31. Caleb
Chapter 31
Caleb
I pull up outside the only motel in Hillshire County. The neon No Vacancy sign flickers sporadically. There are lights on in half the rooms at this time of night. Any one of them could hold her . It took only a few calls to figure out where she’d booked a room. She had limited options, given her history. It was either here or the upscale place in Beacon.
I’m pretty sure that’s beyond her means.
Margo almost erased the pressing need to come here… but then her foster parents got home early.
And the compulsion returned.
I force myself to relax, blowing air out through my mouth and sucking it in through my nose. I have time, but patience is another issue.
None of this would be a problem if Coach hadn’t followed through on his threat to suspend me from six games. Six . I sat out for one, and there’s a game tonight that I’m skipping for this .
My phone buzzes. A second later, my passenger door opens, and Amelie slides into the car. For fuck’s sake. I glance over long enough to take in her dress: red, leather, tight. Her breasts are pushed up to her throat. Her lips are coated in bright-red gloss.
I have a flash of Margo wearing the same color as a kid, chasing me through the house and threatening to kiss me.
“What are you doing here?” I can’t hide my utter loathing.
Eli
You need backup? I’ll skip if you need me.
The thought of him missing a game because of me—and subsequently taking Coach’s wrath—raises my hackles. I appreciate his offer, but I can’t let him do that.
No. I’m handling it.
“I thought you could use some help,” Amelie says. “Especially since your expression means you probably don’t know which room she’s in.”
Amelie and I were a brief moment in time, and yet she still seems to reap the rewards of our past. Like knowing I probably wouldn’t hurt her for getting in my way.
I could change that.
It’s about damn time Amelie felt something toward me besides lust. Fear would look much better on her face than this hungry, desperate wanting. My skin crawls at the way she’s staring at me.
I grit my teeth. “And you do?”
She smiles at me. “I wouldn’t be useful if I didn’t.”
“And what do you want in exchange?” I only ask because… well, I don’t want to make any more phone calls, and bribing the motel front desk would leave a trace.
I’m not going to like this. Amelie is slipperier than a snake in oil.
She puts her elbow on the center console, moving into my space. “Just give me a… secret.”
I sigh. “What kind of secret?”
“What happened to Margo’s dad? Where’s your mom? You’ve been bottled up about all of it for so long?—”
I grab her by the throat and shove her against the passenger window. She makes a gurgling noise, fingers scrambling on my hand.
“You’re going to cut the fucking shit, Amelie, and then you’re going to leave.” I lean in, trying to curb the urge to squeeze until she turns purple. “And if you don’t, I’ll tell everyone your dirty little secret.”
Her eyes widen.
The fear I’ve been craving flashes across her face.
Honestly… it doesn’t do as much as I thought it would. Margo’s fear has ruined me.
“Okay,” Amelie wheezes. “Jesus. Room thirty-one.”
“See how easy that was?” I release her, then lean around her and open the door.
She falls out of my car, landing on her ass with her feet in the air. She glares at me for a long minute, seeming to want to say something.
Now’s not the time, and I’m not the person.
I make a shooing motion. “Run along, Page.”
She climbs to her feet and purses her lips. Without a word, she storms off.
I head to the second floor, where room thirty-one awaits.
The lights are off, but I bang on the door anyway. It’s late. Maybe she’s sleeping. I wait a minute, then try again.
“Caleb?”
I turn. Amber Wolfe stands at the top of the stairs. Her dark hair is in a high bun, and there’s dirt smudged on her forehead. She wears an absurd number of layers. A hoodie under another sweatshirt with a jacket on top, and a scarf wrapped around her throat. There’s probably another shirt underneath, too.
“Thought that was you.” She comes closer, shuffling her feet.
I step back and let her unlock the door.
Her fingers tremble on the painted wood. She’s frailer than I would’ve thought. Her eyes are sunken. Her cheeks are sucked in.
We enter the room, and she unwinds her scarf.
I bite the inside of my cheek. There’s a ring of bruises around her neck.
Handprints.
It strikes me that I should be concerned. And yet, I can’t muster any sympathy for the train wreck of a woman in front of me.
Disgust travels up my throat.
Even through the addiction, the similarities between her and Margo are obvious. They have the same hair, the same smile. Same face shape, even though Margo’s still has traces of her childhood in her cheeks, and her mother’s is extreme in the opposite direction.
“What brings you here?” She goes to the mini fridge, kneeling and pulling out a bottle. She offers me one. “Come to steer me right, son?”
“Don’t call me that,” I snap. “And no, I’m not.”
She giggles. She removes her jacket, revealing a sweater that she probably got from a thrift store. It’s two sizes too big and hangs on her frame, even with the hoodie under it. She starts taking off the sweater, too. The stream of noise coming out of her seems uncontrolled. Her movements around the room are jerky.
Nausea turns my stomach.
“You’re high.”
I should’ve anticipated it.
This isn’t how I learned to play chess—I’m not normally reckless.
She takes a seat on one of the two beds, now only in her leggings and long-sleeved shirt. She twists the bottle in her hand.
Slowly, I mirror her movements. After sitting for a few seconds, I cross to the fridge and help myself to a beer. May as well. I’ll need the drink while trying to reason with Margo’s mother.
“Why are you back?” I ask, twisting the cap off. I hand it to her and pull the one from her hand, doing the same thing.
She lifts the bottle to her lips and doesn’t lower it until half the beer is gone.
“I asked you that,” she says.
I shrug. “I came to ask you why you’re here. Are you going to answer?”
She’s irritating. Infuriating. The woman who used to be my family’s chef, and Margo’s kind and warm mother, has disintegrated into this .
There’s a reason the kids at school call her a coke whore. It’s not just because she’s addicted to drugs—it’s because she’ll do anything, sell anything, to get them.
“You look so much like your father,” she says on a sigh. “I miss him.”
My father. I grit my teeth. I can’t do anything rash, not even when she goads me.
“What about your own husband? He’s rotting away?—”
“Please don’t,” she cries.
She folds over and rocks back and forth, winding her scarf around her hands. She makes keening noises, like this is the worst thing she’s ever thought about.
I’ve had worse.
Finally, she sets the scarf down and straightens. Her cheeks are wet, but she doesn’t dash away the tears. She grabs her beer and switches beds, sitting right next to me.
I hold perfectly still as she stares into my face.
There’s kindness buried in my bones.
But… not for her.
She finally wipes the tears on her cheek with the back of her hand, running her arm under her nose. It’s hard to be around her and not feel anger.
“I just want things to go back to normal.” She latches on to my arm and lets out a sob. “Why did you come here?”
“You need to leave Rose Hill. Tonight.”
“My money is gone. I have nowhere to go?—”
“I don’t fucking care, Amber.”
She flinches.
“You promised you wouldn’t come back,” I remind her. “That you wouldn’t…”
“Interfere,” she mumbles. “But?—”
I shove her off me. She tumbles to the floor, landing in a curled position.
“There’s no fucking but !” I roar. “You’re endangering everything by being here.”
Way more than she fucking realizes.
I’m sick of this. Sick of being in the same room with a drug-addicted whore and family ruiner. I dig my toe into her ribs, flipping her flat on her back. She’s so weak, she flops right over.
Her gaze locks on mine. Her mouth opens and closes. She’s in shock—or succumbing to whatever she probably shot into her veins. Her tears spill out again, flooding down her temples and into her hair.
“I’m sorry, Caleb.”
I shove her sweater sleeve up, just to prove to myself that she’s still the drug addict I remember. The track marks are dark, angry red. Infected, probably from dirty needles.
My skin crawls, and I release her just as fast.
The kids at school call Margo a coke whore’s daughter. And they’re right: Amber Wolfe has taken another lover. And there’s nothing more alluring to her than her drug of choice.
“Here’s what’s going to happen.” I thumb through the cash that I brought and make a show of dropping the bills onto her chest. “You’re going to go anywhere but here. Upstate. Down south. West, even. You could be a happy homeless slut in the eternal sunshine. Who the fuck cares? But if I hear that you step back in Rose Hill, you’re done. I’ll kill you myself.”
She shudders.
I promised Margo I would kill anyone who hurt her.
The biggest threat is her mother.
“Leave tonight, Amber.”
She grabs my boot as I walk past her. “Please. I got a call?—”
I shake her loose, my lip curling. I pause with my hand on the knob and drain my beer, then drop the empty bottle on the floor. It tastes like piss water.
Figures .
I slam the door behind me, hoping that Amber gets my message. I really don’t want to have to resort to murdering Margo’s mom.