I only distantly register the police cruiser rolling by quietly, lights swirling off the front of the church. I take a few moments to gulp down air and calm this wild panic gripping my chest.
You’re fine, I keep telling myself. No one touched you—not really.
The relief at this is an old friend.
The disappointment? That’s new.
Before long, the taillights vanish around the corner and I start to feel the crushing weight of fatigue that always follows a panic attack. I stay there for a little while longer, though. Long enough that the dampness in the air turns to sprinkles, wetting my hair and shoulders.
Groaning in frustration, I stand and dust off my hands, looking around.
Now I really have no idea where I am. I reach for my phone and search for Georgia’s number. But just as I’m about to press ‘call’, a car rolls out of the shadows behind the church. Its window slowly rolls down.
Sebastian Wilcox rests his forearm on the window and looks at me with those piercing blue eyes. “Need a ride?”
You have to be shitting me.
9
Sebastian
I have this thing about picking scabs.
Always drove my mom nuts. Every scar I’ve gotten could have been a lot smaller if I hadn’t picked at the healing wound so much, unthinkingly, like a compulsion. There’s a huge scab on my knuckle right now, and I’ve been fiddling with it all night, exposing the raw pink skin beneath.
There’s another scab standing out there in what’s rapidly becoming a full-on rain shower, looking into my window with a stony expression.
Guess I can’t help but pick at that one, too.
“Come on,” I say, patting the seat beside me. “Promise I won’t bite.” She turns and marches away, arms wrapping around her middle. Rolling my eyes, I coast alongside her. “The sky’s about to drop and it’s cold as balls out here. We’re both going to the same place, it doesn’t have to be—”
“Fuck off!” she snaps, strides lengthening.
I know I should, but probably the only thing worse than subjecting her to my presence is leaving her on the side of a rainy highway on a cold night.
“Nah,” I answer. “What are you gonna do? Walk all the way back in the rain? Stop being stubborn.”
Her hair swishes heavily behind her and I can only barely make out the shape of her face, but there’s no mistaking the tightness of that jaw. She’s like a goddamn cinderblock wall. No getting through that.
“Come on!” Exasperated, I smirk, offering, “You can bring your knife.”
She stops.
I press down on the brake a little too late, surprised that even worked, but it still takes a long, suspended moment until I hear the passenger door click open. The pair of dog tags swinging around her neck enter before she does.
She’s got the knife, alright. She’s not even holding it blade up. She’s holding it like she’s in the middle of stabbing someone already. Jesus Christ. Maybe I should have left her on the side of the road after all.
She turns to me only halfway, damp hair veiling her pale cheeks. “Touch me and I’ll bury this in your fucking throat.”
And people think I have issues with violence.
“Noted.” I try a smile, but it doesn’t penetrate. If anything, it just makes her lip curl more. Fortunately, when I step on the gas and start down the road, she seems to relax—minutely. At least she kind of chills on the whole knife-wielding thing, resting it in her lap in favor of gathering her hair up into one of those sloppy buns girls are so good at. As soon as she’s done, she picks the knife back up, tapping it anxiously on her knee.
Sugar leans into the door, body inched as far away from me as possible. Never mind the console between us that houses the gearshift and other instruments, she’s acting like I could fly at her at any moment. I’d have to resort to gymnastics to even get to the passenger seat, but her breath fogs up the window and her hand clutches the handle of her knife like she’s plotting her escape.
She’s shivering.
“I’m taking the long way back to campus,” I tell her, getting on the loop that runs around town. “Just to avoid cops.”
She nods, her hand smoothing the frayed threads loose around the holes in her jeans. There’s one up near her upper thigh, showing a pale strip of flesh, then another down at the knee. I drag my eyes away from the movement, looking back at the dark road.
“I’m going to turn on the heat,” I warn, keeping my movements slow, measured, as I reach for the knob. This is like riding with a skittish, slightly deranged kitten. When she doesn’t react beyond mashing herself a little closer to the door, I turn on the stereo too, hoping to cut some of the awkward silence. Being around people who hate me isn’t something I’m used to, particularly with girls.
She pulls this angry-gawking expression at my sound system. “I like this song,” she says, all accusingly, like I plotted to ruin it for her and now she’s pissed off about it. Like how dare I have the nerve to listen to the same music as her?
“Hey, so do I. Guess we have something in common, huh?” I give her a smile that just makes her sneer back. “Could knock me over with a feather.”
She lifts her chin, flashing a vicious, sharp smile. “A feather wasn’t quite what I had in mind.”
Now it’s my turn to gawk. Goddamn, this girl is a spitfire. Scary as hell. Quick to step up. Slow to back down. Almost as good-looking as I am. I shoot a glance at the pretty little bitchy number currently occupying my passenger seat, and it’s like lightning.
Oh, I’m in for this.
I’m all in.
It takes a few minutes, but her shivering eventually stops. She doesn’t necessarily chill, but she at least doesn’t look ready to fling herself out the window. Progress.
“What were you doing behind that church?” she abruptly asks, her voice more even than I’ve heard it so far.
Surprised at the question—both the content and lack of attitude—I spare her a quick glance. “Hiding out,” I reply, lounging back in my seat, wrist draped casually over the wheel as I deftly shift gears. I know I can’t impress her, but this sudden impulse to show off for her isn’t something I’m built to oppose. “I heard the sirens and knew I should get off the streets. Cops busting up car shows is more of a ‘when’, not an ‘if’.” I switch lanes, engine revving loudly as I fly past a truck. “I always have a backup plan set.” Fully prepared to have my balls threatened again, I ask, “Uh, what about you?”
I’d seen her crouched behind the church for a long while, wondering if I should make myself known. I might have, if not for the fact she had her head buried in her knees, shoulders hitching with loud breaths. I figure she was crying. Nothing worse than a crying girl—except maybe one with a knife.
Fucking hell, Merle had me pegged.
“I guess I was hiding, too.” Her fingers twist at the frayed thread and she sounds more tired than anything else. I can work with that. “I was running after Georgia and Caroline, but…”
I glance over and see her tight jaw. “But…?”
“We got separated and then there were too many people, and this asshole bumped into me.” It all comes out in a rush, like it’s been bottled in her chest. “I just had to get out of there.”