with everyone else—her friends, her sister, her dying mother. It wasn’t fair to behave any other way. But there were moments when the rage and frustration she’d known all these years threatened to consume her, made her want to rant and rave and throw whatever she could lay her hands on. She felt that way now, as if she was on the brink of letting all that negative emotion spew out.
He seemed braced for the worst, like someone poking a rattlesnake with a stick to see if it would strike. Of all the people in Whiskey Creek, she thought he could take it if she unleashed her rage. But she didn’t. They were virtually strangers. She had no right to go after him any more than anyone else.
“No comment?” he prompted.
“You don’t what to hear what I have to say,” she said, turning away.
He tilted his head to be able to look her in the face. “Why not?”
“It’s not polite.”
“Far as I’m concerned, polite is boring.”
“Fine.” She met his gaze. “I want to slug somebody, okay?”
Dylan didn’t draw back in horror. He didn’t laugh at her, either. “It’s a wonder you haven’t done that by now. I doubt anyone would blame you.” He leaned in to tweak her chin and lowered his voice at the same time. “But take it from me, sweet pea. There are better ways of working off frustration.”