If Malcolm comes home early and sees this, I’m so spectacularly fucked.
I mean, I could take the old man on head-to-head—probably. But I definitely deserve to get my ass kicked for this one. I haven’t even had a fucking lesson yet.
He asked me to wait until he got home, but I wait for no one.
Technically I could get a permit right now, but I don’t have one, so I had no business fucking around in his automatic. Hardly think semantics is going to save me from the colossal fuck-up I’ve done here.
My head drops to my hands; the groan I release could be heard rattling through the ages.
Deciding instead to make a run for it rather than fess up, my unsteady feet run along the side of the house, through the backyard and into the forest.
I don’t stop until the familiar, grey-panelled house comes into view.
She’ll be home.
Indie’s always home when Regina and Jenna are on vacation. My inner voice scoffs to itself. As if I need a reason to try and see her.
Rex’s house is way closer to mine, but instead, I’ve run through the forest for twenty minutes with a possible concussion to hers. Those baby-blue eyes seem to make everything better, calmer.
Fuck, Saint.
No.
I should go back, call Rex and ask him to get me out of this shitshow I’ve performed. He’s the most logical answer, the only one who could actually help me.
Yet I don’t.
My sneakers thud against her porch, leading me to the door, and before I can allow another sensible thought to try and reach me, my hand’s already forming a fist, pounding on the front door.
One hand reaches for the white wooden frame, leaning against it whilst the other pinches the bridge of my nose.
Fuck, this headache’s going to take me out.
A few seconds later, the door swings open, my fuzzy gaze battling for focus, but the moment it trails up towards her angelic face, everything feels clearer.
“Saint? Oh my God. You’re bleeding? What the hell happened?” Indie all but shrieks once she notices the blood that’s now dripping down onto my grey hoodie.
I go to open my mouth, but my phone vibrates in my pocket, the ringtone making me shudder at the sound piercing through my skull. When I tug it out, the pain intensifies.
It’s Dad.
Seven missed calls alone as I ran over here, the signal being blocked as I made my getaway. Now he’s calling again, and I can feel his rage burning through the screen just staring at his name.
The call ends, and a text message dominates my screen, forcing a sigh from me.
Dad: Call me, right now.
Dad: I saw the live feed.
Dad: I’m ten minutes out. Your arse better make a U-turn.
I pocket it, glancing back up at Indie, who’s watching me like a deer caught in the headlights. “I need to hide out here,” I say, my eyes twitching at the volume of my own voice.
I miss her response, because a notification dings on my cell, showing me the motion sensor in the CCTV at home has gone off, indicating Dad’s broken the fucking world record inspeeding back. “Fuck,” I mutter, backing out from her porch and running around the side of her house.
Her voice calls on me, but if Dad follows my trail, he’ll fucking manhandle me in front of her. I’ve faced men worse than him, but that doesn’t mean the old man doesn’t instil that fatherly fear into me.
And I’m not about to be shown up in front of her.
