25. Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Five

C andy

The open road stretches before us, the midday sun casting a warm glow across the dashboard. Fields of golden wheat and towering silos roll by outside the window, a picturesque Midwestern landscape straight out of a postcard. It should be idyllic, peaceful. But I can't shake the knot of tension coiled in my gut.

Courage's hands are steady on the wheel, his eyes fixed ahead, but I can see the tightness in his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows. He's on high alert, every sense tuned to the potential danger lurking just out of sight.

I absently run my fingers over the phone in my lap, half dreading the next hateful message or ominous threat. Part of me wants to toss the damn thing out the window, leave the ugliness and bad blood far behind. But I know that's just a fantasy. This is our reality now—looking over our shoulders, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Courage reaches over, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze. "Hungry, rock star? You're not the only one in this car who knows how to Google. There's a great little diner about an hour up the road. Best cherry pie in three states, or so it says on Yelp."

I muster a smile, trying to match his lighthearted tone. "Well, if it's got the Courage seal of approval, how can I resist?"

The diner is a charming relic, all neon and chrome with red vinyl booths and a jukebox in the corner. The comforting scents of coffee and frying chicken wrap around us as we slide into a booth, a welcome respite from the road.

Courage orders for both of us, flirting shamelessly with the grandmotherly waitress until she's giggling like a schoolgirl. I can't help but grin, marveling at the easy charm he wields so effortlessly, even in the midst of our private turmoil.

Perhaps telling my truth during the Broken Starlets interview allowed Courage to make his own public statement about his authentic self. Although until this morning he's worn a hoodie even in the sweltering heat, today he's in a t-shirt, his gorgeous wolven ears on full display.

Our waitress initially did a double take, but her anxiety disappeared the moment Courage poured on the charm. Other reactions in the diner seem to be mixed. Everyone who sees him does a double-take, which makes sense since almost every Other on Earth is locked in the fenced Integration Zone in LA.

After their initial surprise, about half the people huff, turn the other way, and sometimes mutter something insulting. The other half give him shy smiles, then go about their business.

Our order arrives. This is a down-home diner, so we took the waitress's suggestions. One of us ordered fried chicken, the other ordered meatloaf. We're going to share. The promised pie is indeed a thing of beauty—flaky golden crust, plump cherries glistening with syrup, and a generous scoop of vanilla bean ice cream slowly melting on top.

"What the hell, Candy. What do you say we live dangerously?" His tail thumps mischievously against the sparkly red vinyl booth seat. "Should we eat dessert first?"

"Wouldn't want the ice cream to ruin the crust, right?" I take a bite and can't hold back a rapturous moan. "Oh, my god. I think I just had a religious experience."

Courage chuffs, his ears flicking. "Should I leave you two alone?"

I flip him off playfully, then deliberately take another sinful bite. "Seriously though, how do you find these places? It's like you have a sixth sense for hidden gems."

He shrugs, a secretive little smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Maybe I just like surprising you, keeping you on your toes. You can't be the only one who finds amazing places like Barney Smith's Toilet Seat Art Museum."

Something warm and sweet unfurls in my chest, momentarily eclipsing the hovering unease. These little moments of normalcy, of levity in the midst of the storm, they're everything.

As Courage is immersed in the subtle goodness of the world's best cherry pie, my mind changes focus, skips over the looming threats, and quits worrying about the secret texter. All my thoughts center on the male across the 1950s Formica table from me.

He's gorgeous. Dear God, those startling blue eyes, the perfect nose, the symmetry of his face, that strong jaw. But my affection for him is about so much more than the package—speaking of which, I definitely want to taste that male, soon.

He's so kind, so fun, so easy to talk to. His dedication to keeping me safe is maybe the most attractive quality about him.

I've never been in love before, but although I've been skirting the issue for days because I've been so wrapped up in being stalked by jerks, I can't ignore the iron-clad fact that has been lurking at the corners of my mind.

I love Courage. Other than Maury, he's the best person I've ever known. I would tell him right now, but not only don't I have the nerve, I don't think it's smart. Telling him my feelings will make him even more committed to keeping me safe, more worried about me. I don't want him to do anything stupid to protect me. I make a silent promise to myself that I won't tell him my true feelings until this crazy threat is over.

The rest of the meal passes in easy conversation and gentle teasing, the outside world fading away until it's just us, just this pocket of peace we've carved out together. But all too soon, the plates are cleared, the bill is paid—along with a generous tip to the woman who's probably long past retirement age—and it's time to face the road again.

As we exit the diner into the waning afternoon light, Courage's arm slides around my waist, pulling me close against his side. I lean into him, breathing in his reassuring scent.

"Thank you," I murmur. "For this, for everything."

He presses a kiss to my temple, his lips lingering for a long beat. "Just doin' my job, ma'am."

"We spent a few days in Texas and you picked up a drawl ?" I gently slap his chest. "I've never met them, but I imagine the guys back at Wolven Warriors HQ will tease you mercilessly if you don't lose that accent before you're back in the Zone."

For a moment, I think we both quit breathing. What I said was too real. It reminded us both that his gig protecting me is time-limited. It breaks my heart to think we might never see each other again when my Back-to-Basics Tour is over. Just imagining it makes my stomach tighten into a knot.

Later that evening, back at the hotel, I'm restless and raw, my mind refusing to quiet. I pace my room like a caged tiger, every nerve ending buzzing with a strange, reckless energy.

Before I can second guess myself, I'm rifling through my suitcase, unearthing my harmonica, and then I grab my battered acoustic guitar. Within a few minutes, I'm out the door, padding down the generic beige hallway to Courage's room.

He opens the door before I can knock, his keen hearing having picked up my approach. "Hey," he says softly, his eyes searching mine, a worried furrow in his brow. "Everything okay?"

I shrug, suddenly feeling oddly shy. "Couldn't sleep. Thought maybe we could… jam a little if you're not too tired."

His face softens into a smile, and he steps back, ushering me inside. "For you, rock star? I've always got the energy. Besides, I have to pick Fury up at the airport on the red-eye in…" he checks the time on his phone, "five hours. It's probably not worth trying to get some sleep at this point."

He sits in the upholstered chair, and I settle on the bed, my back against the headboard. After a few suggestions, we settle on a song we both know and start slow, tentative. My clumsy, unpracticed harmonica weaves hesitantly around the haunting notes of his flute. But as we find our rhythm, as our melodies begin to twine and soar, something shifts, opens.

The two wind instruments together are dissonant on the high notes, so I pick up my guitar and sing. And oh, the sound we make together—it's transcendent, ethereal. At times, he sets down his flute and lets my guitar do all the work as his raw, passionate bass blends with my smoky alto, lifting me up and out of myself until I'm flying, untethered and free.

Time seems to stretch and blur, the rest of the world falling away until there's only this, only us. Only the music flowing between us like a living thing, like the purest expression of the feelings we still haven't quite managed to reveal with words.

When the last notes fade into silence, we're both breathing hard, our eyes locked and blazing. I swallow, my tongue darting out to wet my suddenly dry lips. "Courage, that was…"

But I don't get to finish, because he's surging out of his chair, settling his hip on the bed, pulling the guitar off my lap, and setting it on the floor. His mouth claims mine in a searing, desperate kiss. My fingers tangle in his thick brown pelt, needing him closer, always closer.

This thing between us, it's been building since the moment we met, since that first charged glance, that first brush of hands. Simmering just below the surface through every mile, every stage, every shared secret and inside joke. And now, in the heated cocoon of this generic hotel room, with the echoes of our joined voices still ringing in the air, it ignites.