Page 28 of Death's Daughter
The Old Ones. My father. Fucking everything up as usual. I have to fix this. Now.
Chessa walks with me to the door. “If you insist on doing this, just… keep your head down. Don’t do anything stupid. The police are always interested in anyone who’stoointerested. And they’re already looking hard at you.”
I nod. “Got it.”
“And as for that”—she flicks her hand in the direction of Carter heading down the sidewalk—“I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Yeah. Me too.
8
The silence in Carter’s car is uncomfortable. And far too familiar.
It’s the tense emptiness of unspoken thoughts surging just beneath the surface, a brand of silence frequently present in my life. And I hate it.
After a quick stop at Wibberly proved my gym locker was still intact, I grabbed my shoes and socks and took the opportunity to wipe most of the blood off my face.
But Carter has been quiet since I climbed back in the passenger side. Jaw clenched, muscle twitching, as if warring against letting words escape. Even the brisk snap of the turn signal under his hand feels a little aggressive. He seems to be wrestling with something, and it doesn’t take a Welch Scholar—though, hey, I am one—to know that something is me.
You don’t have to do this. I’ll find some other place. Are you sure about this? If I’m inconveniencing you, just let me out here!
I steel myself against my own worst inclinations and turn awayto stare out the side window. I refuse to be a pick-me girl again. I spent too many years pleading with one person or another to love me, even if it wasn’t in so many words.
I’m done with that.
Bold words from a half-drowned kitten nobody wants, dropped off on an anonymous porch in a soaked and shitty cardboard box.
“Everything okay?” I ask Carter, the words slipping out in spite of myself.Damnit.
In the side window, his shadowy reflection turns toward me, his gaze off the road for just a moment. And for that moment, that singular space in time, when he’s watching me watch him, I think he’s actually going to talk to me. To explain his sudden reversal on our “association.” It’s one thing to pick me up from a police station in an emergency; another to let me stay at his apartment.
Then again, what do I know? Maybe he cleared it with Dr. Stephens first. Why doesthatidea bother me even more?
My breath catches in my throat, waiting for Carter’s answer.
But his attention returns to the road. “Everything is fine,” he says.
Sure it is.An undefinable mix of irritation and hurt rises in me.
Whatever. Carter offered to let me stay at his place, unprompted, and I accepted. Period. I will not ask him to validate that choice—and therefore me—over and over again. He’s a big boy, he can speak up if he’s changed his mind. I can’t let this—him—distract me.
I turn to face forward again as he makes the turn onto Banks Drive, heading toward River Crossing and his apartment. “Actually, I need to make a stop. Nantucket Inn.”
Carter’s brows slam together, deepening his frown. “NantucketInn?” His grip tightens on the wheel, knuckles going white, and he draws in an audible breath. “I know that it might be… awkward, given our history, for you to stay at my apartment.”
Awkward?
The cold metal of Lennie’s washer presses against my back, and the contrast of Carter’s heated mouth on my neck sends a shiver through me.
He braces his arm against the washer/dryer stack behind me. “You’re wrong, you know,” he whispers against my skin, tugging my camisole up with a deft hand. His palm is rough and warm on my belly, and the muscles there twitch and dance at his caress.
I don’t care, just keep touching me.
“I’m never wrong,” I say, even though I’ve completely lost the thread of what we’re talking about. For once, I’m not “too aggressive” or “difficult” or unable to just “let it go, bro.” Carter evidently doesn’t mind me pushing back. In fact, he seems to enjoy it. A lot.
The heat of him, hard and solid, presses against my hip, urging me forward.
His hand over my mouth. “Can you stay quiet? There’s no lock on the door.”
