“I’mgoingtotryto hack into that security system, put that shit I learned to good use,” Regina says, stepping out of the back of Jenna’s car, the first words to be uttered the entire silent journey home.
“Grab some things, and let’s head to my place before they do anything shady with the footage.” Jenna nods, opening my front door to let us in, and I thank God Mom isn’t back from work.
“I was going to try and speak to Saint. I’ll see if he and Rex can help us too. Maybe if we have more witnesses.” I swallow, wetting my lips.
Jenna’s eyes soften when she looks at me.
“Are you ready to speak to him, try again?” she asks, and I stare down at my fingers knotted together, flattening them against my thighs, trying to break the nervous habit I’ve picked up.
“Hopefully. I mean, I don’t expect him to wait for me like that. If I can at least speak to him with a clearer head, I can apologise for pushing him away.”
Saint hasn’t contacted me at all since we broke up, and I’ve only seen him once since the image of him leaving my backyard burned into my eyes.
He was on the other side of the street when I was out running, and we both stopped in our tracks when our eyes locked.
Even from a distance, I could see his eyes softening, and he flashed me that heartbreaking smile.
That was weeks ago.
I knew then that I had to work harder, get back to the best person I could be.
I know it will be a long road to get to where we once were, if he still wants it.
25
Indie
Bruises - Lewis Capaldi
Present day
Ibreakmystarewith the ceiling, groaning as every muscle in my body aches.
I feel like I’ve run a marathon, still sore from my topple on the verge, and falling asleep in Saint’s car at an award angle. I was given my own room last night, Regina in the one next to me. There’s a whole wing dedicated to sleeping chambers for the people who work under his company.
At first, I thought it was going to be like an army base, rows and rows of bunk beds in some stretched-out room, but I was wrong. It seems they’ve converted some floors into bedrooms. I haven’t managed to work out just how many people live in this dystopian-type village.
I swing my legs out the side of the bed, noticing my suitcases are laying against the back wall. I let a loud sigh fill the room as my mind works overtime immediately.
I’ve woken up to a whole new fucked-up reality.
I strip out of my clothes, tossing them on the bed as I head into the small en suite to brush my teeth and shower away the lingering stress from the past forty-eight hours.
This place must have costmillions, the entire interior has been refurbished, and I can’t imagine an old factory having a bathroom like this. You can tell the fixings are younger than the facings on the exterior.
I know Saint’s family didn’t struggle for money; their house was more modest than ours.
Butthistype of cash?
It’s got my brain conjuring up all kinds of reasons, and just howprivatethat security they provide is.
Stepping out, I wrap a towel round me, heading to open my case with my hairdryer in it.
When I’m done, I throw on an oversized hoodie and leggings with my high-tops, spying my gun still on the bedside table.
Muffled shouts from outside get my attention, and I realise there’s a window on the wall next to my bed.
Looking at it, you’d think it was a metal barrier to block off the square space to whatever it once led to, possibly a pipe system. My fingers trace over it, noticing there are small indents all over it, then I find a handle, and I shift it slightly, unsheathing the shutters.
