Seventeen #3
I wait for the fucker to hit the stairs and then lift my middle finger to where he was.
The audacity. Have fun making me jealous…
I’d actually have to want him first for that to happen.
But you do, don’t you? Maybe not him, but something about him I actively seek out.
Some unidentifiable quality that appeals to the broken parts of me.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I duck my head out the door to make sure he’s really gone, and then push it most of the way shut before darting over to the wardrobe. Swear to God—if he’s taken that thing… Reaching high, I slap my hand along the shelf, seeking out the hard edges of the phone.
I find the box.
“Shit.” I search the room for something to boost me and end up perched on the foot of the bed, leaning forward at a precarious angle to brace myself in a bridge between the bed and the wardrobe.
Balancing on my tippy-toes, I move the dusty clothes and riding accessories aside to find the damn device.
A solid ten minutes later, I have the entire contents of the wardrobe on the floor and my heart in my throat.
Holy shit. He found it. He must have found the damn thing and taken it.
My legs buckle, and I drop in an unceremonious heap onto his piled clothes. What the hell do I do now? I feel… trapped in here. I can’t go downstairs and show my face. How many of them know I hid a goddamn phone? What if Dad rang back? Left voicemail? Texted?
Is that why Fang left? To tell the others?
“This isn’t good, Jenna.” I mumble the words into my hands, fingertips pressed hard against my hairline.
I allowed myself to get caught up in his toxic appeal and overlooked the obvious: these aren’t the kind of people you cross without consequence.
Fang’s right: the Kings of Anarchy saved me from certain slavery and gave me shelter, and all I’ve done is lie.
Not lie, so much as omit the truth. Either way, it’s not good.
Fuck.
“Knock, knock.”
I jolt at the sudden intrusion.
“I wanted to check you were okay,” Darla says, edging the door open. “You’ve been up here a while.” Her eyes widen as she takes in my nest of deceit. “What are you doing?”
“I, um, I lost something.”
Her gaze roams the pile of Fang’s belongings. “Like what?”
A manic laugh slides free. “My mind?”
She lets out a long sigh, stepping further into the room. “You and me both.” Darla gestures to the mess. “Can I help you with this?”
“You don’t have to.” I climb off the clothes and pick up a jacket, restoring it to its rightful place on a hanger.
She folds a worn sweater. “I want to.” Dark shadows hang beneath her eyes, lids lazy as she starts a pile of folded clothes on the bed. “Gives me something else to focus on.” The woman’s exhausted.
We all are.
“How are the others?” I slide two pairs of boots next to one another.
“Nandi’s stirring shit. She can’t wait to get out of here.”
“I bet.”
“The Kid’s asleep at the moment, which is a good thing. Means her shock has subsided enough that she can rest.” She draws a deep breath. “And Kathy prefers the privacy of the room down the way, there, than the noise downstairs.”
“Understandable. Mila?”
“Struggling, but too proud to admit it.”
“She’s a good woman.” She might have bad habits, but her heart’s pure. More than I can say for myself.
“Yeah,” Darla agrees. “She is.”
We reassemble Fang’s closet in comfortable silence, restoring it to a better version of what it was before. My gut churns when the missing phone flicks through my thoughts again, a hypothetical clock ticking over my head.
Where did he go? What will they do with me? I knew there was a good chance they’d catch me out—relying on Loki to say nothing to the others was a slim miracle at best—but why the hell didn’t I figure out what to say when they did? You’re slipping, Jenna.
“Ready for something to eat?” Darla asks, straightening Fang’s bedspread.
“I guess.” Not that I have an appetite. “Hey, um, Fang said before he left that his daughter’s downstairs?”
She nods. “Yeah. Molly. The woman with the colored hair,” she says, gesturing to her head, “is keeping her occupied. Why?”
“No reason.” I follow her from the room, heartbeat pulsating across my tight chest. “I never got a chance to ask. Did they make any progress with The Kid when you went in that room? Has she talked at all?”
Darla shakes her head when we hit the stairs, hand sliding down the banister rail. “Not yet that I’m aware of.”
I stall at the top, swallowing twice to dislodge the stones in my throat. Her easy conversation reassures me the other girls probably don’t know what I did, but they’re not the people I was most worried about.
The connection to my father was supposed to stay a secret.
I was meant to be just another girl in another desperate situation, looking for help to get myself out.
Nobody knew my real surname. I never spoke about my mom.
I kept everything about me intentionally vague; the only piece of armor I had in a dangerous situation.
And now, not only have I killed to maintain that anonymity, but it may have all been in vain.