A little voice says why not? I ruin everything I touch. Why not her? So I do it—I slip my tongue along her lower lip.
She gasps into my mouth.
I delve deeper. I take more.
I invade the fuck out of her, tasting her everywhere, exploring her mouth like it’s the last thing I’ll taste. I’m blown away by the sweetness of her, the surrender. I don’t deserve it, but I take it.
I grip her harder, kiss her harder, lost. Only when the shadows crowd in from the corners of my mind do I realize I’m running out of breath. When I pull back, I’m panting hard. So is she.
I stare into her brown eyes, drowning in them.
She looks almost tender, but that can’t be right. The kiss must have fucked me up.
The point of her tongue darts out to her lips, and I groan against the urge to kiss her again. I’m already rock-hard against her stomach, one second away from throwing her on the hood of the car and fucking her.
A small hand cups my cheek, warm and soft. Her eyes never leave mine. “You’ve never done that before, have you?”
Shock freezes me from the inside out.
I take a step back.
Her hand falls away.
How does she know? How does she fucking know? Nothing about me is finessed or gentle. When I fuck, it’s hard and rough—and no one’s ever questioned where I learned it, how I started.
Leave her the fuck alone, the voice whispers again. This time it isn’t trying to protect her. It’s trying to protect me. She sees too deep inside me. “You fucking serious?” I say.
She gazes, unblinking.
“You serious?” I go to her and grab her a little rough. I press her to the Navigator door, let her feel the ridge of my steely cock, let her feel how there’s nothing nice about me. “You need to stop spinning fucked-up little schoolgirl fantasies about me.”
She stiffens under me, no longer soft. She’s scared.
“What the fuck good is it?” I demand. “What the fuck good is it to learn all that bullshit self-defense, or what I taught you about running from people who might really fuck with you, if you can’t see what’s in front of your face?”
Still she gazes up at me.
I jerk her a little, trying to shake the answer out of her.
“Okay,” she breathes.
I stay on her, though. Funny how that works—here I am, back again, holding her close, enjoying her warmth and her softness once again.
Some string of logic twists around in my head, saying it would be good for her if I took her right now, right on the hood of her daddy’s car, just to show her what the world is like so that she doesn’t get the lesson from somebody else, somebody worse.
It’s important to know what the world is like. She’s in for a lot of hurt, this girl.
I close my eyes. This other part of me wants to protect her from that. Like maybe she never has to know what the world is.
I want that for her in a way I haven’t wanted anything for a long time. I want her to not know how things are. To not know what darkness really is.
“Hey,” she whispers.
I open my eyes. She’s furrowing her pretty brows, drawing them together like dark, silky dashes. Dainty creases form at the inner edges. Her lips are pursed in a pout of concentration.
She removes my hands from her and brushes my sleeve. “Look at this. You have something all over your sleeve. Your sleeve is covered in…what is this?”
I pull my arm away, because I think it might be blood and I don’t want her touching that scumbag’s blood. But then I see it’s not. “Oh. Just sawdust,” I say.
“Were you making something? Doing woodworking?”
The hopeful look in her eyes kills me. That’s what she thinks I do? Make nice furniture? All industrious and shit? Maybe sanding down my ventriloquist’s dummy between shows at the children’s hospital?
“We’re out of here,” I say.
Chapter 9
Brooke
He makes me drop him on a gloomy corner in Franklin City. He melts into the shadows as soon as he’s out of the car, like a shark disappearing into the murky depths of the ocean.
We only spent a couple of hours together, but it feels like I lived a lifetime in those hours.
I head toward the freeway that will take me back home, a deep suburb as far east as you can get from west.
I put my phone back together while I’m stopped at a light just before the freeway entrance.
The texts and voicemails flow in. Mom asking where I am. She hadn’t gotten my voicemail. Then it’s Mom saying I’m not at Chelsea’s. Mom angry. Then Dad.
I quickly give them a call.
“Brooke!” Her voice is high, the way it gets when she’s drinking or mad. I’m thinking she’s a little of both. My throat clenches with worry—or maybe just grief. She’s like this more and more.
“I just got your messages,” I say. “I’m fine, I’m okay.”
“Where are you?”
“Just driving around,” I say. That’s what the man said to tell people. I wanted to drive around and think about my school project.
“You lied to us!”
“I knew you wouldn’t understand, so I—”
“You lied! You frightened us out of our minds! Not to mention wasting the time of the police!”
A bolt of fear shoots through me. “I shouldn’t talk while I drive,” I say. “Everything’s fine.” I hang up, thankful for the excuse.
But everything isn’t fine.
Detective Emilio Rivera is there when I arrive.
My pulse kicks into overdrive. He smiles at me in a kindly way, like an uncle.
My mother embraces me—partly for the benefit of Detective Rivera, I’m sure. I’ll get the freeze or worse once he leaves.
Dad looks stern. “You gave us quite a scare, young lady.”
I murmur something about not having ideas for my prehistoric village. “I thought I’d be home before you noticed.” Part of me does feel guilty for all the fuss. I’ve been taught to be small and silent, to take up as little space as possible.
The other part of me is scared of what Detective Rivera sees. His eyes are sharp despite the vague smile on his face. I have the impression of a mirror, one of those one-way things they put in interrogation rooms. He can see me, but I don’t know what he’s thinking.
“I’m sorry to waste your time,” I tell him, heart beating too fast.
“It’s no problem,” he says smoothly. “I’d actually like to ask you a few questions.”
“Questions?” My voice sounds as high and thin as my mother’s.
“About the incident last fall. Your birthday.” His tone is sympathetic, but I’m not fooled. He’s observing me. Recording every detail in that whirring computer he’s got inside his head. “We have some new leads that I need to follow up.”
“This again?” Mother gives me a hard look, as if I asked for it to be brought up. “The incident is best forgotten, Brooke, you know that. You can’t let it ruin your future. Or this family.”
She leaves the room in a flurry of silk and Chanel No. 5. The guilt sits heavy in my gut, churning like rocks. Like boulders. I don’t want to ruin this family. But how can I forget him? I can’t.