Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Flynn
“That was odd,” I say, starting my car on the second try.
“What was?” June asks.
“Callie got pretty tight-lipped when I asked about her degree. Was she a stripper or something?”
June snorts. “I don’t think that requires several degrees. Everyone has secrets for different reasons.”
“I know. It just seems like a weird secret.” As we drive down the hill, I glance at June. “What’s your secret?”
“What’s yours?” Her eyebrows jump up her forehead.
“I asked you first.”
“Well”—she looks ahead—“if I tell you, then it won’t be a secret.”
“I don’t think we should have secrets,” I say, and I mean it, but I don’t know if I can walk the walk. Not yet.
“That’s a big step. No secrets, huh?”
I pull over along the side of the road. “We have a problem.”
“Your car is broken?”
“I don’t know where we’re going. Am I taking you home? If so, you have to tell me where you live. Are you coming back to my place? If so, then I have to be honest with you about my living situation.”
Her lips part with a slow breath. “Are you living in your car?” she whispers.
I chuckle, but she doesn’t.
Shit.
She’s serious.
“Not anymore,” I say. “I told you I have a roommate. Do you think he’s waiting at some bar for me to finish my date so he can get back in this”—I circle my finger around—“our house?”
Her eye twitches. I know she’s trying not to be shocked by me, my past, and my whole messed-up present situation.
Monroe was right. I give too much too soon.
But I don’t want to be with someone who can’t handle it.
Maybe that’s why I’m alone, residing on a sofa. I should slow down before I lose her.
“Do you want to order a ride? I’ll wait here with you, and when they pick you up, I promise not to follow you.”
This time, she can’t hide her flinch. “Flynn,” she whispers.
“It’s fine.” I run my hands through my hair. “I wouldn’t trust me either.”
Her hand rests on my leg, and I stare at it, wanting nothing more than to hold it.
Kiss it. Pull her into my arms. When I picked her up at the park and carried her to my car, it was the first time in …
forever, that I remember feeling someone else’s body so close to mine without it being a forgettable hookup.
“The gallery,” June says, pulling her hand away from my leg.
“The gallery?”
She nods. “I live in an apartment across from the gallery, above the salon.”
“So why did you use the bathroom at the gallery instead of running up to your apartment?”
“Because I was …” she swallows hard. “I was taken.”
“Taken? What does that mean?”
June stares at her folded hands for a few seconds before lifting her head and offering a shaky smile.
“On my twenty-first birthday, I went out with friends. Got my first legal martini. Danced. Laughed. Gossiped. Then I snuck off to the restroom because I was feeling sick. And I …” She pulls in a shaky breath.
“I don’t remember what happened next. Everything was dark.
There was a humming noise. And I felt this vibration.
That’s when I realized I was in the trunk of a car. ”
Fuck me …
She swallows hard, wringing her hands. “It was only three days. And then it was over. I wasn’t injured or abused. And despite years of therapy, there are just some things that make me nervous.”
“Strangers and telling people where you live?”
I’m not good at this stuff—knowing the right thing to say when other people are hurting. All I know is a lifetime of suppressing every single emotion until I no longer feel anything.
“You’re safe with me,” I say, hoping it’s a good start.
“Yeah?” she whispers before biting her lower lip.
I put the car into Drive. “Yeah. There’s really nothing I wouldn’t do to keep you safe.”
“Thanks,” she says timidly.
I stop at the light, stealing a quick glance at her as she picks at her pink fingernail polish. “You’re beginning to have that effect on me.”
“What effect?”
“I don’t know if there’s a name for it.” I scratch my neck just as the light turns green.
“When I was fifteen and in my last foster home, there was a ten-year-old girl who they took in, but the husband treated her like a dog. One day, I’d had enough, and I took a baseball bat to him.
So I guess this protective feeling is something like … touch her and I’ll kill you.”
Through the corner of my eye, I see June’s mouth open, then quickly clamp shut. Did I go too far?
“For the record, I didn’t actually kill him. He was just hospitalized for a while, and I spent time in juvie.”
She doesn’t speak for the rest of the drive to her apartment, so I bite my tongue. Anything I say might only make it worse. When we arrive, I park on the street and hop out to open her door. This manners thing is growing on me. Callie will be so proud.
Just the thought that I give a shit about anyone being proud of me is an unfamiliar feeling. I don’t know if I like it—caring what other people think.
June steps out of the car and adjusts her bag over her chest, keys ready in her hand. But she doesn’t look at me. “Thanks for the ride,” she murmurs before heading straight to the building.
“I’ll walk you up to your apartment,” I say, following her.
“I’ve got it.”
“Are you mad?”
“No.”
“Then why won’t you look at me?”
She pauses her hand with the key in the lock, keeping her back to me. “I think we’re moving too quickly.”
“Too quickly? You asked me to kiss you, and I did not. I’m still not going to kiss you. I just want to make sure you make it to your apartment safely.”
“It’s just up a flight of stairs. This door automatically locks behind me. I’ll be fine.” She pulls open the door and removes her key.
“So this is it? This is what I get for being honest with you? You told me about someone kidnapping you. That doesn’t change how I feel about you.
So why does the fact that I now feel even more protective of you change things between us?
Because I beat up a fucking awful human ten years ago? Because I spent time in juvie?”
“Is that it?” She turns, holding the door open with her shoulder. “Have you only hurt bad people? Never good people? Have you ever gotten in trouble for doing something wrong that wasn’t an act of protecting an innocent person?”
Did Callie tell her I took Rupert’s car for a joyride? I didn’t hurt anyone, not even the car. Maybe I’ll just tell her everything. If she can’t handle it, then clearly, she’s not worth my time.
I inhale a long breath, readying the words, but I choke on the truth.
“Ya know what, June? Fuck it,” I say. So much for telling her everything.
Why give her any more of myself when I know she can’t handle the truth.
“This is why I don’t date,” I continue. “One minute, things are great. Some girl is batting her eyelashes at you begging for a kiss. The next, she’s either giving you the cold shoulder or sending your ass down the street to take a shit at a convenience store.
” I head toward the car. “Hope you enjoyed your chicken dinner and fancy tea. Nice knowing ya.” I climb in my car and slam the door.
Thankfully, fate’s on my side because it starts on the first try.
So I shove it into gear and floor it, leaving a little tire rubber on the street.
When I have to slam on the brakes at the red light, do I look in the rearview mirror to make sure she gets inside the building safely? Of course, because I like her, even though I now hate how much I like her.
For the rest of the evening, I sit on my sofa with a beer in my hand and two more in line on the coffee table while Monroe and Naomi screw each other’s brains out in the bedroom.
It’s loud and annoying, but by the end of my third beer, I slump to the side, pull a blanket over part of my body, and pass out for the night.
“I’m only waking you up because you’re Monroe’s friend, and he likes it when I’m nice to you,” Naomi says, smacking my cheek several times.
I bat her hand away and slowly sit up. One of the empty beer cans falls off my lap and onto the floor.
“You’re not going to keep your job if you don’t start setting an alarm,” she says, opening the fridge to retrieve the creamer.
“What time is it?” I rub my temples.
“Five fifteen.”
I lumber to my feet and drag my ass to the bathroom.
“You’re welcome,” Naomi calls.
I don’t reply with a thank-you, but I also don’t give her the middle finger. My restraint is equivalent to a thank-you.
By six, I’m showered, dressed in rich people’s clothes, and knocking on the Rawlings’ front door. I don’t know why anyone needs inspiration at six in the morning. If she’s depressed, just keep sleeping. In my experience, the world is more tolerable at nine in the morning than it is at six.
“I left you a message,” Mr. Rawlings says after opening the door in his usual burgundy robe and old man pajamas.
I pull my phone out of my pocket. It’s dead. “What was the message?”
He frowns as I tuck my phone back into my pocket. “Callie is not feeling well today.”
“She’s sick?”
He shakes his head. “Some days she doesn’t get out of bed for … reasons. Today is one of those days. So your services won’t be needed today.”
“Dude, I’m awake. My head is splitting. She was fine last night. She got a cat for god’s sake.” I invite myself inside.
“Well, she’s not today.” He holds out his hand to stop me as I kick off my shoes and step toward the stairs.
“What’s wrong with her?”
He scowls. “That’s not your concern. Now, I said we don’t need you today. So, I suggest you turn back around and leave. Go charge your phone so you don’t miss my messages.”
I turn around to put my shoes back on. “Ya know”—I pivot toward him—“she’s been fine. And I haven’t been able to figure out what I’m doing here. A muse? Her inspiration? For what? But on the day she won’t get out of bed, you don’t need me? That’s bullshit, man.” I shoulder past him.
He grabs my arm, and I pull away.
“Do you want me to call the police?” he asks.