“You have a month of me. Be nice or I’ll do this.” I lean close to him.
He frowns and leans away. “Do what?”
“Stay ascloseto you as humanly possible,” I whisper, moving closer.
“What … getawayfrom me.”
“I’m not touching you. What’s the issue?”
He pushes me back into my chair. “Listen to music on your phone!”
Oh fuck. Oh fuckity fuck.
“Oh no.” I snatch up my purse, searching through it, underneath the straw wrappers, snacks, and tampons. “I’ve forgotten my headphones; we have to go back.”
“We are not turning back for headphones.”
“I can’t survive without them! I need them to work!”
He glares at me and reaches across, pulling open the glove compartment. A pair of headphones stare back at me.
“I thought you don’t listen to music?”
He shifts in his chair. “They’re not mine. They’re Asher’s.”
The atmosphere switches from annoying to depressing so fucking quickly. I stare at the headphones and realize I have absolutely nothing of Asher’s. Not even a T-shirt I borrowed. Just the note from the bookshelves.
I don’t even have a picture of him.
I close the glove compartment slowly. “Maybe we should just sit in silence.”
The drive isn’t slow, but it is tense. We’re both likely lost in thoughts of Asher, but I don’t want to talk about him, not again. I enjoy having Gable close, despite his attitude, but the pain is leaking back into my system. I need a little break from the grief, so I opt to sleep most of the way.
I’m dreaming of that night, like I always do, lost in the sticky blood and flood of tears, when a voice pierces the darkness.
“Gibson.”
It seems to come from nowhere and everywhere, blurring the image of Asher’s face as he holds me.
“Gibson.”
I scrunch my nose, and a hand on my knee has me jolting to the side. My heart almost leaps out of my throat as I open my eyes to darkness, and Gable beside me in the driver’s seat. We’re not moving.
“You’re so fucking skittish.”
I place my hand over my rattling heart. “Sorry, I’m not over finding out twenty-seven people tried to kill me!” I glance around at the parking lot we’re in. The dusty road is dark, a neon blue “VACANCIES” sign from a motel reception offering the only light. It’s an L-shaped building, the office at the end, and a line of rooms with peeling doors ahead of us. A short, battered deck wraps around the place. It looks like a thing of nightmares.
“What are we doing here?”
“We’ve been followed,” Gable says.
My throat dries, and I croak out, “What?”
“I noticed a car following us a few miles back, so I’ve changed direction. They’re going to follow us here, so I need you to listen to me carefully,” he says, his dark eyes reflecting the neon light. “I’m going to get us two rooms?—”
“No, don’t leave me alone!”
“I’m not going to,” he interjects. “I need whoever followed us to think you’ll be alone, but I’ll go around the back and climb through the bathroom window. They’ll break in. I’ll stop them.”
