Page 74 of Please Open Me
I hadn’t thought the words through. They came out far more barbed than necessary.
Oh well. I wasn’t going to lose sleep over hurting a cult member’s feelings.
Mattie blinked once. Then twice. Her face twisted between fury and devastation. And I felt a little bad.
Goddammit. I hated having a fucking conscience.
“No, I just— I was going to get her breakfast, okay?” She kicked the ground, like a kid caught sneaking cookies. “Surprise her with breakfast in bed or some shit.”
“And you think I’d trust you around her food?” I scoffed. “Cameron told me all about how your people drugged him the night Dale killed his family.”
Mattie flinched, not like my words hurt, but like she was barely holding back a punch.
“Donotlump me in withthem.”
The venom in her tone made me pause. Most cult members talked about their brethren with some kind of twisted admiration. But Mattie didn’t want to be grouped with them.
So… Why did she still go to the meetings?
She turned away, picked up her keys, and pulled on a pair of worn Converse that looked older than the twins.
“Wait,” I said as her hand wrapped around the doorknob.
She sneered over her shoulder. “What? You gonna apologize?”
“No,” I said. “I’m coming with you.”
Mattie offered, or rather insisted, on driving. But one look at the sleek black sports car she called a vehicle, and my stomach flipped. There were only two kinds of people who drove cars like that: the ones who had no idea what they were doing, and the ones who really knew what they were doing and drove like they had a death wish.
Either option scared the shit out of me after last November.
So I charmed my way into driving instead, and grabbed Cameron’s truck keys. It was a manual; most people couldn’t drive them anymore. I figured that would be enough to stop her from trying to chauffeur me home.
Cam didn’t like it when I smoked in his truck. But I didn’t like that he was back to eating fast food after swearing he’d cut it out. The man already had high blood pressure—I didn’t need him dying over a fucking carton of fries.
The lit cancer stick dangled from my lips as I split my attention between the road and Mattie, who currently looked like an emo teen on their way to Hot Topic.
Part of me wanted to be offended that Mason considered both this creature and me her type, but then I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror.
Tired eyes. Dark, messy hair. An expression that screamed,I don’t want to be here.
Right now, we were bothexactlyher type.
I took a long inhale, then pinched the filter between two fingers and tried to aim the smoke out the window.
“Want one?” I mumbled, pulling the pack from my hoodie pocket and dropping it into the cupholder.
Mattie eyed it like it was poison, which, to be fair, it kind of was. Eventually, she reached out, flipped the top open, and took a cigarette. She lit it with practiced ease, the cherry flaring bright, before she clicked the lighter shut and tucked it back into place.
“Menthols fucking suck,” she muttered, rolling her window down.
“They don’t smell as bad,” I said.
Plus, I liked the way the smoke felt—cool, sharp, familiar—filling my lungs.
“Yeah, but they taste like shit.”
I raised a brow at her. “You’re an absolute delight to be around. Has anyone ever told you that?”
