He grabbed two shot glasses out of the cupboard and ran them under the faucet to rinse the dust from them. Set them next to the whiskey.

“I figured we could toast to Garrison,” said Miserelli.

Hudson nodded. He cracked open the bottle and poured them each a shot, slid Miserelli’s to her.

“Thanks.” She clinked her glass against his, and together, they tipped them back. Hudson watched her screw up her face. “Tastes like motor oil.”

“It’s not good,” he agreed, wiping his mouth on the bottom of his T-shirt. He glanced up and noticed Miserelli staring at him, at his abdomen and the trail of dark hair that journeyed below his belly button. He fixed his shirt and put both glasses in the sink. He started to rinse them when he felt something against his skin, cold and light as a snowflake. The winter air clung to her clothes, her hair, her hands as she touched him. His entire body tensed, her familiar caress having turned him into a block of ice.

And ice could melt.

“How was your mom’s last night?” she asked.

“It was good,” he lied, and knew he didn’t sound convincing.

“That’s good.” She rested her head against his back. He closed his eyes, giving in to her, to the whiskey that shrouded his mind in a dreamy fog. And for a moment, all his problems slipped away. He was a worry stone, worn so smooth after Garrison’s death and being disowned by his family that nothing bad could stick to him anymore. For the first time in his life, he felt invincible, a little come-what-may.

Miserelli slid to her knees, taking his pants down with her. All he could see was her fiery crown moving back and forth as she began to blow him.

His hands gripped the edge of the counter. “Jesus,” he breathed. When was the last time he’d gotten one of these? He went down on her almost every time they had sex, and yet, so infrequently did she return the favor.

“Don’t stop,” he said, and he said it again. His hands were in her hair, her wayward ringlets slipping in and out of his fingers, like melting embers. His muscles tensed, his abs contracted, every vein in his body swelled. If this was her way of apologizing … apology accepted.

He fell to his knees when he finished, his entire body racked with tremors. Miserelli straddled him. Her fingers made slow circles on the back of his skull that could send him into a coma. Even the slightest touch felt like a lightning bolt to him right now. She kissed him hard, and he kissed her back harder. His hands slid into the waistband of her jeans, finding purchase at the top of her butt. Her skin was velvet soft. Gliding his fingertips upward, he traced the calligraphy he knew to be inked on her spine.