I wouldn’t allow her to take my peace, too.
3
Lana
I got home late that night, and even then, the house was packed and loud. I could hear the music and voices even before I reached the front door. I was too emotionally exhausted to figure out where else to be, too worn out to map an escape, so I set my mind on going inside, climbing the stairs, getting to my room, and trying to sleep. The filming downstairs had clearly turned into a party. It was Friday night, and technically, it wasn’t my house, so I had no right to tell any of them to leave. Not that I would have dared, since nobody here paid attention to me anyway.
Once inside, I kept my head low as I crossed the big foyer, not daring to look left or right because there were people in every room, and the air reeked of alcohol and weed, and I didn’t want any of it on me. I knew my room would be free of those smells because I had locked the door before I left in the morning.
I had learned the hard way not to leave it open. I made that mistake a few times, and each time I came back to find strangers occupying my personal space. Once, I even walked in on a couple having sex. Not in my bed but pressed against the floor-to-ceiling window. I kicked them out and scrubbed the handprints off the glass myself.
After that, I started locking my bedroom door every time, even when I was inside, because it was the only boundary I could control in a house that otherwise felt like someone else’s. Because it was someone else’s.
Just as I reached the stairs, Callan called my name. I froze on the step and sighed with my eyes shut, not ready to face him. He was walking over when I turned around, and this time he actually had clothes on. Okay, it was only one item of clothing. Black baggy jeans that hung low on his hips, and his tattooed upper body and arms were on full display. There was so much ink, and I could probably list about 80 percent of the motifs on his skin.
Hey, I was just a girl who liked tattoos on other people, but not on myself, and Callan happened to have a whole lot of them. But that didn’t mean I liked him. He was still just Callan: my broody, rich stepdad.
“Hey,” I said, forcing a friendly tone even though I was in a bad mood.
He stopped in front of me and looked me up and down with his dark brows furrowed and his jaw tight. “Where were you?”
Oh, that’s…new.
“Out. Why?”
“Out where?” His brown eyes met mine. His expression told me that he wasn’t happy with my not being here all day, which, to be honest, I had no idea why he cared.
“Just out,” I said with a shrug. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t.”
I narrowed my eyes.What?
“Uh, okay? Then why do you want to know where I was?”
“Because.”
Because?
Seriously?
God, what a douchebag.
“Do you need anything?” I asked, my brows raised now as I straightened my back. “Because if not, I’d like to go to bed now.”
He stared me down for a moment, his gaze moving up and down my body again before settling on my face, and when our eyes met, he asked, “Did you eat?”
“Yeah, I ate my sandwich,” I said, still wondering why I was continuing this conversation when all I wanted to do was run upstairs and sleep.
“I gave you money,” he said, the frown between his brows deepening.
“Oh, right.” I reached into my tote and pulled the folded bills out to hand them to him. “Here. I didn’t use a dollar.”
He didn’t reach for the money. He only looked at the bundle with a confused expression, then raised an eyebrow and asked, “Why not?”
I shrugged. “Because I had my sandwich.”
“And that’s all you’ve eaten today?”
