Ziggy really, really hates to be ignored.
So I guess I’ll have to smother him in attention instead.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
ZIGGY
Apparently, when it comes to Kennedy, I’m a jealous guy. Who knew?
The way Rooney was looking at him, how the two of them were leaning closer, their conversation so fast and excited, I never had a chance to get a word in … I hated it. It made me feel as invisible as I always think I am, and it’s the first time that’s happened around Kennedy.
I’d wanted to smash my glass bottle between them, but luckily, I reined in that urge.
I’m sure Kennedy already thinks I’m weird, and I don’t need to do anything to encourage that image.
My TV is on a low hum, giving me background noise, but not enough to echo off the walls. I take another deep breath, nails digging into my palms, and say, “Kennedy.”
The word almost dies on my lips, and as soon as it’s out, I resist the urge to flinch around and check behind me.
It’s okay. I’m okay.
This is fine and normal and fine.
You’d think that eight years later, it would be easier. That I’d stop instinctively waiting for the pulse-spiking scream. Growing up, my parents were … angry. They worked a lot and slept all the time in between, so if I woke them between shifts, the screaming would start. The shouting and anger and names. Being dragged back to my room. Locked in there all day or night until they were up and would let me out again with an exhausted, dead-eyed sneer and warnings about showing respect.
Between keeping as silent as possible at home and the way my anxiety would ramp up every time I tried to talk at school, it’s no wonder dread smothers my words so often.
Friends used to ask me why I was so quiet. People I didn’t know would call me weird. Then, when I did talk, it was met with mock surprise or snide comments until I stopped talking altogether.
Is that what your voice sounds like? I wouldn’t talk either if I sounded like that.
I cup my mouth in a silent scream before blowing air out through my fingers. They’re not here anymore. They can’t hurt me again. I’m okay.
I’m a work in progress, but the important part is that Iammaking progress. I’m slowly getting more comfortable with the people in town, and while it’s easier not to talk, I can manage conversations when I need to. With Kennedy? Someone so new and shiny? Who gets me all twisted up inside? It’s near fucking impossible.
I steel myself, nails digging harder this time, and try again. “Kennedy.”
His name comes out weak but is getting familiar the more I do it. I’m determined that one day, we’ll be able to have a real conversation. To laugh and joke and have him as mesmerized as Rooney did. I’mdetermined.
I’m about to try again when a new noise breaks through the quiet murmur of the TV. A distantthudthat I’ve heard a few times before and can place instantly now.
A car has gone off Hobby Straight.
The road winds through the hill above me, but with the tight turns and narrow lanes, it’s not unusual for someone to take a bend too wide.
I switch off the TV, grab the keys to the truck I never drive, and hightail it down to Wilde’s. He’s always the first point of call before we pick up the doctor and head out, looking for the accident. Usually, the driver is uninjured and only needs help to tow their car back onto the road, but it never hurts to have Booker on hand, just in case.
I pull up out front of Wilde’s house, and he reaches his door before I can knock on it. I point to his truck.
“Hobby Straight?” he checks.
At my answering nod, he grabs his keys and meets me outside. I climb in with him since he refuses to ride passenger, and then we drive over to the chop shop. When Booker climbs in beside me, he’s rubbing his hands together.
“Wonder what we’ll have today,” he says. “Nothing as fun as what Hudson brought me, I’d guess, but it’s not unreasonable to hope for a broken bone.”
Wilde throws his truck in drive and tosses a concerned look across me. “Let’shopefor nothing so we can pull them out of there and get them on their way.”
