Then what? No clue. I guess it’s one of those things I’ll know when I see it.
When I find her locker, my body thrums. Need pulses through me.
Pathetic. In a matter of seconds, I’ve become desperate for a piece of the woman who doesn’t give a damn about me.
I push the pointless thoughts aside, running my thumb along the dial, turning it through the combination and…click.
The lock gives in with one quick, effortless shift.
I wrench the locker open and?—
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper when her scent hits me.
The sweet vanilla fragrance is a gut punch. It’s a slap to the face.
It’s one memory toppling over another.
“No.” My shoulders tense, my eyes squeezing shut. “Never again.”
A few deep inhales, and I’m back to myself, more composed once I open my eyes.
Lucidity and ice-cold resolve slither through my veins. Air filters into my lungs. I’m able to focus.
Able to see just how impersonal her locker is.
My brow furrows as I scan it.
She’s been working here for months, yet no photos or anything of hers are pinned to the inside of the locker or its door. Nothing to remind her of who she’s grinding for.
My chest twists. Heaviness settles in the pit of my stomach.
Shaking my head, I get to it and start digging around.
A tan coat hangs inside on a hanger, above a neatly folded change of clothes near the front. From where I’m standing, I see a plain pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and a sweatshirt in that pile. Two extra uniforms lie on top of it.
I don’t bother going through her clothes. Her bag is far more interesting. It’s slouched in the corner, and I snatch it, rummaging through the contents.
Inside, Elowyn carries the bare minimum. A handful of bills and a credit card in her wallet, one water bottle, and keys.
But what has the vein in my throat pulsing isn’t what’s inside.
It’s whatisn’t.
Fucking Barclay.
She commutes late at night, busts her ass twelve hours a day, seven days a week.
For him.
The least he could do is make sure his own sister carries pepper spray.
My breathing grows labored. Fist locking around the strap of Elowyn’s bag.
A sharp pain slashes across my temples, alerting me I’m losing my shit over her.
Someone I hate.
Someone who couldn’t care less if I lived or died.
