Where There's a Will (Lost Boys, #1)

by Jessie Walker

We all have our battle armor, I suppose. Hers is shallow intimidation. Mine? Girls, whiskey, and bad humor.

Waylon taps the mic a couple times, waiting for the crowd to quiet. Smirking, he presses his mouth to where his fingers just were. “Hi.” Annnndddddd there goes my boxers. And probably every pair of panties in the room.

And not just any someone—Will. Fucking. No. Middle. Name. Foster. I mean, really, who doesn’t give their kid a middle name? What is with that?

I have a rule about Sundays—if I can’t do it from the comfort of my couch, then it’s not getting done.

“What can I say? I’m a Scorpio. Blame it on the stars.” He gives me a funny look. “Your birthday’s in May, dude. You’re a fucking Taurus.”

I don’t know what’s more ridiculous—the fact we’re in a bar and it’s still two months away from Halloween, or the sight of Scream’s psycho killer waving jazz fingers at us while holding a Shirley Temple.

“The sun will always rise again.” I shrug. “You just need to make it through the night. Take it day by day—moment by moment if you need to—until you reach the other side. Nothing lasts forever.”

“What is that?” I can’t help but wonder, ignoring what that little tidbit of information does to me. “Red Headed Slut.” “Minus the slut,” Mason adds. “And the head,” Shawn finishes dryly. So, cranberry juice.

Never have I been so goddamned tempted to watch it all burn.

Whiskey, baby—it’s a helluva drug.

The world will keep spinning, and people will keep on sucking, and some days are going to be harder than others... But at the end of it, I’m still me. And they can take it or fucking leave it.

We convince ourselves that we have a purpose, a reason for existing at all, but the truth is—we’re nothing more than empires waiting to fall, deluding ourselves into thinking we’re invincible. That we’re forever.

“Where there’s a will, there’s a way, right?” he says simply. His mouth ticks up. “It made me laugh thinking about it. I couldn’t get the words out of my head after that. They just kept playing on this...endless, delirium-ridden loop. Like a song stuck in my head on repeat. I just kept thinking how it was a play on our names, and it just...it hit me.”

“My will to live. That was on me and only me. I could end it at any moment. It’s the one thing he couldn’t control. Couldn’t touch. The only thing that was in my hands. So long as I had the will to make it through another day, I’d be okay. There would still be a me. A Way.”

“There’re a lot of meanings behind this symbol, but that’s the one I chose for myself. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.” And my heart... It. Just. Explodes.

My jaw tightens, bordering on painful with the amount of restraint it’s taking not to just grab him and kiss the shit out of him and finally make him mine, once and for all.

I am drowning. Drowning in overwhelming want for this guy. This fucking guy who just told me I was once his everything, when I was sure I was only ever his nothing.

Cheeks flushed, Waylon shrugs and spreads his hands as if daring me to stake my claim. As if to say, Is this what you want? My mouth crooks up wickedly. Baby, you’ve no fucking clue. He arches a knowing, challenging brow. “Show me, City Boy.”

“You a mind-reader now?” He scowls. “No, you just have the poker-face of a golden retriever.”

I also have PTSD—no, sorry, complex PTSD, because apparently regular PTSD wasn’t bougee enough for me,” he says sarcastically.

“It’s just...it’s hard for me to wrap my head around it. I didn’t know any different growing up. How can you be traumatized from something when it’s all you’ve ever known?” Jesus.

He is, and has always been, my one exception.

“We were always going to end up here, weren’t we?” My voice is barely above a whisper. He shrugs. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way, right?” He smirks knowingly. “Kind of inevitable, wouldn’t you say?”

Then again, not everything ends with a bang. Sometimes, it really is just a whimper.