6. 6
Killian
I don’t want to go home. The trailer is better, but life always has a way of pulling me back to that gilded cage. At least my new little toy is with me. Harlow’s fun to play with.
I open the Lexus door for her. She drops into the passenger seat without making eye contact.
Without a smile.
Without an inkling she’s impressed by this car despite hers being a bucket of bolts.
She’s playing hard to get. She has to be.
I take corners tighter than necessary. Speed up just enough to throw her into the seat. Anything to make her react.
No laugh. No squeal. Nothing.
She pretends none of it’s happening.
I could be trying too hard. This shit usually works.
Okay...
Well, the house should do it.
We turn into the gated community and pass huge homes.
The Easton mansion rises behind iron gates, white from the foundation to the roofline.
Black-framed windows stare across a circular drive, while trimmed hedges stand in perfect rows.
Nothing is chipped, crooked, or alive enough to be accidental.
Even the landscaping looks threatened into obedience.
I park and get out, but then catch my reflection in the car window. I grimace, having forgotten this is the new me. Unable to look a moment longer, I veer from the scars staring back at me.
When I jog around the car to open her door, she’s already stepping out. I grind my molars. I can’t impress her if she won’t let me.
The house grabs her attention, though. Palm fronds flutter in the breeze, adding ambiance to the beach front estate.
She tips her head back, her plump lips parted as she takes in the opulence.
“This is yours?”
“Parents,” I clarify.
“Twenty-four and you live with your parents,” she mumbles.
I guess she doesn’t see all of me if she thinks I have to live under their roof. That’s good. Underestimate me.
Inside, I show her around, mirroring her calm demeanor. I bite my tongue whenever a joke claws up my throat. She wants serious, I’ll be serious.
She glides from room to room. That curvy body drowns in those stupid scrubs — except for her round ass that nearly landed on my lap earlier.
She seemed like she wanted to. I’m probably lying to myself.
Look at her. Her hair is still tied back in a wild bun.
No makeup. No stolen glances. She must really despise me.
“There aren’t any pictures of you on the wall,” she says.
“No. It’ll stay that way with my face like this,” I reply with a half-smile, but instantly regret it.
No joking.
Of course, she doesn’t laugh.
The lack of my pictures on the walls isn’t funny, anyway. The truth around here is never funny.
She doesn’t speak much after that, just observes as she learns the layout. It makes it difficult to figure her out, but I’ll be patient.
“This is my floor.” The elevator doors open.
She steps off slowly, gawking at my posh living space. It has everything a separate house would, and more. A luxury kitchen, living room, bedrooms, aquarium, bar, theater, gym, and even a sauna.
I hoist myself onto the kitchen counter.
“You like?”
“It’s nice,” she replies, looking a little overwhelmed.
“Good. Make yourself at home.”
No smile.
She opens the refrigerator and retrieves a bottle of water.
“Looks bare,” she says.
“I have been gone for months, but if you want any special snacks or meals, just put it on the list. Our chef fills the fridge.”
“Chef,” she whispers.
Okay. No jokes. No money-talk.
I change the subject. “What do you want to do? We can watch a movie. Play pool. Massage each other.”
Ah, fuck. I can’t help it. I like making women laugh and I’m a giant flirt. They usually love it.
Not Harlow.
She rolls her eyes.
“Show me your bedroom,” she says abruptly.
I purse my lips, keeping another joke behind my teeth.
Instead, I lead the way and flip on the light.
It’s simple. King-size bed, black and grey colors with white walls and carpet.
Giant television. Art all around. Mostly graffiti-style.
Street art in an upscale space. The room smells faintly of my cologne and fresh laundry.
It’s my style. It is the only room that fights against the mansion.
“Alright, I’ve thought of another rule,” she starts. “You may not like it, but it’s important.”
I narrow my eyes. “Go ahead.”
“I can search this floor anytime.”
My stomach drops.
“Killian, I need to know you are staying sober. So... show me where you hide your drugs.”
I hesitate, but why not?
“Fine. Knock yourself out.”
Immediately, she is in my sock drawer. It takes her seconds to find a pipe.
Shit.
Then a lighter. A razor blade. A cutting dish.
She doesn’t stop there. She goes through the next drawer, and the next.
I let her. I don’t care. With everyone else, I lie. Harlow already assumes the worst. And she’s mostly right.
Suddenly, she pauses and holds up a cylinder. “What’s this?”
I smirk. “A fleshlight.”
“A what?”
“A pocket pussy,” I say, bored. “You know, when dates don’t go well.”
It drops from her hand as if it had just scalded her palm. Her face twists in disgust.
Why does she do that? I can’t repulse her that much.
“Chill, CNA.” I swipe the item off the floor. “It’s just a sex toy.”
Again, no fucking smile.
“Come on, Harlow. I know you have a toy. That rose-thing.”
“What?” she says, her expression horrified.
I chuckle, truly delighted. “After I took the test, I found it in your bathroom drawer by the shower. Was it the first thing you unpacked?”
She gasps. “You went through my drawers?”
I narrow my eyes, turned off by her dramatic tone. I only have so much patience.
“Listen, Killian. This was a bad idea. It won’t work. I’m sorry. I’m leaving.”
My chest tightens, and I scowl unintentionally. Nothing works with her. Now, she’s leaving and I haven’t made her laugh once. I’m not fucking done. Not yet.
I set the toy down and straighten.
“Hold up. I won’t go through your things again. I can take this seriously.”
“Oh?” she replies, clearly skeptical. “Then help me.” She steps closer. “I know there are drugs in this house.”
She’s not wrong. I don’t want to give up my emergency stashes, but maybe this will impress her.
I hate it, but I move steadily, revealing my last pieces of heaven.
They’re taped to the bottom of drawers, stuffed in the mattress lining, under a carefully cut piece of carpet, in over-the-counter pill bottles, hidden in a flour container, in a speaker, stuffed in a once-melted candle.
The pills and powder are everywhere. After an hour, about forty thousand dollars of narcotics are piled on the coffee table.
“Whoa,” she whispers.
I wince. It looks like a fun weekend to me. To her, just another thing she dislikes.
Why do I even care about this girl? She’s so different from when we first met. At least she smiled then. Held my hand. Was human. This is a joy-killing robot. Maybe I should quit the chase. Getting close to her will take forever and—
She grabs grocery bags and loads the haul.
“Wait, wait, wait. What are you doing?”
“Let’s dispose of it,” she says.
My heart stops. “Dispose of?”
“Yes. We’ll figure out the legal way. Your dad must have smart lawyers. They can handle it.”
I mumble, “Yeah,” but I lose myself as tunnel vision sets in, unable to tear my eyes from the bags.
My drugs. My emergency stashes. I was gonna be clean until... I don’t know. What am I supposed to do now? It’ll all be gone.
I’m sweating and breathing shallow. I’m spiraling.
“Uh, no,” I mutter.
I stare at the ceiling, trying not to panic.
Suddenly, I flinch when my wrist moves.
I glance down. Her soft palms cradle my hand, and she gives a gentle squeeze.
“Killian, I am really proud of you for doing this. I bet this is difficult.”
She has no idea.
But I don’t say that.
I don’t say anything. I can’t. My stomach is knotting so hard, I’m nauseated. I want to race around her and snatch the bags, lock myself in the bedroom, and smoke or snort it all.
“Hey,” she whispers.
I force myself to look into her big stupid eyes.
She hesitates, then slowly extends her arms and...
She hugs me.
“You will be okay, I promise.”
It isn’t intimate. She holds me carefully, like kindness is something I might mistake for flirting. But it’s something.
This is what I wanted. She’s touching me again, like in the hospital. If this is what being good gets me, maybe that’s her weak spot. I don’t know why it matters. She’s just another girl... God, she smells good, like cinnamon and vanilla. Her body is soft.
But this is serious.
My mind fixes on one thing that makes me feel better than her touch: drugs.
As my heart rages in my chest, I pry myself from her hold and step back, dragging both hands through my hair.
“Look, Harlow. Thanks, but I don’t know if I can do this.”
I expect a snarky comment, especially from her. She delivers something much worse.
“You found where I lived. You forced your way into my life. You know exactly how to make things happen when you want them badly enough.”
She steps closer.
“So want this.”
That’s not what I wanted to fucking hear.
Her words aren’t flowery. They aren’t generic. They’re honest in a way that hits differently than when my family tries to stop me.
I hang my head, not wanting to look at her.
“What the hell am I supposed to do then?” I mumble.
“Let’s get the drugs out of the house. Then we’ll celebrate.”
Celebrate. How does one do that without getting high?
Reluctantly, I follow her as she collects the bags, handing a few to me.
As the elevator doors close, I find her beaming, as if I’m doing something miraculous. Maybe I am, because this isn’t easy. I’m sweating, tense, and about to have a heart attack.
I do easy.
This girl isn’t easy.
So why does that stupid look make me want more of it?
I flinch and glance down again. This time, she threads her fingers with mine. It’s weird. Her palm fits too well against mine. For one second, I feel this girl actually wants the real me.
But she hates me.
I furrow my brow, completely confused.
The elevator pings, and the second the doors open, she rushes out.
It’s over. Just like that. And I have no idea how the hell I made her soften.
But I’ll learn, if only to fuck her.