Although, thinking of Creighton and his thunderous reactions tonight, given the inherent cruelty of his profession, maybe Lachlan thanked his lucky stars to escape being his father’s son for so long. “I had no idea.”
“I suppose most people know better than to gossip about our family, even school-age children.”
“Young adults.”
“Hm.” He wrinkles his nose, and the expression transforms him from dark and brooding into completely adorable. “Nah, I think children works better.”
I fold my arms, trying a humph on for size. His gaze abruptly drops lower, and I follow his gaze, appalled to see that my nipples are now clearly visible through the straining fabric. I duck my head forward, cheeks so hot they’re about to catch fire.
“Don’t worry, I’m not into cradle robbing.”
“Sorry. I usually wear more clothing than this.”
“You don’t have to explain yourself.” Patrick flicks on the indicator and a moment later we’ve turned into my street. “Not to me.”
I point out my house, terrified that my father will be waiting up and I don’t know what to tell him. I’m not yet stable enough to talk about it. Not yet. Possibly never.
“Should I come inside with you?”
The offer nearly makes me burst into tears again. He’s already pointed out he thinks I’m a child, so it’s not like my image can go farther downhill, but it leaves me embarrassed, anyway.
“Thank you. That’s very kind, but I’ll be fine.”
He pulls to a stop outside. The house is dark. Even if a light were on in the back, I’d expect to see some sign of the glow.
Dad’s probably sitting there in the dark. He’ll have worried himself sick for hours, waiting for you to come home.
I shed Patrick’s jacket, and he throws it into the backseat. My hand spasms as I grip the handle, so I have to wait a moment before opening the car door.
“Thank you for the lift,” I say, getting out and immediately turning my ankle in the ridiculously high heels.
Before I can protest again, Patrick gets out and offers me his arm to walk to the front door. “I’ll wait around until you’re inside and have checked it’s safe.”
I don’t have my keys but there’s a spare in the fake rock in the corner garden. He shadows me at every step and once I’m inside, he insists on walking along the hallway, checking to see if there’s anyone else in there with me.
“It’s okay,” I tell him all the while, twisting my hands in the baggy shirtfront. “Dad’s probably just gone to the n-neighbours for a drink. He often does that.”
“At three in the morning?”
I don’t have an answer, so I just hang my head, not sure what the protocol is. I’ve already told him enough times that he’s okay to leave that saying it again will seem churlish. But I just want him to go. I want to get into my bedroom and close the door and maybe cry again without an audience to temper the severity.
“I can wait until your father gets home,” Patrick offers, frowning with concern. “I’ll just nap on the couch.”
My chest feels hollow as I turn him down again, walking him to the door as I assure him I’m fine, perfectly fine.
“Make sure you lock up behind me,” he says as he lets me usher him onto the front steps.
I obey his instructions, waiting by the door as I hear him get into the car and start the engine, idling at the roadside for a few minutes before he finally drives away, leaving me alone.
My first stop is the bathroom where I take two doses of my birth control pill, just in case. I’ll need to make an appointment tomorrow at the student health clinic on the premises. Not the ideal place to get checked out, but it’s easy to access and almost no other students use it—for the obvious reason of not wanting to be seen in there—which means I can get everything done on the spot.
But that’s a worry for later.
I check the kitchen bench for a note but there’s nothing, just smudges of blood left behind on the table and floor.
My fingers find the injury on my thigh and prod at it, checking to see how much it hurts. While a boy I barely know treated my flesh like a smorgasbord, my father went out. Probably taking out the first part of a loan to replace the one I just used my body to pay back.
It’s a disease. It’s not his fault.
