Page 31 of Dreadful

“My boys have always had big appetites.” She reaches over and pats my hand, once, twice, a third time, each one slow and deliberate. When her eyes come back to mine, something is moving in them that I can’t quite name—not mischief exactly, but something that lives in the same neighborhood and keeps worse hours.

The air between us thickens. I become acutely conscious of what I’m wearing—the thin cotton of Cruz’s shirt, how it shifts when I breathe, where exactly the hem falls against my thighs.

“Okay,” I say. It comes out tilted up at the end, like a question I didn’t mean to ask.

Her hand slides from mine to my wrist, fingers curling around it.

“But despite my best efforts, my boys can be selfish.” The pad of her thumb moves in a slow, unhurried circle against the thin skin of my inner wrist, right over the place where my pulse lives. “Some of them, though—” the circle slows, “—take direction very well.” Her eyes stay on mine. “So don’t be afraid to speak up, honey.”

Something in my chest goes very quiet, the way a room does right before a fire alarm.

“Right.”

“You and Gage go back a ways.” She says it warmly, the way you’d say of course or naturally—like it’s a fact she’s been fond of for a long time. “And I love that you found your way back to us. I do.” Her thumb drifts to a stop. “But as women, our tastes have a way of—” she tips her head, “—deepening as we get older.” The mimosa glass catches the sun. “I just want you to know the door is always open if you have questions. Curiosities.” Her voice drops a register, softens at the edges. “Especially since your mother isn’t here to have these conversations with you.”

The back of my throat closes and the sun feels almost too hot against my back.

Coco’s friend from the night before materializes at the edge of the patio, a mimosa in each hand, his grin moving between us. “Should I go fix another one?”

I slide my wrist free and stand in the same motion. “No, thank you. I was just going to find Gage.”

“Eat something before you do.” She resettles against the lounger, tilting her face back toward the sun. “I always tell my boys—you can’t have a good day on an empty stomach.”

I cross the patio with my spine straight and my face arranged into something neutral. The unease doesn’t announce itself. It just settles in, low and persistent, the way a smell does when you can’t find the source.

I find my sister in the dappled shade of the front yard. She spins at the crunch of my footsteps on the gravel, a wild grin breaking across her face as she waggles the device at me. “Someone’s having a great day on the water.”

The screen shows a sun-drenched photo of turquoise waves curling toward an empty shore. The relief hits me like a physical blow, buckling my knees. I exhale a shuddering breath and tilt my head back, letting the morning sun bake the tension from my face. “Oh, thank fuck.”

“I know. That’s what I said too.” Her voice drops as she pockets her phone.

I give myself exactly ten seconds—ten heartbeats—to feel the dizzying spin of possibilities before locking it down. I meet her eyes, my voice flattening into command. “Good. That’s really good. And about that other thing?”

“I’m still working on it.”

I shake my head once, sharp. “Stop. We’re scrapping it.”

Her mouth falls open. Her brows dig into a fierce line above her widened eyes. “Why the fuck would we do that?”

I square my shoulders, pulling on the mantle of big sister until my expression could cut glass. “Because you’re getting the fuck out of here today.”

She steps closer, her gaze sweeping the manicured hedges and silent windows. “What happened? What did Coco say?”

I drag my hair over one shoulder, the movement exposing the damp nape of my neck to the breeze. “I’m not even sure. She insinuated a bunch of weird shit—veiled threats wrapped in pro-sex hospitality. I can’t tell if she knows more than she’s letting on or if she made a pass at me.”

Her hand snaps out, fingers digging into the bare skin of my arm as she yanks me into her space. “Time to fucking skedaddle, sis.”

I wrap my free arm around her, pulling her into a tight hug that feels too much like goodbye. The fine hairs on my arms rise as if charged by a nearby storm. “I can’t leave right now,” I whisper against her hair, “but you will.”

“Bullshit.” Her voice is a hiss against my hair. “I’m not fucking leaving you here.” Her arms cinch tighter.

“I’m not asking, Lola.”

She pulls back, and I see her face—the color high in her cheeks, her mouth a flat, unhappy line. “Are you fucking kidding me right now? Do not ask me to leave you in the lion’s den alone.”

“I’m not alone.” I drop my voice and jerk my chin back toward the house. “They’re not going to hurt me. But the MCs will. And it’s better if you’re somewhere I don’t have to worry about when they come to collect.”

She shakes her head once, sharp. Her eyes cut to the empty driveway, the silent windows, the manicured line of hedges along the fence. “You don’t know that.”