I clear my throat. “Him.”
Her eyes widen. My heart stutters. Pins and needles prick my toes. I hold my breath.
Then her gaze softens. “Well, he’s a lucky boy. What’s he like?”
Air whooshes out of my lungs, making me momentarily dizzy.
“He’s… dangerously beautiful. Combative. Chaotic. Occasionally sweet. Sometimes vicious, other times delicate. Most of the time, a pain in the ass.”
She hums. “And he’s got you wrapped around his little finger.”
My cheeks heat. “That he does.”
“Come with me. I know just the one.”
I follow her through a maze of plants to the far back corner, where we stop in front of a row of yellow flowers.
“Blooming Datura, or as most folks call ‘em, Angel Trumpets. Extremely toxic if ingested, but stunning when they bloom. They open up at night and boy, do they smell divine.”
“They’re perfect.”
She beams, helping me select one with a good amount ofhealthy blooms. On our trek back to her check-out table, something stops me in my tracks.
“These aren’t in season,” I murmur, reaching out to touch the creamy, velvet petals of an orange blossom. Every March at the grove, I clip the first blooms of the season and leave them on Andrea’s front step— wherever that has been over the years. I have no idea what she does with them. Probably throws them out.
“No, they’re not, but that don’t stop us from growing ‘em,” Maggie chuckles.
“I’ll take them too.”
As soon as the flowers are situated on the floor of the passenger seat, my phone buzzes with an incoming call. I whip it out, expecting my stepfather.
A different name appears on the screen.
Trembling with dread and anticipation, I tap the app Darren had me install to record calls.
“Sebastian.”
Acid collects in the back of my throat at the sound of his voice. My tongue flicks over the scar on my upper lip. It might’ve faded but the memory hasn’t. Metallic blood and 18-carat gold. A tinny scrape of a signet ring across my teeth, through split skin. I told Coach it happened during a bar fight. The next time he hit me, he made sure to avoid visible areas.
“Pastor.”
“We’ve got a situation.”
That could mean anything. He’s careful— never disclosing everything to one person. But he trusts me. Calls me the son he never had. Believes I’m his prodigy, not his downfall.
“What kind of situation?”
He blows out a sigh. “Dr. Larson’s son… he’s gotten mixed up in some things. I guess there was some incident at the dorms and they’ve brought him and Marcus in for questioning. I’m sure it’ll blow over, but you know how August gets. Anyway, I just need you to swing by his place and pick up a couple of things.”
Evidence.
My palms sweat. “When?”
“Now.”
I massage the bridge of my nose. Cade’s been alone at my place for over an hour now. He needs his medication. “It’s gonna be a bit before?—”
“It’s imperative you do this with a sense of urgency,” Sinclair snarls.
