Page 56 of Queen of Nothing

I tug him off my shoulders.

A screech bounces off the walls before he lands in my cradling arms, and looks up at me with his wide brown eyes.

I force a horrible smile onto my face. “Remember the Sudden Game?”

The Sudden Game is when a call comes and, suddenly, we have to race to the next town, all without being noticed, and if we do that, Sal gets to order whatever he wants from all the sweet shops and all the diners, and in the car, he gets to play games on the tablet.

Sal blinks, once, twice, his face slack and startled.

The clash of the Sudden Game and his excitement around the parade, it comes together in the frown creasing his round face.

I don’t give him the chance to pick the parade.

I flip him upright, holding him to me, and rush up the lane.

It spills open into the carpark, so I come tumbling out to rows and rows of collector’s cars.

Sal knows the game, he knows the drill.

His arms loop tight around my neck. He drops his forehead to my collarbone, hiding his face, and holds on tight.

His role in the game is to be silent.

Be invisible.

I only wish we were.

Because across the lot, with rows of polished cars between us, standing by the old buggy that Sal loved for a hot minute is—

Dray Fucking Sinclair.

My insides lurch at the sight of him.

My illusioned face pales, all the blood in me rushing to my racing heart and twisting stomach.

Time stands still.

A second, a blip, a racing heartbeat—

I am unmoving.

The world freezes all around me.

The breeze pauses, sound stills, and I can do nothing but gape at him.

The blond of Dray’s hair is the muted shade of sawdust. Not gelled or combed, strands fall into his face, brushing over his darker eyebrows.

But not even the sawdust hue of his hair can soften those sharp diamonds he has for eyes. A blue so pale that they are glass and shallow waters. There’s something inherently cruel about them.

He stands out in the town.

Like he was wearing a suit and just discarded the jacket, his black shirt is a stark contrast to the pallor of his complexion—a paleness I haven’t seen on him before.

The years haven’t aged him, but there is a new seriousness in his demeanour.

One that jolts my heart back into motion, forces time to snap back into order, and I stagger back.

Dray hasn’t spotted me yet.