Hook, Line, and Sinker

“I had it bad for you. If the convention didn’t make it obvious, I thought for sure the Fleetwood Mac album would do it.” His voice stumbled. “I’ve got it so bad for you, Hannah. Really”—he blew out a breath—“really bad. I tried to keep you out of here.” He knocked his free fist against his chest. “But you won’t go. You’re never going to go. You just won’t.”

“Hannah. I can’t answer what I don’t know,” he said through stiff lips. “What do you want me to say? Do I want to fuck you? Yes. Oh my God, I”—his eyes closed briefly, those fisherman’s hands flexing on the steering wheel—“I want you underneath me so bad that I can’t lie in bed without already feeling you there. I’ve never even had you, and your body haunts mine.”

“Hey, scumbag! How about you shut your mouth?” She jabbed a finger at the leader, and his cigarette froze on the way to his mouth. “Mamas don’t bother warning girls about jerks like yourself, because no one would come within ten feet of you. Smelly old ball sac!”