Pretty doesn't even begin to touch it. She's painfully beautiful. But it's so much more complicated than that—and that’s also none of Cash's business.
My hand tightens on my phone and too much of an explanation spills out. "What I didn’t tell you earlier is that I saw her yesterday. I saw her, and I wanted to help, get you to tow her car to the garage, and I didn't do that. I don’t know. I’m torn between being glad Mercy tugged her back into my orbit, and feeling like I shouldn’t overstep with the protection, because who knows what the repercussions could be.”
“Ah, fuck the repercussions. It’s not like we can’t handle that.”
“I know, but we shouldn’t have to. We’ve been through enough.”
On the other end of the phone, he practicallygrowls. “If it’s a choice between our reputation and a woman in need, we do what we gotta do. Fuck the consequences.”
“Cash—”
“No, I’m serious, Zane. It’s not the end of the world if there’s some blowback. I should know, right?”
I grunt.
He just laughs. “It’s my record, man. I’ll make all the jail jokes I want.”
I wince. “All right. Well, put her repairs on my tab, then. She shouldn’t have to bear the burden of that all alone. Probably whoever she’s running from is the reason her car’s a piece of shit in the first place. Let’s get it fixed up right and let her pay for the oil change or something.”
“Got it.”
"Thank you."
“She really should get her car registered properly before she heads back on the road. You gonna talk to her about that?”
“Yeah, I’ll find a way.” Maybe I’ll get Mom to. Except I don’t want to pass this off to Luna. “Do what you can for the car first, and we’ll worry about that next."
Chapter 8
Hope
By the time we finish eating, Bellamy is rubbing her eyes and I’ve stifled two yawns.
Luna waves toward the stairs. "Thank you for cooking. I’ve got clean up. Go rest. Take a bath. Whatever you need. I’ll be in my studio if you need anything. And please sleep in tomorrow. The kale will wait.”
I’m literally here because it won’t, but I’m not going to argue her generosity when a bath and that quiet bedroom are being dangled in front of me.
So I take Bellamy upstairs. The bathroom is simple but clean, with fluffy towels and a collection of what looks like handmade soap. I choose one that smells like lavender and let Bella splash in the tub until the water gets cold.
By the time I get her into pajamas, she's yawning.
"Story?" she asks hopefully, climbing into the big bed.
I don't have any books. I left them all behind, along with everything else that we couldn’t wear out on our bodies. But I curl up next to her and make up a story about a brave frog who helps a little girl find her way home.
She falls asleep before the frog even meets the friendly dragon, her breathing evening out into the soft snuffle that means she's deeply under.
I return to the bathroom and fill the tub again. I keep the door open until the last second, notwanting anything between me and Bellamy. When I turn off the tap, my hands are shaking. I listen to the quiet house as I strip out of my clothes and slip with a gentle splash into the hot water.
Nothing interrupts my soak. Not Bellamy waking up, not anyone else in the house moving around. I strain to analyze even the silence, knowing I’m paranoid, knowing I should relax into the water.
I can’t.
The heat feels good. Getting clean feels even better.
But I wash myself with efficient speed, and as soon as I feel scrubbed enough, I pull the drain and get out.
My heart pounds as I towel off and try to decide which of my five items of clothing will make acceptable PJs tonight.
