Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

GREY

Sloane is a couple inches taller than me but she struggles to keep up with my determined stride.

"Grey, can you slow down?"

I ignore her.

All around me, students are watching. Whispering. They step aside. To remain in my way would mean meeting the pike-end of my sensible black pumps.

Do not cry. Do not cry.

"Grey, please. This is so awkward. Everyone is staring."

Let them.

Who the hell cares?

I hate fighting with mom, but I hate thinking about those helpless years watching her grind and beg and scrape for a dollar even more. Hate it enough to want to tear my skin off, dunk it in bleach and then hang it out in the sun to dry. I want to climb out of my own body and pretend none of it matters.

Because really… what the hell does? What am I storming through Redwood to do? Fight a beast like Jarod Cross and the shady people he's covering for? For what? So that when I'm done, I can do what?

Crawl back to mom? Live in my own happily ever after as Jarod Cross's ex-step-baby?

What does my happily ever after look like? Do I even get one?

No, of course not. Those don't happen to girls like me, scholarship kids turned glorified servants to the elite, women from the wrong side of the tracks who get caught up in the webs of filthy rich boys.

"I get that you're upset, but you should take a moment. Take a couple breaths. You look like you're about to do something stupid."

A large hand wraps around my elbow and I'm suddenly jerked to a stop. I whirl around and look up at Zane.

"Are you okay?" he demands. "Your eyes are red. Did you cry?"

I freeze, every muscle pulling taut. But it's not out of shock or anger or even distress. It's the stillness of a hunting dog smelling blood.

Suddenly, I don't want to cry anymore.

"Grey…" Sloane's tone is a warning.

"Talk. Now," Zane growls. "Whoever he is, he's dead." His heated blue eyes are on me, simmering with a concern that tells me he's seconds away from throwing me over his shoulder and carting me away if I answer incorrectly.

My eyes slide over him. Redwood Prep jacket thrown carelessly over broad shoulders. Inked hand up in a black sling. Black T-shirt clinging to a lean, muscular frame. Black pants shrouding legs that are impossibly long.

He stands for everything I shouldn't want. Everything my body craves.

Wrong. Right.

Light. Darkness.

Screw it.

"Do you have a car?" I ask tightly.

Black eyebrows dance high on his forehead. Concern shifts to confusion. A slight twist of his mouth hints at unease. Zane might act easy-going, but he hates being out of control just as much as his brothers and father.

"Grey," Sloane's voice is more urgent, "whatever you're thinking right now. Don't. Just don't."

"Do you?" I insist.

Zane tilts his chin up. "I've got my bike."

I wrench his arm off and start to stride away.

His footsteps thump.

A second later, he's in front of me. "I know the passcode to get into Dutch's car."

Our eyes meet and hold.

A thick tension is eating away at the oxygen around us, turning dangerous quick. This attraction has been a steady drip in the background of my life, spilling like gasoline fluid just waiting for a match.

Burn, baby, burn.

"Let's go," I order.

The sky is far too bright when I get outside. I wish it would rain. Rain would be good. Soak me to my bones. Wash away my thoughts. Hide the redness of my eyes. Hide the tears.

Zane leads me to Dutch's car. He flashes me another worried look over the hood when I wait for him to tap the code into the keypad right beside the front door.

Click.

It's open.

My heart races. I get into the backseat.

He doesn't ask why.

I'm glad. I don't think I can talk right now. I don't have words. None that make sense.

"Where am I going?" Zane asks.

"Just drive."

My phone buzzes while the car takes off.

A text from mom.

Plane tickets.

Mom: You don't have to leave with me, but you can still leave.

She might as well have shot an arrow through my heart.

Tears blur the words.

I look up and Zane's watching me in the rearview mirror. The car veers off the road, spitting rocks. We're still too close to Redwood when he parks. The engine idles quietly.

"Why'd you stop driving?" I croak. It's hard to talk. The lump in my throat is back, bigger this time.

"Tell me what's wrong," he says quietly.

Sloane is in the backseat with me. "Tell him. Stop acting like you're so strong and put together. Stop trying to be perfect. Nobody's perfect."

I'm not trying to be perfect. I'm trying to be independent. To live without owing anyone anything. Because all my life, all I've known is debt and poverty.

The worst thing in the world isn't begging. It's the shame that comes before you lower your head to ask for a handout.

"He's your husband. Tell him what's going on."

That's right.

Zane is my husband.

And I do need him for something right now. It's something he wants too. Something mutually beneficial.

"Come to the backseat," I tell him.

His eyes narrow. Suspicion.

I laugh hoarsely. "Scared?"

Zane appraises me for a long moment. The longer he stares, the more I start to second-guess myself. The tension stretches, wrapping around my lungs and tying itself into a knot.

If he doesn't come to the backseat, should I climb up there with him?

Finally, he moves.

The front door opens. Shuts.

Then the back door opens. He stands, backlit by the sunlight, a deep, dark scowl on his face. His gaze in the sunshine is otherworldly, made more so by the stormy hue of his irises. Blue, but no hints of gold. No green. Colors sucked out. Leaving nothing but black, like thick clouds and flashes of lightning gathering over a churning sea.

He's not coming in.

Can't he tell I'm desperate?

I hate him for his hesitation.

No, that's not true. I hate myself. I just have to redirect that hate so I can keep living with my own filthy stains.

He inhales deeply and seems to come to a decision because he finally gets in.

Sloane disappears.

I guess we both know what's about to happen.