“Right...” Ryder clears his throat. “Hello there, Hailey. Nice to phone-meet you. Good date?”
I sit straight in my seat like he can see me. “Um... hi. I don’t think takeout counts as a date, but it was nice.”
“Sounds like you kids are enjoying yourselves,” another voice says.
“Oh, boy. Wait till he’s back. He’ll make you pay for that,” Ryder mumbles, clearly amused.
“IfNashremembers the dig by the time he’s home.”
“Where is home?” I blurt out, my cheeks burning.
I think this counts as a second question.
There’s a pause before their soft laughter fills the car.
“Cheeky, isn’t she?” Nash huffs, gouging his fingers into my thigh, slowly climbing higher. “I’ll call you later.”
“Alright. You need to make it up to Broadway. He’s pouting that you texted me not him,” Ryder says. “Expect his moody ass to give you an earful.”
“Something to look forward to.” Nash disconnects the call, all the while pushing his warm hand further up my leg. “Home is wherever they are, Hailey. You’ll meet them soon.”
“You’re forgetting I’m a prisoner at Lakeside and my father’s hiding something big from me. I can’t leave.”
“Let me worry about that.”
He makes a left turn, passing the gate and then heading right to park beside a red Ferrari. Ten minutes later, Nash closes his bedroom door behind us. He kicks off his shoes, and yanks his jacket off, throwing it haphazardly over the loveseat’s armrest.
“Strip,” he tells me, opening the bathroom. “You need a shower.”
I glance at the grime and dirt stuck to my clothes. “I guess I do,” I mutter, pulling his hoodie off and finding a small tear near the elbow.
Nash frowns, putting his finger through the hole.
“I’m sorry, I—”
“Forget the fucking hoodie.” He steps closer. His towering frame and a flash of something dangerous in his eyes has me instinctively backing up until my legs hit the bed. “You could have been killed when you rolled out onto the street.”
He’s suddenly angry, like he filed that incident away and now the cabinet’s burst open, scattering the pages around us.
“I didn’t know what I was doing. I was trying to get away... I didn’t feel pain.”
From the moment I saw the gun in Nash’s glove box, until I hit a dead end in the alleyway, there’s a black hole in my head. Idon’t remember running or rolling out of the car, the same way I don’t remember the last two years.
It’s scary that when my worst memories return, my mind abandons the here and now. As if my brain can’t concentrate on past and present at the same time.
Nash grips the hem of the knitted sweater I had on under his hoodie, dark eyes tracing my exposed skin, teeth almost gnashing between his lips. I follow his gaze, finding purple blooming over my ribs where I connected with the ground.
Taking a deep breath, he slides my zipper, urging me to lift my butt. More bruises come into view as the denim glides down my legs. Nash ghosts his fingers over one marking my hip. It’s big, almost as big as his palm. The stormy look clouding his features as he gently presses his fingers around it tells me he’s beyond furious.
It hurts, but I’m not about to show him that.
“How do I get you to stop hurting yourself?” He shuts his eyes briefly, reining in his temper. The fire is still there, burning bright when he opens them again but it’s covered by a layer ofpain. “You can’t do this to me, Hailey,” he growls, his voice rough, biting colder than ice.
I want to say he’s overreacting, that bruises heal, but I bite my tongue. I have a feeling this isn’t about the mark. It’s about what would’ve happened if I’d rolled straight under a car.
We probably wouldn’t be talking right now.
“I’m sorry. It wasn’t intentional.”
