I don’t know if anger or fear drives me.
I don’t know if this is real.
But I lunge for the nightstand drawer, grab the first dildo I can get my hands on, and I throw it at the figures with all my might while I scream at the top of my lungs.
37
Davis
I’m not supposedto be asleep, but apparently I am, because I jolt awake when the passenger door of my truck slams shut next to me.
I jerk straight in the driver’s seat, then twist and pull my arm back, ready to?—
“Fuck. It’s you.”
My sister merely lifts a brow at me, completely unconcerned that I was actually going to hit her.
Or, more likely, fully ready to duck and defend herself since she’d know this is how I’d wake up when I fall asleep on guard duty.
Morning’s coming soon.
I glance across the street at Sloane’s house.
All quiet.
“Patrick’s not talking about his accomplice,” she says.
I scrub a hand over my face, then glance at my watch.
Four in the morning.
Roughly eight hours until I pretend-marry Sloane.
Eight hours to get my courage together to ask if I can see her again. Take her to the movies. Cook dinner for her at my place.
I shake my head.Focus. “They still interrogating him?”
“I don’t think that’s the question you need to be asking yourself.”
I suck in a frustrated breath, knowing where she’s going.
And it’s exactly where my head’s at.
How am I going to ask Sloane out on a date?
“Can a guy have a few days to recover and think?” I ask her.
“Not what I meant. Your girl has visitors.”
I stare at her, then past her, and then?—
Fuck me.
Sloane’s screaming.
I’m out of my truck and across the street like my feet are made of lightning.
Silent alarm. There’s a silent alarm.
