Augustand I spent the night lying in his bed, talking about the past, about the present, but not about the future. Whenever he’d venture into the unknown territory of the days ahead, I’d steer the conversation back to the here andnow.
I feared what the next few hours wouldbring.
I feared all it mightchange.
At some point, I drifted, but a nightmare had me springing awake with agasp.
August’s heavy arm anchored me to the warm mattress. When I shivered, he pulled me closer and whispered, “You’re safe,Dimples.”
Dimples . . .I no longer minded when he called me by his favorite nickname. Perhaps it was the alluring tone with which he spoke the word, or perhaps it was because I no longer doubted how deeply he cravedme.
I turned in his arms. “I should get up. I need clothes. And mycar.”
August combed a lock of hair off myforehead.
“Your truck’s at my house, too.”Shoot.
“How about you relax here while I go get one of ourcars?”
“Relax?” Isnorted.
He flicked the tip of mynose.
“Hey,” I chidedhim.
Smiling, he kissed the spot he’d flicked. “Yougrunted.”
“You did just tell me torelax.”
Meaning to be reassuring, he said, “It’ll be oversoon.”
It was the absolute opposite of comforting. His words made my stomach writhe with more nerves; they made my heart thump with moreanguish.
“We should really get going,” I said, scooting out from underneath his arm to crawl off the bed and down the ladder. “Can I borrow a pair of boxers? I feel a littlenaked.”
He climbed down the ladder slowly, every muscle in his back roiling alluringly. I’d put on muscle in the past two and a half weeks, but I had nothing on August. Not that I wanted his body. Well, I did, just not—What was I rambling onabout?
I added a pair of boxers underneath the T-shirt that tented around my body, then gathered my phone and bag while he got dressed in his fatigues and an oatmeal Henley that hugged his upperbody.
He leaned over and kissed me. I savored the sweet interlude, sensing that once I walked out August’s front door, there would be no more sweetness to thisday.
He called a cab, which took us back to my house. As the cab bumped up my cracked driveway, I thought about how I needed to get the road fixed, and then I stopped thinking about asphalt and seized up. I must’ve gasped because August’s attention jerked off the wad of cash he’d taken out of his pocket to pay for our ride. He trailed my line of sight, his jaw hardening when he saw what I was lookingat.
“Whoa. Wild party?” the cabbyasked.
Stuffing a bill into the driver’s hand, August kicked the door open and got out. “Yeah,” he answeredgruffly.
When I still hadn’t moved, he leaned over to pluck the fingers I’d balled into a hard fist and towed me out. I stumbled, because my joints had locked as tight as myknuckles.
Last night, in our haste, we’d left the front door wide open, and someone—more than one person from the looks of it—had let themselvesin.
Anger fired through me. I ripped my hand from August’s and stalked inside my home. Smells assaulted me—sweet metal, charred dust, sour urine. The white walls had been smeared in blood—deer blood, from the loamy odor of it—and acrid black ash. Puddles of ochre piss glistened on the plastic tarp and browned the baseboards August had so painstakinglypainted.
This was payback for Aidan’s death. The Creeks must’ve seen my uncle working on the house and assumed it was his andLucy’s.
“I willkillwhoever did this,” Iwhispered.
I started down the hallway to inspect the extent of the destruction, but August caught my arm and held me back. “Let’sgo.”
