Lincoln’s amber eyes gleam as he chuckles darkly. “All right, you fucker. I get it. Now can I take her home?”
22
Lincoln almost refuses to let me drive the Nissan back, insisting that I should ride with him. It’s only when I point out that it’ll raise suspicion if my mom’s car isn’t in the garage tomorrow morning that he agrees to let me drive separately from him.
He follows about an inch and a half behind my car, so close our bumpers are practically kissing, and when I stop at an ATM to deposit my winnings—my attacker didn’t even touch the money, which is terrifying in its own right—he gets out of his car and stands beside me like a surly bodyguard.
After I pull into the detached garage, he meets me by my car door, keeping a hand on my lower back as we walk quietly toward the dark house. I don’t know if he’s expecting someone to attack us on his family property or still just on edge in general, but I don’t fight the contact. As fucked up as things might be between us right now, it’s still a comfort to feel him by my side. My throat is still sore and raw, my bruised hip throbs, and my body aches all over. The scrapes on my palms sting, and if I think too hard about what happened tonight, it’s hard to breathe.
Having Lincoln beside me helps.
“How did you know?” I ask in a rough voice as we near the service entrance. “That I left?”
“I have an alert set to notify me if the gate is opened overnight.”
My footsteps falter, and I glance at him. “That’s pretty high-level surveillance.”
He shakes his head, his expression hardening. “Not really. And it didn’t even send the alert until two hours after you left. Fucking piece of shit. If we hadn’t—”
He breaks off, and I’m glad he didn’t finish that sentence. We both know how it could’ve ended, and I don’t want to think about that right now. I can’t think about it.
After unlocking the door, he ushers me up the narrow stairs, sticking as close behind me as he did in the car. When we emerge into the hallway on the second floor, we both hesitate for a moment. I hear him draw in a breath like he’s about to speak, but instead, he releases it on a low sigh.
“Get some rest, Harlow. We’ll deal with all this shit tomorrow.”
I want to say something, but I can’t decide whether to thank him for protecting me or curse him out for dragging me into this shit storm in the first place. So I keep my mouth shut and just nod.
His fingertips ghost up my arm and across my shoulder before he gently grips my chin. His thumb slides along my jaw, then he releases me and strides down the hall, turning the corner toward his room.
My heart clenches in my chest as I watch him go. When he’s out of sight, I slip into my mom’s apartment quietly. The reality of everything that happened tonight is finally catching up with me, and I feel an overwhelming urge to hug her, to tell her I love her while I still can.
It’s grim, but it feels like I have limited chances to do that now.
As always, the moment I ease open the door to her bedroom, she stirs.
“Hey, sweetie,” she murmurs, still half asleep but holding out her hand to me anyway.
I crawl up on the bed beside her, nestling into her arms. “Hey, Mom.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” No.
“You sure? You’ve seemed distracted lately.” Her voice gains strength as she becomes a little more alert, looking over at me in the dark.
“Yeah. Just busy with school and stuff.”
She nods, seeming satisfied with that answer. “Yeah. I’ve been a little distracted too. I don’t like it though. I miss you.”
“Me too.” I lift my head off the pillow a little. “Hey, whatever happened to that guy you went on a date with?”
“Oh, him.” She grimaces and yawns at the same time. “We had one more date, then it… fizzled. He was a nice enough guy, but there just wasn’t much chemistry there. He was a little too much of a big shot for me.”
I huff a laugh. That doesn’t surprise me. My mom might be a little flighty sometimes, but she’s a very down-to-earth person. She’s not impressed by money or prestige, so whatever this guy thought he had going on, it definitely wasn’t enough if he didn’t have a good personality to back it up.
Just one more reason I can’t wait until we’ve saved up enough money to get out of here. We don’t belong with these kinds of people.
“His loss,” I say as I shift a little on the bed.
“Yeah. That’s what I told myself as I polished off a pint of Ben and Jerry’s.”
I chuckle. Her weakness—mine too, actually—is good ice cream. It’s gotten both of us through some rough times. I take comfort in knowing I’ve got good genetics, because I probably don’t exercise nearly enough to counterbalance all the ice cream I consume.
We talk in low voices for another few minutes, and this little bit of normalcy helps drive away the lingering fear and the memory of the man’s large body pressing me against the car. The feel of his hands on me, of his arm wrapping around my neck. Even though I don’t think Mom can hear it, I notice my voice sounds scratchy and rough, pitched lower than normal. My throat still hurts when I swallow too.
When I go back to my room, I turn on all the lights.
I know it’s the only way I’ll be able to sleep.
I don’t go anywhere over the weekend, and neither does Lincoln. We don’t speak much, but I know he’s watching me like a hawk. The bruise on my hip is ugly and purple, and I have little scratches on the palms of my
