Текст книги "After We Fell"

Автор книги: Anna Todd

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 49 страниц)

I hear his footsteps approaching the door, and I quickly scoot into the bathroom and close the door.

Moments later, knuckles tap against the wood. “Tessa?”

I open the door. I know I must appear flustered. My heart is pounding against my rib cage, and my stomach is in a knot. “Oh, hey. Was just finishing up in here,” I say, but my voice too small.

Hardin cocks an eyebrow at me. “Okay . . .” He looks down the hall. “Where’s your dad? Is he asleep?”

“Uh, yup,” I say, which makes him grin wide.

“Well, c’mon back to the bedroom, then,” he says and takes my hand in his, turning and pulling me gently.

As I follow Hardin back into the bedroom, paranoia begins to seep into my thoughts like a familiar friend.

chapter

sixteen

TESSA

The microscopic section of my mind that holds a place for common sense is attempting to send warning signals to the rest of my brain, the space held by Hardin and all things Hardin. The sensible side—what’s left of it, anyway—is telling me that I need to ask questions, that I can’t just brush this off. I do that too much as it is.

That’s the microscopic section. The larger section wins. Because, do I really want to cause a fight with him or accuse him of something that I might just be misunderstanding? He could have just been angry at Steph for inviting Molly along to lunch earlier. I couldn’t hear all that well, and he might have been sticking up for me. He was just so forthcoming about having lied about being expelled—why would he be lying to me now?

Hardin sits back on the bed, grabbing my hands in his, pulling me over to sit on his leg. “Well, we’ve exhausted all the serious topics, and your dad’s asleep. I guess we’ll have to find another way to occupy ourselves . . .” His grin is ridiculous yet infectious.

“Is sex all you think about?” I reply and push his chest playfully.

He lies back on the bed, one hand across the small of my back and one behind my thigh, pulling me on top of him. I straddle him, my thighs on either side of his, and he pulls me down so that our faces are nearly touching.

“No, I think of other things, too. For example, I think of those lips open around me . . .” He brushes his lips against mine. I can taste the hint of mint on his breath when he kisses me; the pressure is hard enough to send a wave of electricity through me, but gentle enough to leave me wanting more.

“I think of my face buried between your legs while you—” he starts to say, but I reach up and cover his mouth with my hand. The way his tongue playfully darts out to lick my palm causes me to pull away quickly.

“Eww.” I crinkle my nose and wipe my wet palm on his black shirt.

“I’ll be quiet,” he softly says, lifting his hips from the mattress to press himself against me. “That’s more than you can say, of course.”

“My father . . .” I remind him, with much less conviction this time.

“Who gives a fuck? This is our place, and if he doesn’t like it, he can leave.”

I give him a semiserious look. “Don’t be rude.”

“I’m not, but I want you, and I should be able to have you whenever I want to,” he says, and I roll my eyes.

“I have a say in this, too; it’s my body you’re talking about.” I pretend like my heart isn’t pounding and I don’t have that familiar ache for him.

“Obviously, yes. But I know that if I do this . . .” He reaches his hand down between our bodies and under the waistband of my pants and panties. “See, I knew you’d be ready when I started talking about eating . . .”

I press my lips against his to silence his dirty mouth, and he swallows the gasps he’s causing me to make as his fingers graze over my clit. He’s barely touching me, deliberately trying to torture me.

“Pleasssse,” I hiss, and he applies more pressure, pushing a slick finger inside of me.

“Thought so,” he taunts and pumps his finger slowly.

All too soon he stops his motion and moves me to lie beside him. Before I can complain, he sits up and grips the top of my pants, the pair he seems to be so infatuated with, and pulls them roughly down my thighs. I lift my hips to assist him, and then he works off my panties, too.

Without speaking, he gestures for me to move up toward the top of the bed. I push myself back using my elbows and rest my back against the headboard. He lies on his stomach in front of me, hooking both arms around my thighs, opening them.

He smirks. “At least try to be quiet.”

I begin to roll my eyes, but then his warm breath hits me—soft at first, then increasing in pressure when he gets closer. Without warning, his tongue slides across me, and I reach over and grab a decorative pillow, the yellow one that Hardin calls hideous on a regular basis. I cover my face with it, using it to muffle the involuntary sounds falling from my lips as his tongue moves faster and faster.

Abruptly, the pillow is ripped away from my face. “No, baby, watch me,” Hardin instructs, and I nod slowly. He brings one thumb to his lips, and his tongue glides over me. Moving his hand back between my thighs, he hits my most sensitive spot. My legs tighten—his touch feels heavenly against my clit, his finger moving in slow circles with just the lightest touch of the tip of his finger torturing me.

Obeying his command, I gaze down at him between my thighs, his hair messy and pushed back, standing in a wave above his forehead, a lone lock falling down only to be pushed back again when he dips his head down. Half seeing, half imagining his mouth moving against me increases the sensation drastically, and I know, I just know, I won’t be able to stay quiet as the slow buildup of my release begins. With one hand covering my mouth and one buried in his curls, I being shifting my hips to meet his tongue. It just feels too good.

I tug at his hair and feel him moan against me, sending me closer and closer . . .

“Harder,” he gasps.

What?

He reaches up to the hand that I’ve threaded through his hair, and places his hand on top of mine to tug at the roots of his hair . . . He wants me to pull his hair?

“Do it,” he says with a wanting look, and then begins to move his fingers in fast circles and lowers his head to add his tongue to the sensation. I tug at his hair, hard, and he looks up at me, his eyes fluttering closed. When they open they’re a bright, burning jade. He holds my gaze as my vision blurs and disappears momentarily.

“Come on, baby,” he whispers.

I notice his hand reach down between his legs, and I can’t hold it any longer. I watch his hand stroking his hard cock, bringing himself to orgasm with me. I will never get used to the way his actions make me feel. Watching him touching himself, feeling the hot puffs of air against me as his breathing grows heavier . . .

“You taste so fucking good, baby,” he moans against me, his hand moving quicker between his legs. I barely feel my teeth sinking into my palm as I ride out my high, still pulling at his hair.

I blink. And blink some more, lazily.

As I come back to consciousness, I feel him adjust his weight and lay his head on my stomach. I open my eyes to find him with his closed, his chest moving up and down, his breath shallow.

I lift him by his shoulder and attempt to move between his legs.

He stops and looks at me. “I . . . um, I’m already done,” he says.

I stare at him.

“I already came . . .” His voice is thick with exhaustion.

“Oh.”

He smiles a lazy, half-drunk smile and stands up from the bed. He strides over to the dresser and opens his bottom drawer, grabbing a pair of white gym shorts.

“I need to shower and change, obviously.” He points to the crotch of his jeans, where, despite their dark color, the wet spot is evident.

“Just like old times?” I smile, and he looks at me, smiling back.

Hardin comes over and places a kiss on my forehead, then one on my lips. “Good to know you haven’t lost your touch,” he says, walking to the door.

“It wasn’t my touch,” I remind him, and he shakes his head, leaving the room.

I reach for my clothes at the end of the bed, praying that my father is still asleep on the couch, and that if by chance he is awake, he doesn’t stop Hardin on his way to the bathroom. Seconds later the bathroom door closes, and I stand to get dressed.

When I’m done I check my phone for a voicemail from Sandra, but there’s nothing. What I do see is the small envelope in the corner of my screen indicating a new text message; maybe she’s busy and decided to text me.

I click it open and read: I need to talk to you.

I sigh when I next read the sender’s name: Zed.

I delete the message and set my phone back on the desk. Then curiosity gets the best of me, and I look around for Hardin’s phone. My heart pounds as I remember the last time I went snooping through it. That didn’t end well.

But this time I know he’s not hiding anything. He wouldn’t be. We’re in a completely different place now than we were before. He got a tattoo for me . . . he just won’t move for me. I have nothing to worry about. Right?

I check the dresser after not seeing it on the desk, then figure he must have taken it with him to the bathroom. Because that’s normal, right?

I have nothing to worry about; I’m just stressed and paranoid, I remind myself.

Before I continue down the rabbit hole of worry, I remind myself that I shouldn’t be going through his cell phone anyway, that I would be furious if he did that to me.

He probably does, though. I just haven’t caught him.

The bedroom door clicks open, and I jump as if I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t be. Hardin strides in, shirtless, barefoot, wearing the gym shorts, the black line of his boxers showing.

“You okay?” he asks, rubbing a white towel over his soaked hair. I love the way his hair appears black when it’s wet; the contrast with his green eyes is something one can only dream about.

“Yeah. That wasn’t a long shower.” I sit down on the chair. “I should have gotten you dirtier,” I say, trying to distract him from the slight quaver in my voice.

“I was in a hurry to see you,” he says unconvincingly.

I smile. “You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” he admits with an amused grin. “I got hungry.”

“Thought so.”

“Your dad’s still asleep—is he going to stay here while we’re gone?”

Excitement overtakes any worry I had. “You’re coming?”

“Yeah, I guess. If it’s as lame as I know it will be, I’m only staying one night.”

“Okay,” I say with understanding. But inside I’m beaming, knowing that he won’t leave early. He just has to keep up appearances by complaining about this sort of thing.

He licks his lips, and I think back to him between my thighs. “Can I ask you something?” I say.

His eyes meet mine, and he nods. “Yeah?” He sits on the bed.

“When you . . . you know, was it because I was pulling your hair?”

“What?” He laughs lightly.

“When I pulled at your hair, you liked it?” I flush.

“Yeah, I did.”

“Oh.” I can’t imagine the shade of red I’m turning right now.

“Is that weird to you? That I liked it?”

“No, I’m just curious,” I tell him truthfully.

“Everyone has certain things they like during sex; that’s one of mine. I didn’t know it until just now, though.” He smiles, completely unfazed that we’re talking about this.

“Oh yeah?” I get excited at the thought that he learned something new while with me.

“Yeah,” he says. “I mean, my hair’s been pulled on by other girls, but it’s different with you.”

“Oh,” I say for the tenth time, but this one leaves me feeling flat.

Likely unaware of my reaction, Hardin looks at me with curiosity gleaming in his green eyes. “Is there something you like that I haven’t done?”

“No, I like everything you do,” I say softly.

“Yeah, I know, but is there something you’ve thought about doing before that we haven’t done?”

I shake my head.

“Don’t be embarrassed, baby—everyone has fantasies.”

“I don’t.” At least, I don’t think I do. I haven’t had any experience outside of Hardin, and I don’t know of anything else besides what we’ve done.

“You do,” he says with a smile. “We just have to find them.”

My stomach flutters, and I don’t know what to say.

But then my father’s voice breaks our conversation. “Tessie?” My first thought is that I’m relieved that his voice sounds like it’s coming from the living room and not the hallway.

Hardin and I both stand.

“I’m going to use the restroom,” I say.

He nods with a wicked grin and heads into the living room to join my father.

When I get into the bathroom, Hardin’s phone is sitting on the edge of the sink.

I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t stop myself. I immediately go to the call log, but it doesn’t show. All the calls have been cleared. Not a single one is shown on the screen. I try again, and then look at the text-message screen.

Nothing. He’s deleted everything.

chapter

seventeen

TESSA

Hardin and my father are both seated at the kitchen table when I emerge from the bathroom, Hardin’s phone in hand.

“I’m wilting away here, babe,” Hardin says when I reach them.

My father looks over sheepishly. “I could eat . . .” he begins, like he’s unsure.

I place my hands on the top of Hardin’s chair and he leans his head back, his damp hair touching my fingers. “Then I suggest you make yourself something to eat,” I say and place his phone in front of him.

He looks up at me with a completely neutral expression. “Okay . . .” he says and gets up and goes to the refrigerator. “Are you hungry?” he asks.

“I have my leftovers from Applebee’s.”

“Are you upset with me about taking him drinking today?” my father asks.

I look over at him and soften my tone. I could tell what my dad was like when I invited him in. “I’m not upset, but I don’t want it to become a regular thing.”

“It won’t. Besides, you’re moving,” he reminds me, and I look across the table at the man I’ve only known for two days now.

I don’t reply. Instead I join Hardin at the fridge and pull the freezer door open.

“What do you want to eat?” I ask him.

He looks at me with wary eyes, clearly trying to assess my mood. “Just some chicken or something . . . or we can order some takeout?”

I sigh. “Let’s just order something.” I don’t mean to be short with him, but my mind is whirling with possibilities of what was on his phone that he felt needed to be deleted.

Once ordering food becomes the plan, Hardin and my father begin bickering over Chinese or pizza. Hardin wants pizza, and he wins the argument by reminding my father who will be paying for it. For his part, my father doesn’t seem offended by Hardin’s digs. He just laughs or flips him off.

It’s a strange sight, really, to watch the two of them. After my father left, I would often daydream about him when I saw my friends with their fathers. I had created a vision of a man who resembled the man I grew up with, only older, and definitely not a homeless drunk. I had always thought of him carrying an attaché case stuffed with important documents, walking to his car in the morning, coffee mug in hand. I didn’t imagine he’d still be drinking, that he’d be ravaged by it like he’s been, and that he’d be without a place to live. I can’t picture my mother and this man being able to hold a conversation, let alone spending years married to each other.

“How did you and my mother meet?” I say, suddenly voicing my thoughts.

“In high school,” he answers.

Hardin grabs his phone and leaves the room to order the pizza. Either that or to call someone and then quickly delete the call log.

I sit at the kitchen table across from my father. “How long were you dating before you got married?” I ask.

“Only about two years. We got married young.”

I feel uncomfortable asking these questions, but I know I wouldn’t have any luck getting the answers from my mother. “Why?”

“You and your mom never talked about this?” he asks.

“No; we never talked about you. If I even tried to bring the subject up, she shut down,” I tell him, and watch his features transform from interest to shame.

“Oh.”

“Sorry,” I say, though I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for.

“No, I get it. I don’t blame her.” He closes his eyes for a moment before opening them again. Hardin strolls back into the kitchen and sits down next to me. “To answer your question, we got married young because she got pregnant with you, and your grandparents hated me and tried to keep her away from me. So we got hitched.” He smiles, enjoying the memory.

“You got married to spite my grandparents?” I ask with a smile.

My grandparents, may they rest in peace, were a little . . . intense. Very intense. My childhood memories of them include being shushed at the dinner table for laughing and being told to take my shoes off before walking on their carpet. For birthdays, they would send an impersonal card with a ten-year savings bond inside—not an ideal gift for an eight-year-old.

My mother was essentially a clone of my grandmother, only slightly less poised. She tried, though; my mother spends her days and nights trying to be as perfect as she remembers her own mother being.

Or, I suddenly think, as perfect as she imagines her being.

My father laughs. “In a way, yes, to piss them off. But your mother always wanted to be married. She practically dragged me to the altar.” He laughs again, and Hardin looks at me before laughing as well.

I scowl at him, knowing he’s concocting some snarky comment about me forcing him into marriage.

I turn back to my dad. “Were you against marriage?” I ask.

“No. I don’t remember, really; all I know is I was scared as hell to have a baby at nineteen.”

“And rightfully so. We can see how that worked out for you,” Hardin remarks.

I shoot him a glare, but my father only rolls his eyes at him.

“It’s not something I recommend, but there are a lot of young parents that can handle it.” He lifts his hands up in resignation. “I just wasn’t one of them.”

“Oh,” I say. I can’t imagine being a parent at my age.

He smiles, clearly open to giving me what answers he can. “Any more questions, Tessie?”

“No . . . I think that’s all,” I say. I don’t exactly feel comfortable around him, though in a strange way I feel more comfortable than I would if my mother were sitting here instead of him.

“If you think of any more, you can ask me. Until then, do you mind if I take another shower before dinner comes?”

“Of course not. Go ahead,” I say.

It seems like he’s been here longer than two days. So much has happened since he appeared—Hardin’s expulsion/nonexpulsion, Zed’s appearance in the parking lot, my lunch with Steph and Molly, the ever-disappearing call log—just too much. This overstressful, constantly growing pile of issues in my life doesn’t appear to be letting up anytime soon.

“What’s wrong?” Hardin asks when my father disappears down the hall.

“Nothing.” I stand up and take a few steps before he stops me by touching my waist and turning me around to face him.

“I know you better than that. Tell me what’s wrong,” he softly demands, placing both hands on my hips.

I look him dead in the eyes. “You.”

“I . . . what? Talk,” he demands.

“You’re acting weird, and you deleted your text messages and calls.”

His features twist in annoyance, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why would you be looking through my phone, anyway?”

“Because you’re acting suspicious, and—”

“So you go through my shit? Didn’t I tell you before not to do that?”

The look of indignation on his face is so brazen, looks so practiced, that my blood gets boiling. “I know I shouldn’t be going through your things—but you shouldn’t give me a reason to. And if you don’t have anything to hide, why would you care? I wouldn’t mind if you looked through my phone. I have nothing to hide.” I dig mine out of my pocket and hold it out. Then I start to worry that maybe I didn’t delete the text from Zed on there and I panic, until Hardin waves it away like my trust is a gnat.

“You’re just making up excuses for how psychotic you are,” he says, his words burning me.

I don’t have anything to say. Well, actually, I have a lot to say to him, but no words come from my mouth. I push his hands from my hips and storm off. He said he knows me well enough to sense when something’s wrong with me. Well, I know him well enough to sense when he’s close to being caught at something. Whether it be a small lie or a bet for my virginity, the same thing happens each time: first he acts suspicious, then when I bring it up to him he gets angry and defensive, and finally he spits harsh words at me.

“Don’t walk away from me,” he bellows from behind me.

“Don’t follow me,” I say and disappear into the bedroom.

But he appears in the doorway a second later. “I don’t like you going through my shit.”

“I don’t like feeling like I have to.”

He closes the door and leans his back against it. “You don’t have to; I deleted that stuff because . . . it was an accident. It’s nothing for you to be all worked up over.”

“Worked up? You mean ‘psychotic’?”

He sighs. “I didn’t really mean that.”

“Then stop saying things you don’t mean. Because then I can’t tell what’s true and what’s not.”

“Then stop going through my shit. Because then I can’t tell if I should trust you or not.”

“Fine.” I sit down at the desk.

“Fine,” he repeats and sits down on the bed.

I can’t decide if I believe him or not. Nothing adds up, but in a way it does. Maybe he did delete the texts and calls by accident, and maybe he was talking to Steph on the phone. The bits and pieces of the conversation that I caught fuel my imagination, but I don’t want to ask Hardin about it because I don’t want him to know I overheard them. It’s not like he’d tell me what they talked about anyway.

“I don’t want there to be secrets between us. We should be past that,” I remind him.

“I know, fuck. There aren’t any secrets; you’re being crazy.”

“Stop calling me crazy. You of all people shouldn’t be calling anyone that.” I regret the words as soon as they’re out, but he doesn’t seem fazed.

“I’m sorry, okay? You’re not crazy,” he says, then smiles. “You just go through my phone.”

I force a smile in return and try to convince myself that he’s right, that I’m being paranoid. Worst-case scenario, he’s hiding something from me. I’ll find out eventually, so there isn’t any point in obsessing over it now. I’ve found out everything else.

I mentally repeat the logic over and over until I’m convinced.

My father yells something from the other room, and Hardin says, “I think the pizza’s here. You’re not going to be mad at me all night, are you?”

But he leaves the room without giving me a chance to answer.

I swivel on my seat and look at where I laid my phone on the desk. Curious, I check it, and sure enough, I have another new text from Zed. I don’t bother to read it this time.

THE NEXT DAY is my last at the old office, and I drive slower than usual to work. I want to take in every street, every building on the way. This paid internship has been a dream come true. I know I’ll be working for Vance in Seattle, but this area is where it started, where my career started.

Kimberly is sitting at her desk when I step off the elevator. Multiple brown boxes are stacked near the side of her desk.

“Good morning!” she chirps.

“Good morning.” My voice isn’t capable of sounding as cheery as hers. I’d come off nervous and awkward.

“Ready for your last week here?” she asks as I fill a small Styrofoam cup with coffee.

“Yes—my last day, actually. I’m going on a trip for the rest of the week,” I remind her.

“Oh yeah, I almost forgot. Wow! Your last day! I should have gotten you a card or something.” She smiles. “But then, I could just give it to you next week at your new office.”

I laugh. “Are you ready to go? When will you be leaving?”

“Friday! Our new house is already unpacked and ready for us to arrive.”

I’m quite certain that Kimberly and Christian’s new home is lovely, large and modern, much like the house they’re moving from. Kimberly’s engagement ring sparkles under the light, and I can’t help but stare at the beautiful band every time I see it.

“I’m still waiting for the woman to call me back about my apartment,” I tell her, and she turns to look at me.

“What? You don’t have an apartment yet?”

“I do—I sent her the paperwork already. We just have to go over the details of the lease.”

“You only have six days,” Kimberly says, looking panicked for me.

“I know, I have it under control,” I assure her, hoping it’s true.

If this had been happening a few months ago, I’d have had every detail of this move planned, but lately I’ve been too stressed to focus on anything, even the move to Seattle.

“Okay; if you need help, just let me know,” she offers as she turns her attention to the phone ringing on her desk.

When I get back to my office, there are a few empty boxes on the floor. I don’t have many personal items, so it shouldn’t take long to pack.

Twenty minutes later, as I tape the last box closed, there’s a gentle knock at the door. “Come in,” I say loudly.

For a moment I wonder if it’s Hardin, but when I turn around Trevor is standing in the doorway wearing light jeans and a plain white T-shirt. I’m always caught off guard when he’s dressed casually; I’m so used to seeing him in a suit.

“Are you ready for the big move?” he asks as I attempt to lift a box that I packed too full.

“Yeah, almost. Are you?” He walks over and picks up the box for me, placing it on the desk.

“Thanks.” I smile and wipe my hands on the sides of my green dress.

“I am. I’m heading out today as soon as I finish up here.”

“That’s amazing. I know you’ve been ready to move to Seattle since last time we were there.”

I can feel embarrassment spread over my cheeks as I watch it spread across his. “Last time we were there,” Trevor took me to a nice dinner, only to have me reject his kiss and then later be threatened and shoved by Hardin. I have no idea why I just brought that up.

He looks at me blankly. “That was an interesting weekend. Anyway, I know you have to be pumped, too. You’ve always wanted to live in Seattle.”

“Yeah, I can’t wait.”

Trevor looks around my office. “I know it’s none of my business, but is Hardin moving to Seattle with you?”

“No.” My mouth answers before my mind can catch up. “Well, I’m not sure yet. He says he doesn’t want to, but I’m hoping that he’ll change his mind . . .” I continue to ramble, the words coming out quickly, too quickly, and Trevor looks somewhat uncomfortable as he shoves his hands into his jean pockets before finally interrupting me.

“Why wouldn’t he want to go with you?”

“I’m not sure, really, but I hope he does.” I sigh and sit down in my leather desk chair.

Trevor’s blue eyes meet mine. “He’s crazy if he doesn’t.”

“He’s crazy either way.” I laugh, trying to diminish the growing tension in the room.

He laughs, too, and shakes his head. “Well, I better finish up so I can get on the road. But I’ll see you in Seattle.”

With a smile he leaves my office, and for some reason I feel slightly guilty. I reach for my phone and text Hardin, casually letting him know that Trevor stopped by my office. For once, Hardin’s jealousy appeals to me—maybe he’ll find himself too jealous of Trevor and decide to move to Seattle after all? It doesn’t seem likely, but I can’t help but hold on to the last thread of hope that he’ll change his mind. The clock is running out; six days is not very long for him to plan. He’d have to put in a transfer request, which shouldn’t be a problem, considering Ken’s position.

Six days doesn’t seem long enough for me either, though I’m ready for Seattle. I have to be. This is my future, and I can’t center it around Hardin when he isn’t willing to compromise. I offered a fair plan: we move to Seattle first, and if it doesn’t work out, we can go to England. But he didn’t give it a second thought before declining. I’m hoping this whale-watching trip we have planned with his family will make him see that he can join me, Landon, Ken, and Karen in trying new things, that doing something fun and positive isn’t too difficult.

Then again, this is Hardin I’m talking about, and nothing is easy when it comes to him.

The phone on my desk rings, distracting me from my stressful thoughts about Seattle. “You have a visitor,” Kimberly says into my ear, and my heart leaps at the thought of seeing Hardin.

It’s only been a few hours, but I always miss him when we’re apart. “Tell Hardin to come on back. I’m surprised he even waited for you to call me,” I say.

Kimberly clicks her tongue. “Um, it’s not Hardin.”

Maybe Hardin brought my father here? “Is it an older man with a beard?”

“No . . . young guy . . . like Hardin,” she practically whispers.

“Does he have bruises on his face?” I ask, despite the fact that I already know the answer.

“Yeah; should I make him leave?”

I don’t want to make her force Zed to leave, and he hasn’t done anything wrong, except to not listen to Hardin’s instructions to stay away from me. “No, it’s fine. He’s my friend. You can let him back.”

Why would he come here? I’m sure it has something to do with me ignoring him, but I don’t understand what could be so urgent that he’d drive forty minutes to tell me.

I hang up the phone and debate whether or not to text Hardin and tell him about Zed’s arrival. I toss my phone into my desk drawer and close it. Nearly the last thing I need is for Hardin to come here, since he won’t be able to control his anger and will surely cause a scene on my last day at work.

The last thing I need is for him to get arrested, again.