But I guess he won’t be taking calls anymore.
Once the red and blue lights finally appear down the road, I leisurely walk back to the car and unscrew the gas cap. Crouching, I balance the lit end of my cigarette just inside the hole and step away.
In the middle of the road, I wait for an ash to fall.
It doesn’t take long, and the ground rocks with the explosion. The blaze ignites the night, sending debris flying and heat blasting my face. Shards whip into the road, one of which slices my temple. With a curse, I jump farther back.
Are you fucking kidding me?!I dab at the laceration and wince, my fingers coming back red. Growling, I grit my teeth and crack my neck.
Yeah, Kira Noland is definitely getting billed.
Chapter Thirteen
Kira
All I remember is stumbling into the house and face-planting on my bed, my ratty comforter warm against my cheek. I didn’t bother taking off my jacket or shoes. I don’t even know how we all ended up in Jax’s car instead of Caleb’s and didn’t care. All I wanted was to close my eyes and never have to open them again—at least until eight p.m.
But apparently, that’s not going to happen.
The sound of wood snapping and groaning has me cracking my eyes against the sun seeping in from behind the sheet I have over the window. A squint at the clock tells me it’s only just after eleven a.m., and I throw an arm over my face, hoping Nix stops whatever she’s doing. The scent of smoke and roast human fills my nose from my jacket, and the night comes back in horrible, breathless images.
We moved a body.
We lit it on fire.
We covered up amurder.
Sickness worms its way into my stomach. In the harsh light of day, my chest tightens with guilt and paranoia. There’s no way we don’t end up behind bars for this. Surely the police will find some connection to us. We may never have met any of Marshal’s friends—if he had any—but did he tell anyone about the girls hewould check in on from time to time? Will they scour his phone records and dig into the number he only called once in a while? How long until they come asking if we’ve seen him?
Close to the edge, I jump when another loud thud sounds. What in the fuck is Nix doing!? It sounds like she’s ripping down the walls. Begrudgingly, I wriggle off the bed, huffing. You would think she would be sleeping too. Or… or maybe she can’t. Shewasthe one who sealed Marshal’s fate.
Slowing down with a sigh, I glimpse myself in the mirror and jump again. Jesus, why are my under-eyes so black? I lean toward the mirror, fingertips on my skin. I get being tired, but these are extreme. Purple and long, they seem to be eating away at my typically full cheeks. Andwhat the fuckhas happened to my hair? Equal parts greasy and dry, there are gnarls everywhere. I whimper as I stupidly try to finger-comb one.
“Oh, fuck it,” I mutter and pull open the door. I can deal with it after a few more hours of sleep.
IfI can get Nix to stop making so much noise.
A clatter like a tool hitting the floor sounds from her room, and I follow it, kicking off my shoes as I go, my feet throbbing as I limp into her room.
“Jesus, Nix. I’m trying to—”
My bottom lip falls as I find Jax, kneeling over a gap in the floorboards. His black jeans are stretched over his kneeled form, similar or maybe the same as the pair from last night, and he’s got a crowbar and hammer beside him. My mouth goes dry.
“Five-hundred thousand dollars,” he grunts without looking at me, using his bare hands to tear at another plank.
The veins in his forearm ripple with the effort, taut against his tan, inked skin. I’m not awake enough to see this—to resist this, and I blatantly stare in a stupor.
“I assume you’ll need to set up a payment plan,” he says.
“Wha—what?” I blink and find my voice. “What are you even doing here?”
Did Nix let him in?Why?He may have helped last night, but that was for his brother, not for us. He wanted tokillus. We should be putting as much distance between Jax Landon and us as we can.
He sighs and throws yet another piece of our floor into a pile, reaching for the crowbar. “You realize you have a bucket of bloody towels in your bathroom, right?” He ignores my question.
“I…” I stutter. Why do I feel like a child being scolded? God, he’s such an asshole. Maybe I didn’t get to the laundry because I just had atearin my heart. Did he ever think of that?
“What. Are. You. Doing. Here?” I repeat my question.
