He watched her walk away with her braid swinging from side to side above her hips. Drake clenched his hands tight at his sides. He wasn’t even there long enough to constitute actually being there, and she’d already driven him into a dangerous level of irritation. Why did she get to him so easily?
He crossed the grass to the steps, careful to tread on the cleaner parts of the lawn. Even the grass looked like it was giving up the ghost with its browning tips and rustling dryness as he passed.
The stairs creaked with each step as he climbed. Using the railing wasn’t an option. Splinters weren’t his idea of a good time.
Knocking on the front door, Drake tried not noticing the flaking paint and the missing shutter or the dead plants in the chipped planter to the right of the door.
A soft voice told him to come in. At least he hoped that’s what was said. If not, he was going inside without permission. In Montana they shot people for that.
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