Текст книги "The Destiny of Violet and Luke"
Автор книги: Jessica Sorensen
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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
She watches me with her head still on her arms, her eyes scaling me, then she sits up, running her fingers through her hair as she rises to her feet. “No, I can get it.” She bends over and scoops the box up. Even though I can tell it’s a little heavy for her, I let her carry it to the truck, putting a much-needed boundary line between us. It’s the line I put up between most of the people that breeze through my life, to keep people away, to keep me safe from ever having to go to that place I lived for so many years. The one where I feel lost. The one where I’m weak and have no control over anything.
Violet
I think he might have almost just kissed me. I could feel it in the electricity in the air and through his energetic pulse in his fingers. I’m glad he didn’t otherwise I would’ve had to hurt him and I don’t want to hurt him. Go figure. I’m too upset to keep my anger under control today and I’m too lost over last night with him. I don’t even know if he can remember it, the electric kiss that, at least for me, had feeling behind it. And if he’s forgotten, then I’m going to forget, too.
Forgetting is a good thing. I wish I could do that with everything; what happened with Preston, that I have no home, and that come Monday I’m going to have to drag my ass down to the police station and face my parents’ reopened case alone, like I’ve done with everything in my life. All I want to do is stand on the top of a building and inch my way to the edge, feel the adrenaline of knowing I could fall and everything would end.
The longer I sit in the truck with Luke, the more I want to taste the adrenaline rush instead of having this unsettling feeling about going to Preston’s house and facing whatever’s waiting there for me. By the time we’re pulling up, I’m contemplating if I should just grab my boxes and bail. Just leave before Preston can tell me to. Go live in the ditch just a little ways down the road.
“Thanks for the ride,” I mutter to Luke as he parks the truck behind Preston’s Cadillac.
Luke stares through the windshield at the trailer house and the people passed out in lawn chairs on the front porch. “Whose house is this?” he asks as I flip the door handle.
“A friend’s.” I swing my legs out of the truck, preparing to jump out.
He snags me by the elbow. “This is where you’re living for the summer?”
I don’t look at him, face forward, torn on how much to say. “I don’t know where I’m living.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep.” I bend my arm and wiggle it out of his grip, making sure to look straight forward as I kick the truck door shut.
I grab my box out of the bed of his truck and trek up the driveway, my long skirt dragging in the dirt behind me. The entire yard is littered with beer bottles and cigarette butts. There’s vomit on the lawn and gravel and the front door to the trailer is agape. As I approach the Cadillac, the screen door swings open and Preston appears in the doorway with his hand cupped around his cigarette as he lights up. Once he has it lit, he blows out a cloud of smoke and looks over at me. By the lack of surprise in his expression I bet he saw me pull up, but what I can’t tell is if he’s still mad at me.
He doesn’t say anything as he trots down the stairs. He kicks some bottles out of the way with his bare foot as he makes his way down the rocky path over to the driveway. When he reaches the front of the car, he glances down the driveway.
“Who’s that?” he asks, nodding his head at Luke’s truck.
“Someone,” I say without looking back as I pause at the trunk of the car, debating on how to go about this as I drop the box beside my feet. I don’t want to let it go. I want to allow myself to get angry at him, because he deserves it, but I also feel that stupid gnawing guilt. I owe him, for giving me a place to stay.
“Don’t be a bitch.” He grazes the pad of his thumb across the bottom of the cigarette as he approaches me. He doesn’t have a shirt on and the cargo shorts he’s wearing hang low on his hips, the top of his boxers peeking out. The bags under his eyes and the redness in them scream that he’s hungover and irritated.
“So you’re still pissed,” I say, through hooded eyes. “Good, so am I.” I sidestep to the left to get to the driver’s door so I can pop the trunk open, but he moves with me, blocking my path.
“I’m not pissed,” he says, blinking his bloodshot eyes and then rubbing his free hand across them. “I’m just confused what the hell happened—why the hell you took off like that.”
I cross my arms. “Because you were being a horny asshole.”
“I was high,” he argues, spanning his arms out to the side of him. “People do all kinds of crazy shit when they’re high.”
“You tried to get me to fuck you.”
“I was on E… of course I did.”
I gape at him, unfathomably. “So what? I’m just supposed to forgive you because you were high?”
“I’m not asking for your forgiveness.” He scratches at his arm as he glances down the driveway where I can hear Luke’s truck running. Is he still there? “And what did you do? Run off and fuck the first guy you came across.”
“Does that sound like something I’d do?” I ask, lifting my eyebrows.
He sucks a drag from his cigarette. “How the hell should I know? You never tell the truth. You barely show any sort of reaction when I ask you to pretend to be a slut to sell drugs for me.” He leans in, moving his arm out to the side of him and I cringe, thinking he’s going to hit me. “You let me put my hands on you however I want without so much as blinking an eye.” He suddenly cups my breast with his hand. “I can’t tell if you like it or if you want me to stop and when you stay stop it doesn’t even sound like you mean it.”
I shuffle back and his hand falls from my breast. “I’m telling you to stop right now and I mean it.”
“You’re saying to stop, but there’s nothing in your eyes that’s matching your words.” He marches forward and grabs my breast again, this time rougher. “I think that you secretly like it but you don’t want to admit it.”
The intensity of the moment is making me very mellow. I want to see him explode, so I can feel more adrenaline and more sedated from my emotions even after the fact that he hit me and is now fondling my breast. It’s obvious he’s crashing and unstable and it makes the situation dangerous. I love it.
“Is this because Kelley is getting remarried?” I ask. “Or are you just going through a midlife crisis?”
His face reddens as he hunches over, lowering his face so it’s right in front of mine. His breath is searing hot and a large vein bulges in his forehead. “I’m not that much fucking older than you are, Violet! So stop with the age shit!” he shouts, the muscles in his neck tensing.
A surge of energy instantaneously crashes through me, my chest lifting and descending as I catch my breath, my heartbeat booming in my ears. It feels like I could do anything at the moment and maybe I will—maybe today is the day that I’ll take that extra step and finally fly away from all of this. As I rack my mind for something absurdly reckless I could do, he shifts his fingers from my arm and yanks me with him as he stomps toward the house. I should probably pull back and run… Maybe when I get in the house I’ll finally run away… or when he hits me again. Beats me. Would he beat me? Do I care? I’m not sure. About anything.
“Violet, are you okay?” The sound of Luke’s voice slowly penetrates my thoughts and my adrenaline surge deflates like a balloon.
“I’m fine,” I say through gritted teeth as Preston glares at him from over my shoulder.
“Who the hell is he?” Preston’s nails pierce my skin as he glances from Luke to me and there’s a slight hint of uneasiness in his expression, like Luke’s presences unsettles him a little.
“My stalker,” I lie, not as amused as I want to be. The fact that I have nowhere to live, no one to count on, no one to help me is catching up with me.
“What?” Preston’s jaw drops as he blinks at me. “He’s stalking you?”
“No, he’s just a guy.” I blow out a breath and then raise my voice. “Who won’t leave me alone.”
“Who won’t leave you alone? Seriously?” Luke suddenly appears beside me, startling me by his abrupt nearness and how much anger is in his eyes. “You keep on showing up wherever I go.”
I angle my head to look up at him. “Because you look for me.” I know he really doesn’t, but I don’t want him to think I want or need him.
“I didn’t look for you any of the times I ran into you,” he protests and then his eyes cut to Preston as he folds his arms across his chest, his lean arms flexing. “And I sure wasn’t looking to drop you off at some old pervert’s house this morning.”
I feel this wave of heat in the air, but I don’t really believe that it’s a rapid increase in temperature so much as a spike in the excitement in my body. I feel it at the same moment that Preston releases me from his hold, his attention darting from me to the house, like he’s considering walk away, but ultimately it lands on Luke.
Luke stands beside me, unbothered as Preston hesitates and then inches closer to him. I’m not sure if Luke’s protecting me, or just looking for a fight, but it’s kind of obvious that Luke’s making Preston a little nervous. I wonder if Luke would continue helping me if he knew what was going on in my head, how invigorated I feel over the fact that at any moment they could start swinging and I could get caught in the middle.
“You think some punk kid is going to scare me?” Preston says with an off-pitch laugh. “Wow, that’s a new one.”
Luke licks his bottom lip, which is still swollen from last night’s fight. His knuckles are crusted over with blood and there’s dried blood on his shirt. He also has a cut on his forehead that looks like it needs some peroxide on it. He looks pretty beaten up already and for a split second I actually care enough that I consider taking his arm and pulling him away, to protect him from getting hurt, even though I’m not sure things would go down that way. But then he moves forward and lines himself up with Preston, his hands balling into fists. He’s taller than Preston and sturdier in the chest. He also seems more willing to throw a punch or two, more rough and ragged.
“Do you think some old dude scares me?” Luke’s eyes flare with the tone of his voice. “Especially one that likes to hit women?”
At first I’m confused because Preston hasn’t hit me, but then I remember how he did last night. Luke must have put two and two together.
Preston glances at my cheek without turning his head. “You told him I hit you?”
I shrug, even though I didn’t. “Maybe.”
Luke starts to open his mouth to say something, the muscles in his arms flexing. Preston flinches, like he thinks Luke’s going to hit him and cranks his arm back and sucker punches Luke right in the jaw. I cringe, tripping backward at the sound of the pop, remembering the pain I felt when he did the same thing to me. Like me, it doesn’t look like it bothers Luke, only pisses him off. Without missing a beat, Luke slams his fist into Preston’s face. Before Preston can even register what happened, Luke is driving his fist again toward Preston, this time connecting with Preston’s ribs. Preston swings right around and hits Luke in the gut. Luke’s face contorts in pain, but it doesn’t faze him, and before Preston can catch his breath Luke brings his knee up and rams it into Preston’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him. I’m torn on whether to run to Preston and break up the fight or let Luke hurt him. This whole thing has gotten out of hand and I still owe Preston for giving me a roof over my head when no one else would. I want to help Luke, too, though, because he’s helped me more than most.
I can feel an ache inside my chest just thinking about the idea of him getting hurt. But I also just stand and watch them fight to see how far they’ll go, how dangerous things will get. I’m so fucked up in the head and I don’t think I can make a decision at the moment, even though it feels like I need to. It no longer seems like it’s about me, but more about them brutally beating each other up, maybe to death. And what if they do get hurt? Or one of them dies? Then what? Am I responsible? Do I care? Do I want to care about either of them?
I remain motionless, observing their movements, hearing each crack as their bones collide, their rapid breathing, the way the sunlight hits them. I hear my own breathing, the way I’m gasping for air, the way my heart races faster with each desperate breath. The sunlight starts to flicker in and out of focus as my vision spots over. This has happened to me a couple of times and if I don’t do something quickly, I’m going to collapse.
I try to step forward and unlock my knees, but I can’t get my feet to budge. My legs, arms, and tongue are numb and rubbery and it feels like an elastic band is wrapped around my forehead. I try to open my mouth to say “stop,” but the world tips to the side and I fall with it. I manage to get my hands down before I slam into the ground, but the gravel scrapes my knees, and my palms open. Warm blood oozes out. It’s been a while since I’ve had an adrenaline overload, at least a few years.
The first time was a little harder to deal with. It was right after I found my parents. I’m not sure why I did what I did when I found them. I was old enough that I should have known better and called the police right away. But I remember hiding for what seemed like forever, even after the people snuck out the window. I remember how full the moon was and how even though I didn’t fully understand what was going on, there was this excruciating ache in my chest caused by the deafening silence of the house. I think it was sunrise when I finally dared to go upstairs. It was about the time my dad usually woke up for breakfast, but the kitchen was empty, so I went up to their room, telling myself that I was just going to wake them up.
The first thing I noticed was that the door was wide open, not cracked like they usually left it, and then I noticed the blood droplets on the carpet. Seconds later I saw them. It felt like I’d been kicked in the gut, the wind knocked out of me, fingers wrapped around my neck. I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to die. I’m not sure whether it was the lack of air or my rubbery knees that kept me on the ground for so long, trapping me there, looking at my parents soaked in their own blood. Or maybe it was the fact that once I moved, my life would start moving again while theirs would stay frozen. Forever.
I jerk away from my thoughts as the sounds of Luke and Preston fighting stop. Did one of them end up killing the other one? Or did they just kill each other?
“Violet, are you okay?” Luke’s voice, so close, startles me.
I keep my head hung low, taking quiet breaths. “I’m fine.”
His shadow moves over my line of vision in the gravel and then his arms are slipping underneath mine. He lifts me to my feet and helps me get my balance, holding me in his arms. I’d shove him away, but I’m too drained at the moment to do anything but lean against his chest. His arms encircle my waist and for the briefest of moments I don’t feel completely alone. The look Preston’s giving me, however, counteracts the sensation. His harsh expression cuts into me like the rocks cut into my hands.
“Get your fucking stuff and get the hell out of here,” he says, spitting blood onto the ground. His lip is cut open, his eye swollen shut, and there’s a giant welt on his rib cage.
“Gladly,” I reply in a composed tone, but on the inside I want to grab on to him and beg him not to leave me. Tell him I need him.
He wipes his arm across his lip, rubbing away the blood. “And don’t come crawling back to me when you’re homeless and living out on the street, because I won’t take you back.”
“I won’t come back,” I assure him with a harsh glare as tears try to shove their way out my damn eyes. Fucking traitor eyes. I inhale and exhale over and over again, sucking them back until I feel woozy.
“Violet, let’s go,” Luke says softly. The steady beat of his heart hitting my back is both soothing and terrifying.
Shaking his head, Preston stomps back toward the trailer house, kicking the door before opening it up and disappearing inside. Luke’s arms relax around me as I stand there in his grasp with my arms lifelessly to my side. I can barely breathe, let alone talk, knowing that soon life is going to catch up with me and so is the painful reality that I have nowhere to go. I have no car, and only two hundred bucks to my name, which will maybe get me a hotel room for a few days. Then what?
“Are you okay?” Luke’s voice is soft and conveys caution as his arms loosen around me.
“You keep asking me that,” I say as I stare at the shut door of the trailer. My eyes are burning with tears that almost escaped and my throat feels dry.
“That’s because you haven’t answered me.” His breath caresses the back of my head.
“I’m fine,” I say. “So you can stop asking.”
He pauses and then slides his arms away from my waist and winds around to the front of me. His lip is bleeding and his shirt’s torn, but other than that I don’t see any new damage on him. “Do you need anything? Water?” he asks, his lips tug upward as he studies me intently. “A sedative, maybe?” He pats the pockets of his jeans. “I could give you a hit of my cigarette… that might help calm down the anxiety a little.”
“I don’t have anxiety,” I tell him. “I’m completely calm.”
He frowns with disbelief and starts to back up toward Preston’s car. “I know what a panic attack is, Violet, and I know that the only reason you’re calm right now is because you’re exhausted from one.”
I don’t want him to be able to see so much of me, yet as he backs away, still looking at me, it seems like he’s seeing what’s hidden underneath my steel skin. He bends down and picks up my box of stuff, then carries it toward his truck. When he drops it into the bed, I force my feet to move forward, knowing I can stand in the same spot all I want but ultimately I’m going to have to face the bleary future I created for myself. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I head to the driver’s side of the Cadillac and pop the trunk, then weave around to the rear end of the car.
Luke’s boots crunch against the gravel as he hikes back up the driveway, lighting up a cigarette. I start piling the boxes out of the trunk, stacking them beside me. Luke silently starts picking them up and carrying them to his truck. By the time I’m finished unloading the trunk, he’s taken care of most of the boxes. I pick up the last one, head down the driveway, and set it in the back of his truck. Then we climb in and I crack the window as he puffs on his cigarette and smoke fills the cab.
He places his free hand on the shifter and his other on top of the wheel with the cigarette positioned between his fingers. “So… where do you want me to take you?”
I shrug as I stare at the trees lining the yard. “I have no idea.”
He’s silent for a second, then backs the truck down the driveway. He doesn’t say where we’re going, what we’ll do when we get there. Everything is so unknown. Just the way that I like it, yet at the same time it scares me because I’m not walking into it on my own. Luke’s here with me and I have no idea why. No one’s ever helped me out before, not like this. And it terrifies me because I actually want him to be in this moment with me, helping me.
Chapter 8
Luke
It took a lot of energy not to beat the shit out of the guy who was getting rough with Violet. The surprising thing was, as cocky as Violet has always been, she actually seemed afraid of him. She was pretty much going to let him drag her into that house and do who knows what to her, so I intervened, even though I didn’t want to get involved in her obviously messy life. I don’t intervene for just anyone. Maybe Kayden or Callie or even Seth, but for some insane, erratic girl I met only a few weeks ago, no way. Yet I did and now I can tell I’m going to get even more involved because she has no place to go.
The strange thing is she almost looked excited about it. About the old dude yelling at her, getting rough with her, and then when we started to fight. I’m not sure if I imagined it, but if I didn’t, it makes me wonder: Does she like starting trouble? Or is there some other reason?
“You can just drop me off downtown,” she says, gazing out the window as I drive down the highway toward the center of Laramie.
I flip on the blinker to switch lanes and pass a car moving at a snail’s pace “Drop you off downtown where?”
She shrugs, resting her forehead against the glass. She looks exhausted, probably from the panic attack that she insists she didn’t just have. But I’ve seen them before, had a lot myself, especially while I was growing up.
I merge back into the right lane and flip the visor down to block out the sunlight. “Violet…” Stay out of it. “Do you have someplace to go or are you…”
“Homeless?” she asks as she twirls a strand of her hair around her finger. “I was supposed to live back there, but obviously that’s not happening.” She lets out a tired sigh, pushes away from the window, and rotates in the seat to face me. “I’m good, though. You can drop me off downtown and I’ll find a place to crash.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere.”
I slow down as we reach the city limits where seemingly identical houses start to line the streets. “It sounds like you don’t have anywhere to go.” My gaze locks on her.
“I can take care of myself,” she insists.
“I never said you couldn’t.” I downshift the truck and the engine rumbles in protest as I get ready to turn toward the side road that goes past the park and leads to downtown. “I’m just asking if you have somewhere to stay.”
At first, rage crosses over her face and I seriously think she’s going to hit me, but then she recomposes herself, detachment possessing her eyes. “No, I don’t,” she says, then she fixes her attention on the window again. “But like I said, I can take care of myself.”
I’m about to turn down the road that will lead us to the center of town where I can drop her off and let her go, which is what I need to do. She’s unstable and erratic; the last thing I need in my life since I can barely take care of myself. And she has this control over me and makes me do things for her without even asking. I hate it, the way I’m drawn to her, yet I can’t seem to stop the feeling.
All I can keep picturing is myself at eight years old, gasping for air, wanting to be able to breathe, but it seeming so hard. I looked a lot like Violet did when she collapsed to the ground and I felt that way when I took off for that strip club yesterday. We’re both stuck in the same situation, not having anywhere to go, and it really doesn’t make any sense why I’d try to help her when I can’t even get myself out of the situation. Yet right at the last second, I straighten the wheel back out and keep heading straight, toward my dorm. I don’t know why I do it, other than there’s this part of me that wants to help her—wants to understand her.
She doesn’t ask me where I’m going and it doesn’t seem to faze her when I pull up to my dorm building and park the truck near the entrance doors. There are only three cars left in the parking lot and a couple sitting in the shade under the trees.
I turn off the engine and wait for her to say something, but she continues to stare out the window. She’s making this difficult. I’m not used to being the person who works to open closed doors. I’m the one who wants to hold them shut.
“So you can crash in my dorm until I have to leave tomorrow,” I tell her, my eyes widening at my words as I slip the keys out of the ignition. I pause, get myself together, before I look at her. “You’re welcome.”
That gets her to turn her head toward me. Her green eyes burn and I lean back in the seat. “I’m not going to fuck you, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she says bluntly.
I tuck the keys into my pocket. “It’s not even close to what I’m thinking.” Well, it wasn’t until she brought it up.
“Then what are you thinking?” Some of the harshness evaporates as she studies me.
“I honestly have no idea. You’ve seriously got my head fucked up and all over the place,” I admit.
She seems pleased over this. “Why?”
“Because I have no idea what you’re thinking and that’s not normal for me.”
“What are you? A mind reader?” she asks, sarcasm dripping from her voice.
“No, just observant.”
“Well, maybe you can’t tell what I’m thinking because I don’t have a whole lot going on inside my head.”
I almost smile as I recline against the door and rest my elbows on the windowsill. “I don’t think that’s even close to the truth. I think you have a lot going on inside your head. More than most people, which is why you had a panic attack.”
“It wasn’t a panic attack,” she contends, resting back against her door. “I just got caught up in the excitement.”
I touch my split lip with my fingers and wince from the sting. “You think watching two guys beat the shit out of each other is exciting?”
“Maybe.” She pulls a regretful face as she admits this, bringing her legs up on the seat. “Does that make you afraid of me?” she wonders.
I’d laugh at her, but I am kind of afraid of her. Afraid of how she makes me feel, the way I get swept up with her, the fact I’m thinking about her and not just myself, something I promised myself I’d never do in order to keep control over my own life. Me and me alone. “So Kayden moved out.” I switch topics to avoid the pull I’m feeling toward her, the needy ache, to kiss her, feel her, be with her. Complicated, I remind myself. “You can crash on his bed, but tomorrow I can’t help you.”
She sits up, slides her knees toward her chest, and wraps her arms around them, hugging them against her as she rests her chin on her knees. She looks so vulnerable and helpless, the armor she wears chipping away. I can’t seem to think about anything else but how easy it’d be to hit on her, play her until she gives in to me. I’d lay her underneath me and fuck her over and over again until I got this stupid obsession I have for her out of me.
“Where are you living for the summer?” she asks, slamming me away from my thoughts. “Are you staying here or going home or something?”
I lean away from the door and open it up without answering her, ready to escape the conversation. Then I hurry and hop out of the truck and head up the sidewalk, hearing the truck door open.
She quickly rounds the front of my truck, skittering in front of me with her arms out to the side of her. “That’s not fair,” she says with a frown. “You know my sad little story, at least part of it, and it’s only fair I get to know yours.”
“The only thing I know is that you were going to live with some old pervert who likes to hit you and now you have no place to live,” I clarify and dodge around her, heading for the entrance doors.
She walks across the parking lot beside me. “Do you have someplace to live?”
I rake my hand over the top of my head. “Does it really matter?”
“Maybe.”
“That seems like your go-to answer.” I bite my tongue, deciding whether to shout at her to back the fuck off or run like hell. “Don’t flip this to being about me.”
“Why?” she says, spinning around and walking backwards in front of me. “You know I’m homeless, so why’s it a big deal if I know you are?”
I stop at the curb, feeling something force its way up inside me. I’ve never been asked questions like this. People are usually too afraid of me and that’s the way I like it. And if it was any other girl I’d probably think she was just trying to get an invite home with me, but I’m starting to understand Violet enough to know that she’s probably getting a kick out of being a pain in the ass.
“You’re right.” I throw my arms up in the air exasperatedly. “I have no fucking place to live.” I breathe heavily. “There, are you happy?”
She shakes her head, pieces of her hair blowing in the warm breeze as she looks over at a couple laughing beneath the trees. “No, not really.”
“Me neither.” I glance around the campus yard, scanning the trees, the few cars in the parking lot, my boots, looking anywhere but at her, otherwise she’ll pull me into her, like she’s been doing since she made me care enough to follow her to her car after she kicked me in the face.
“So now what do we do?” Her eyelids flutter against the sunlight as I glance up.
“You’re asking me what we should do?” I arch an eyebrow at her. “Really?”
She looks around defenselessly and I wish she’d bring back that detached attitude so I wouldn’t feel such a need to help her. “I’m running out of ideas, but if I have to I’ll sleep on the streets,” she says.
“You’re not going to sleep on the streets… we’ll figure something out.” I close my eyes when I realize I said “we’ll,” like we’re a couple, which we’re not. We’re just two strangers who keep crossing paths and can’t seem to get rid of each other. “If we have to, we can sleep in my truck.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen how well that goes. You’re a serious seat hog.” Humor laces her voice.
“You can sleep sitting up,” I retort, opening my eyes. “Or take the back.”
“Wow, what a gentleman,” she jokes with a small smile and the tension around us crumbles.
“I’m not trying to be gentleman,” I say, fighting a smile. “And I’ll never try to be one.”
“Good, because I don’t want you to try. Guys who claim to be gentlemen are full of shit.”
“Okay…” I say. “I’m glad you don’t want me to be a gentleman.”
She grins and it reaches her eyes and reduces the hideous swelling in her cheek. It must hurt like hell. “I think I won that one.”
I can’t help but smile and it feels strange and unwanted, yet it’s there. “Were we playing a game?”
“Aren’t we always?” she counters, plucking strands of her hair out of her mouth as the wind blows through her hair.
Again, she throws me out of my element, but instead of continuing to lose whatever game we’re playing, I surrender. “We should go get something to eat,” I tell her. “Because I have absolutely nothing in my room but a bottle of vodka and a lemon.” I glance down at her hands, the palms covered in dry blood. “And we need to pick up some peroxide and Band-Aids.”
She folds her fingers into her palm as she chews on her lip. “Are you giving up our game?”
