27. Chapter 27
twenty-seven
Boston
Ishould’ve been more careful. I should’ve remembered my stupid duffel bag.
A frustrated laugh escapes me. Seriously, what are the odds?
For two years I’ve carried that thing everywhere.
Everywhere. Didn’t matter if I was sleeping in my car, crashing at a shelter, parked behind a truck stop, or lucky enough to have a couch for a few nights.
That bag went where I went. Always. Because life has taught me that if you’re one bad day away from losing everything, you stay ready.
Then today—today of all days—I leave it sitting in Jake’s guest room like some kind of idiot. I smack the heel of my hand against the steering wheel.
“You’re such a fucking idiot, Rawlings,” I groan.
I just knew tonight was going to be a disaster. I’ve known for days.
All day, tension was buzzing under my skin, getting worse as afternoon approached, then evening.
Jake and his dad left for their hunting trip this morning, which means it’s just going to be me and Mrs. Davis the next few days. I have zero doubt that she’s going to commandeer my time—and body—the first chance she gets. She’s dropped enough hints after all, even while her husband was still home.
That made tonight’s early release from AJ’s even more annoying.
It was slower than usual for a Friday night and, as the most junior employee, my hours were the first to get cut.
So not only am I missing out on a good chunk of pay, but I’m almost guaranteed to lose another little bit of my dignity.
Even though Mrs. Davis has already cashed in on our arrangement more times than I’m willing to count, the shame is still just as nauseating as it was the first time.
The worst part is that unless I’m out of the house, there’s really no way to avoid her. It could be two a.m. and she’d happily wake me and drag me back to her bedroom for an hour. She proved that the night before Jake’s dad came home from his latest business trip.
To say I was on edge when I readied myself to head back to Jake’s after my too-early dismissal would be downplaying it dramatically.
But then I ran into Skye. Actually, she ran into me. Literally. Well, the door did.
A reluctant smile pulls at my mouth despite myself.
Stormy.
Only she could manage to concuss herself with a soccer ball one week and assault me with a Coke the next.
And when she told me she wanted to spend time with me? I think that one confession probably bought me six months’ worth of daydream material, which is unfortunate because my imagination was already working overtime.
The last ten days have been a special kind of torture. Ever since Riverfront and the soccer ball incident. Ever since witnessing Skye hit the floor with a sickening thud and realizing that my heart is dangerously close to being tangled up in someone I have no business wanting.
I should’ve kept my distance after that. And fuck, I tried. At least as much distance as possible while still making sure she wasn’t overexerting herself, drinking enough water, taking breaks, and not getting hit in the head a second time.
Which, given her collision with me today, is apparently harder for this girl than it sounds.
I scrub a hand over my face, coming to a stop at a red light.
The memory of her waking up flashes through my head. Those blue eyes blinking open. Confused. Sleepy. Then focusing on me.
Lilac.
For the love of—
I groan, letting my forehead thunk lightly against the steering wheel.
This is bad. Really bad. So horribly, terribly, awfully bad. Worse even than her finding out I’m homeless because the look she gave me when she found out was nothing like I had expected.
She wasn’t disgusted or judgmental. She didn’t even look at me like Jake did—with pity. Skye just looked… heartbroken. Like the idea of me sleeping in my car caused her physical pain.
I can handle people looking down on me. I know what to do with that—ignore it. But I don’t know what to do with Skye Monroe looking at me like I matter.
She pulls into Jake’s driveway next to me, and we exit our cars almost at the same time.
For a moment, I hesitate to take her inside with me.
I’m worried about her running into Mrs. Davis—what kind of conversation that would trigger.
But what am I supposed to do instead? I can’t well order her to stay in her car.
She knows Jake’s family, probably as well as I do.
So I meet her at the front of her car, plastering an uneasy smile on my face, then lead us into the house, fully planning to set a new world record for changing my shirt and getting the hell out of here.
But clearly the universe has it out for me tonight because the very second I step into the foyer, Mrs. Davis appears.
“Well, hey, Boss,” she says in exactly the tone I’ve come to expect from her when it’s just her and me in the evening.
At least she’s still wearing regular clothes instead of her silk robe or—god forbid—some of her even more provocative attire.
“Wasn’t expecting you back until—oh, goodness, hello, Skye,” she says, her voice losing its private edge when Skye steps out from behind me.
I tense.
“Hi, Mrs. Davis,” Skye greets her politely.
Mrs. Davis gives her a saccharine grin, then shifts her attention to me, her brow arched like she’s stumbled upon something interesting. “What are you two up to?”
“Nothing,” Skye says earnestly. “I accidentally made Boss spill his drink on himself.”
That’s my cue. “I’m going to go change,” I say, then quickly make my way down the hallway to the guest room where, sure enough, my duffel bag’s just sitting pretty right at the foot of the bed. I could slap myself.
I tug the zipper open, pull out the first shirt in my grasp, then yank my sticky work shirt off and slip the fresh one over my head. I’m back in the foyer seconds later, catching the tail end of Skye’s conversation with Mrs. Davis.
“…in Florida, and I always feel a little weird when I’m all by myself.”
I want to pull her into my arms.
But of course, I don’t.
Not with Mrs. Davis watching.
“Gosh, I know what you mean,” Mrs. Davis says with an exaggerated sigh. “There’s just something creepy about empty houses, right? But those boys and their hunting trips.” She punctuates that last sentence with a giggle.
“Ready to head out?” I cut in, equal parts determined to alleviate Skye’s anxiety and get the hell out of the house.
“Are you planning to come back here again tonight?” Mrs. Davis asks, eyes narrowed just enough to tell me she’s not pleased with me leaving.
“Yeah.”
“Great,” she says, too brightly. “I’ll leave the deadbolt unlocked.”
I nod, then follow Skye out into the warm night.
The sun’s completely set by the time we pull up to Skye’s, but I can still see the tension in her face when I follow her from the driveway to the front door. It’s clear that even the thought of spending just one minute in this house alone is enough to freak her out.
“So, can I ask why you’re so uncomfortable being alone?” I ask, gravel crunching under my boots. Someone tell me why these fancy driveways have to be nine miles long. Such a waste of space.
She glances at me, her eyes flicking to my mouth for the length of a heartbeat before meeting mine. “My parents’ home got broken into two years ago.”
She says it like it’s no big deal, except this entire last hour has told me the complete opposite.
“My parents were out of town, and I was home. Alone.”
I stop walking. “Oh, shit.”
She nods, stopping right alongside me. “I don’t think those guys knew I was home; they probably thought the house was empty.” Her eyes lose focus like she’s suddenly far away. “It was, like, one in the morning. But I was still awake, talking to Archer, actually…”
I swallow, the name like a rock in my throat. Her gaze snaps back into focus, like she’s trying to gauge my reaction.
“So, what happened?”
“I heard a noise downstairs first, then voices.” She pauses. “I was so scared.”
I don’t speak. Just listen.
“I told Archer I thought someone was breaking in. He told me to lock my door, hide in the closet, and call 911. I did. But god, those minutes… waiting for the police to get here…” Her gaze drops to the gravel at her feet.
“It felt like forever. But they arrived pretty fast. The guys ran when they heard the sirens. They didn’t even make it upstairs. ”
“Jesus,” I mutter. “That’s really fucking traumatizing.”
She lifts her eyes to mine, forcing a smile. “Yeah, but nothing actually happened to me. I really shouldn’t be such a baby about being home alone, but…”
I shake my head. “You probably have PTSD that gets triggered when you’re alone.”
“What? No.” She waves me off.
“Stormy, you were what, seventeen, eighteen?” I reach for her, resting my hands on her shoulders.
It hits me again how small she is, just like it did when she got knocked out by that ball, when I tried to get her to open her eyes by gently shaking her shoulders.
She finally did when I touched her face. God, the relief was unreal.
“There were strangers in your house. At night. You were terrified. That is something.”
She opens her mouth, looking like she wants to argue, but I keep going.
“Of course your brain’s gonna associate being alone at home with that night. That’s how trauma works. You don’t need to have been hurt for it to mess with you. Fear is trauma.” Trust me, I know.
Her breath seems to get stuck in her throat. “Is it?” she asks like I’m finally confirming what she’d always suspected but somehow never let herself believe.
Why not?
“Yeah, Stormy. I’m not surprised you hate being alone, and I don’t think you should be. Not when it fucks with you this much.”
She inhales, deep, shaky, and for a second I think she might cry. I hold my hand out. She takes it without question. It’s not lost on me how perfectly her hand fits in mine. “Alright, let’s make sure nothing and no one is inside Monroe Mansion.”
She laughs, then unlocks the front door, and holy shit.