Tone Deaf(65)

Shit.

Tony gapes at me, frozen in the doorway. He pushes his glasses up his nose and squints, like he thinks he might be seeing things. When I don’t disappear, his eyes grow wide, and he opens and shuts his mouth a couple times as he struggles for something to say. Finally, he manages to sputter out, “What?”

Not good, not good, not good. I tense, unsure whether I should try to explain what I’m doing here, or follow my instincts and bolt for the door. Jace pulls me back to him, wrapping a protective arm around my shoulders. Tony takes a step toward me, his brows furrowed in a mixture of disbelief and anger.

“What is she doing here?” he demands, and the way his mouth mouths exaggeratedly, I know his words are sharp and loud.

I turn toward Jace, waiting to see his reply. Jace glances down at my nervous expression and then back to Tony. “Don’t yell,” he snaps.

“I’ll yell however much I want to!” Tony gestures angrily toward me. “Don’t you know the police are after this girl? What are you thinking having her in here?” He rakes his hands through his hair. “How long has she been with you?”

“She’s been with us since we left Los Angeles,” Jace replies, his words clipped. He clutches me tighter against him, like he’s afraid I’m going to run away. Which I might. I need to get away from here. Fast.

I lose track of their conversation after that—the movement of their lips is too harsh and frantic for me to follow. There’s lots of yelling, and Tony gradually stomps forward, until he’s right in Jace’s face. And mine.

I breathe faster and faster, my muscles tense and screaming at me to run, my heart pounding a rhythm so fast, I feel like my chest is about to explode. Finally, Tony throws his hands up in the air in exasperation and stalks back a few steps. He leans against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest, like he’s warding off any other argument Jace could make.

Tony speaks slower, and I’m able to follow his words as he says, “I’ll tell you this for the last time. She needs to go. Now.”

“She’s not going anywhere,” Jace growls.

“Yes, she is. Jace, you’re legally an adult, she’s legally a minor, and the authorities are looking for her. What part about this don’t you understand? If you get caught with her, you are beyond in trouble.”

There’s a tense pause after that, and I hesitantly clear my throat and say, “Everything that Amber Alert report said isn’t true. I’m not mentally ill, and I didn’t make up the need to run away. I have a good reason for wanting to escape.”

Tony shakes his head. “That is exactly what I would expect a delusional person to believe.”

I wince and steel my expression into one of anger, refusing to show how much his words hurt. But how many times have I heard people deny what my dad did to me? Too many. Way, way too many.

I desperately try to think up some retort, but nothing comes out of my mouth. Jace strides to the other side of the room in three steps, stopping just inches from Tony. I can’t see what he’s saying from this viewpoint, but I watch as Tony’s posture grows rigid and aggressive, and Jace clenches his fist. No, no, no, I’m not letting this happen.

“Stop,” I say. They don’t, so I raise my voice and shout, “Stop! Just . . . don’t do this. Don’t hurt each other.”

Both of them turn to me, their expressions taut with frustration and anger. I swallow hard and add in a quieter voice, “Please don’t fight.”

Jace glares down at his fist, which is clenched so hard, his knuckles are turning a bright red color. He takes a shuddering breath, looks back to Tony, and then to me. There’s rage in his eyes, so intense it makes his ice-blue irises seem darker. I automatically look away, shifting toward the exit. I hate seeing his eyes like that. Hate it.

A minute passes, but I keep my eyes stuck to the floor. I feel the vibrations of Jace’s footsteps as he angrily paces in front of Tony. Then there’s more pounding steps as they both move out of the room.

All the vibrations stop. I hold my breath, still not wanting to look up.

A warm hand touches my shoulder, and I finally tear my gaze from the floor, finding Jace standing right in front of me. He stares down, his eyes just as angry as before. I know I should be scared—anger that strong leads to violence. But I can’t be scared, because this is Jace, and because there’s something more in his expression: protectiveness.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

I look over all of him, searching for injuries Tony could have dealt. But there’s nothing. No blood, no welting bruises, no sign of any violence at all. The anger fades from Jace’s expression, and when I don’t answer him right away, a worried look appears in his eyes.

I reach out and trail my fingertips over his cheek. I don’t know what I’m trying to do—maybe brush away the worry, or maybe comfort him. Whatever I’m doing, it seems to work, because he closes his eyes for a moment and lets out a long breath. A smile flits at the corner of his mouth, and when he opens his eyes, the worry has gone into hiding.

I know it’s still there—once fear enters you, it can’t just leave. But his eyes are clear again, not angry or scared, but instead . . . soft.

I realize I still have a question to answer, and I murmur, “Yeah. I think I’m okay.” Or at least I am for the moment. As soon as Tony reports me, things will change.