Chapter 29
Kai
“Go slow,” Haven says. “It’s easy to miss, especially in the dark.”
My hands won’t stop shaking.
I shove them under my thighs, but it doesn’t help. The tremor just moves somewhere else—my knee, my jaw, that spot behind my sternum that hasn’t stopped aching since I walked out of Rooke’s office.
Haven’s too busy giving the Uber driver directions to notice, and thank fuck for that.
“There it is,” she says, jamming her shoulders between the front seats to point through the windshield. “Just up ahead on the left. You see it?”
Eric, the Uber driver, shoots me a look in the rearview mirror.
I pretend not to see it.
We’ve been in his car twice tonight already. First from the Airbnb to the party. Then from the party back to the Airbnb. Now this. I’m also pretty sure he was the same guy who fetched me and Haven from Rooke’s house the day after the Rain Dance.
This guy probably knows more about what goes on in Agony Hollow than the Pentagon.
The gravel crunches under the tires as we pull up the long driveway. Rooke’s bachelor pad materializes out of the darkness. During the day, it looks like some asshole architect’s wet dream. At one in the morning, in my current mood, it looks like the opening scene of a slasher flick.
No lights are on inside, but the security spots flare to life as the Uber pulls up.
“Maybe he’s not home,” I say. Hoping.
“Then we’ll—“ Haven drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper as she leans into me “—break in.”
Eric gives her a sidelong glance, but says nothing when I make eye contact in the rearview mirror again. We’re oozing so much booze and weed from our pores, he’s probably more worried about us puking in his car than committing a felony.
“Look, babe, let’s just go back home and—“
“No!” She turns to look at me, eyes bright with that manic weed energy. “I want my car.”
It’s not about the car, but I’m too fucked-up to figure out what it is about, and she’s too wired to slow down long enough to explain. All I know is she’s Joan of Arc right now, and this is her crusade.
The Uber is still busy slowing down when Haven kicks open the door and jumps out.
“Tell him to wait,” she calls to me. “This won’t take long.”
“This will take long,” I tell the Uber driver, clapping him on the shoulder. “Thanks, man.”
Nothing with Rooke is ever quick or easy.
Eric nods his head and waits for me to get out before doing a seven-point turn and heading back to the main road.
Haven detours on her way to Rooke’s porch to make emphatic stabbing motions at his Tesla and Land Rover.
“Okay, he’s here,” I mutter.
I follow her up the porch steps, my gut twisting in on itself the closer we get to Rooke’s front door. Part dread, part anticipation, part uneasy flutter I’ve been trying to ignore since his mouth was on my—
Nah, man. Not a fuck do I need this right now.
Haven pounds on the door with the side of her fist. “Hey! Open up!”
Nothing.
She pounds again. “I know you’re in there, Professor Psycho!”
Still nothing.
“Maybe he’s asleep,” I say.
“Bastian doesn’t sleep.”
She’s not wrong. She raises her fist to knock again, but the door swings open before she makes contact.
My brain short-circuits when Rooke appears in the doorway
He’s wearing sweatpants.
Just sweatpants.
Low-slung, charcoal gray, the waistband sitting just below his hip bones. No shirt. His hair is disheveled, sticking up on one side like he actually had been sleeping, and there’s a pillow crease along the side of his throat.
I’ve never seen him look this…human.
It’s weird as fuck.
“Do you have any idea what time it is?” he rasps, sounding nothing like the calm, controlled predator I’m used to.
“Who gives a fuck?” Haven says cheerfully. “We’re here for my car.”
Rooke stares at her. Then at me. His eyes narrow slightly when they land on my face, and I have to look away.
Jesus, how am I supposed to stand here pretending everything’s normal when twelve hours ago I was on my knees in his office, begging him to—
“You’re drunk,” Rooke says flatly. “Both of you.”
“And incredibly stoned,” Haven adds, lifting a finger. “Kruger’s fault, and he’s next on our hit list.” She waves a hand. “Never mind that.” She sticks out her hand, palm up, flicking her fingers. “Car keys. Hand ‘em over.”
Rooke scoffs, glancing away as he rubs his eyelids. “I’m not giving you—“
“It’s my car!”
“Technically, it still belongs to your father.”
“Who’s dead, which makes it mine!”
“That’s not how—“ Rooke interrupts himself with a tired sigh. “That thing is a death trap on a good day. Either of you get behind that wheel and you’re signing up for a murder-suicide tonight.”
I’m too drunk and stoned to follow.
Haven isn’t.
“Fucking drama queen. It’s basically all downhill. And there’s guard rails and shit.” Haven tries to push past Rooke into the house, but he blocks her with an arm across the doorframe.
“I’m not letting you kill yourselves.”
“Since when do you care if we live or die?” I blurt out.
Rooke turns to look at me with exaggerated care, jaw tightening.
“Get inside.” His voice drops into a register that makes my spine tingle. “Both of you.”
“Right,” Haven scoffs. “So you can tie us up and do awful things to us? Uh, hard pass, Professor.”
“Nothing about my coffee can possibly be considered awful,” Rooke grouches.
“We don’t want coffee.” Haven glances back at me like she’s expecting me to argue with her. When I say nothing, do nothing, her shoulders slump. But she pushes them back up a second later, staring down Rooke like a princess ordering her peasant to fetch her slippers.
A very drunk, very stoned princess.
“No coffee,” she repeats. “Just the car.”
“Get. Inside.”
She hesitates between pushing back and complying, her body swaying. The weed is making her reckless, but even stoned, she knows better than to fuck with Rooke when he sounds like that.
“Fine,” she huffs, wrapping her arms around herself. “But only because it’s cold out here.”
She ducks under his arm and disappears into the house. Rooke’s eyes track her, then swing back to me.
We stare at each other.
Fuck, I don’t know how to exist this close to him after what happened.
My skin feels too tight. My pulse is racing. And I can’t stop looking at his mouth.
His obscene, infuriating mouth.
“Are you coming in, too?” he asks.
“Haven’t decided yet.”
His lips twitch. Almost a smile. “Don’t take too long. Hypothermia can be fatal.”
He turns and walks inside, leaving the door open behind him.
I stand there with the cold gnawing at my skin as hard as I’m gnawing on the inside of my cheek.
I should summon the Uber again. I could wait in the car while she gets the keys and plays Rooke’s twisted game.
I could—should—avoid this whole fucking mess.
But my feet are already carrying me through the door.
The house is dark but for the kitchen’s ambient blue light strips, and a stand lamp in the living room.
Haven’s standing near Rooke’s leather sofa, arms still wrapped tightly around her chest.
“How do you take your coffee?” Rooke asks from the kitchen, where he’s paused in front of a complicated-looking coffee machine with a bag of coffee beans in his hand.
“No coffee,” Haven repeats. “We just want—”
“Your keys,” Rooke cuts in, cocking an eyebrow. “Yes, I heard you the first twenty times. But there’s no way in hell you’re leaving this house in your condition. So. Coffee.”
Haven snaps her fingers. “Fine. If you’re holding us hostage, I want a double espresso. I need to be alert to drive.”
“You’re not driving,” Rooke says calmly. “And you’d hate espresso if you ever tried it.”
“Fine. I’ll get the keys myself,” she announces, flashing me a crazed smile as she fast-walks toward Rooke’s bedroom.
I manage to grab her as she passes. Her momentum flings her around to crash into me, causing me to stumble.
“The fuck are you doing?” I hiss down at her. “Don’t go in there!”
I wish I couldn’t explain the sudden panic rushing through my veins like ice water…but I can.
Bad things happened in Rooke’s bedroom the last time we were in there.
Bad, bad things.
“They’re in his drawer,” Haven says, at least keeping her voice low. She gives me a small push. “Go fetch them, or I will.”
I give her a ‘fuck that’ laugh, my eyes flicking back to Rooke, who is now ignoring us entirely as he grinds the beans.
This feels like the start of a low budget horror movie. The one where all the characters are too dumb to live, yet one of them somehow outsmarts the villain in the end.
We won’t be that lucky, I don’t think.
“No. We’re going to let him make us coffee. We’re going to drink the coffee. And then we’re getting the fuck out of here without pissing him off.”
“So what if we—”
I squish Haven’s lips together. “Shh!”
She mumbles against my fingers. When I widen my eyes in warning, she rolls her eyes at me.
“Could you two at least sit?” Rooke calls out over his shoulder. “All my restraints are packed away and out of reach, I promise.”
I think back to the black ribbons he handed me the night of the Rain Dance. The mask. The lines of coke I amateurishly tapped out onto Haven’s ass cheeks before we—
I pull Haven down beside me, change my mind, and drag her onto my lap instead. He’s not getting his hands on her tonight. I’ll make sure of it.
She wriggles around in my lap until she finds a comfortable spot and then ducks down to murmur in my ear. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
“Takes one to know one.”
She snorts, leaning her head back against my shoulder. We sit in silence while Rooke makes coffee. The house is too quiet—no music, no TV, nothing but the hum of the refrigerator, the faint hiss from the fireplace, and the occasional clink from the kitchen.
“I can’t believe he was actually sleeping,” Haven murmurs.
“What were you expecting? Coke and hookers?”
“Yes.” She side-eyes me cautiously. “It’s weird, right? Like he’s…” She glances toward the kitchen, then lowers her voice even more. “He’s trying to change or something.”