“Fine.”
Unlocking the car, I’m hyper aware of him in my space once we’re both seated and belted in.
A whistle fills the air and when I look over at him, he’s running his hand over the leather fixtures.
“Before you say anything, my dad bought me this car for my birthday. You won’t make me feel bad about it.”
His chuckle sets my last nerve on edge.
“Why would I do that?”
Scowling at him, he’s undeterred and I refuse to answer him. I pull away from the school and ask, “Where am I taking you?”
“You can drop me off at Tar’s house.”
I take a left onto the freeway instead of right where I usually head for home. His cologne, subtle but heady lingers under my nose and every now and then I feel his eyes on me.
I concentrate on the road, fearing I’ll cause an accident if I look his way.
“How was school?”
“Why? You want to mock how much money is wasted on little rich girls like me?”
I expect him to come back at me, but he stares out of the window and remains quiet as I drive through his part of the city. It’s not so bad having him beside me, considering the people who scare me are his people.
My stomach rolls as I turn onto Tariq’s street. The guy with the scar has always been around and even if Darius is beside me, he still scares me. But as I come to a stop outside the house which belongs to the guy who has stolen my best friend, no one is around, and Darius doesn’t move to get out.
“Drive up to 1350.”
I do as I’m told, and the house is a stark contrast to the rest on the street.
“Get out of the car, Amelia.”
Though I like it when he says my name, I don’t think I heard him right. I have no need to go anywhere with him.
He throws open his door and I stick where I am, keeping my seatbelt on and the engine running.
I keep my eyes on him as he walks around to my side and gasp when he opens my door.
Leaning inside, he turns the car off and takes my keys, pausing to undo my belt.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m waiting for you to get out of the damn car.”
He steps back and holds his hand out.
Curiosity wins and has me reaching out to take his hand. He pulls me out with little effort and leans around me to close my door.
Keeping my hand in his, he leads us up the front path and I take in the differences to every other house around here. The house is freshly painted a clean white. The lawn is green, and pretty, colorful flowers line the borders. There aren’t any empty beer bottles thrown about and there isn’t a cigarette butt in sight.
He unlocks the front door and the smell of home cooking hits me as I step inside. He still hasn’t released my hand and he keeps me close as he comes to a stop in the middle of a small living room. It’s nothing like Tariq’s house. This is a home and it’s clear to see the people who live here are a family. Photographs line the walls of family members and a number of reliConnorus pieces in between.
This is his home, and it makes me wonder why he’s brought me here.
Two boys, around ten or eleven, are sat doing homework at a round, wooden table in the dining area and an elderly lady, who I’m assuming is his grandmother, is sat watching daytime TV.
“Why did you bring me here?” I ask quietly.
