Mum is in the kitchen, whistling as she cooks a sauce with enough garlic to ward off every vampire in the district. I open my mouth to say something, to start the conversation, get it out of the way, and my throat clutches in a painful spasm.
“Good night, was it?” she asks, chuckling at my late appearance. “You want some orange juice?”
I shake my head, heading for the kettle instead, needing a coffee to blow away the tufts of cotton wool stuffing my head.
She frowns when I don’t respond, peering closer. “You didn’t drink, did you?”
Her concern is over more than the state of my head and stomach. With my liver still healing, a few drinks could set me back months. “Nothing harder than a soda.”
I put a hand over my abdomen, biting my cheek and concentrating on the pain. Words flit through my head but none of them seems promising. A devil on my shoulder tells me to letit go, I can tell her another day, and I seize hold of the terrible advice, giving myself a free pass until tomorrow.
She watches me closely, frowning like she senses something’s wrong. “A headache kept me awake most of the night,” I add, followed by an enormous yawn. “Then I overslept.”
It’s not a complete lie but any thought of a quick confession is now in my rearview mirror.
She keeps watching me, but I busy myself spooning two heaped servings of instant into my cup, barely waiting for the kettle to switch off before I pour boiling water over the top.
It’s a relief to carry the mug through to the lounge, though the rooms in our tiny flat are interconnecting, so it doesn’t get me entirely off her radar.
I will talk to her… just not this minute.
Not when I’m struggling to explain what happened to myself.
I glance out the window, blankly staring at the mailbox, then beyond to the street as a car pulls over. I wait for it to turn—being the second house past the corner, we often have drivers use our kerb as a turning bay—but its engine shuts off and a second later Maddox emerges from the driver’s seat.
My hand jerks, coffee slopping over the edge, hot enough to scald me. I suck at the burn as I put the cup on the sidetable and hustle towards the door. “Just going out for a few minutes,” I shout to Mum, not waiting to hear her reply.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I scold, meeting him halfway along the path and shooing him back towards his car. A rush of images from last night flicker before my eyes and the bite mark on my shoulder aches as I remember being driven home, my mind barely functioning. The only words spoken aloud had come from the GPS.
He nods, holding out my phone and I take it with a guilty start, embarrassed by my rudeness when he was doing something nice. “Thanks.”
“Zane would have dropped it back himself but…”
He shrugs instead of finishing, but I understand. “Yeah. Guess I’m lucky he’s under house arrest, then. I don’t particularly want to see you. I want to see him even less.”
“Can I grab the number?” When I glance at him, startled, he adds, “There’s a contract for you to read through. It has generous provisions if you sign.”
My stomach drops.
It’s midday Sunday, but Zane’s already had a lawyer prepare a contract. He’s obviously briefed his friend on what happened last night. He probably has contingency plans in place no matter what I say.
All I’ve done is get out of bed.
I feel hopelessly outclassed.
Maybe realising it’s a lot to take in, Maddox steps back, running his fingers through his sunny-blond hair. “We could go for a coffee if you prefer, somewhere public. You can read and ask me questions.”
The thought of accepting money after what happened makes me queasy but my head insists I should at least hear the offer. Zane’s so wealthy, he can afford to be generous. Since I’m hurt either way, being hurt and rich holds more appeal.
But I don’t trust this boy any more than I trust his friend.
“Can’t you just tell me? I don’t want to go out.”
“You get a lot of money and Zane gets your signature on an NDA.”
The abbreviation makes my skin go cold. “I wouldn’t be able to tell anybody?”
“That’s the idea.”
