Brutal Obsession (2)

I nod to myself, calculating. Always calculating.

Another gift from Daddy Dearest.

I go back to my car and open the passenger door. I pull the girl out and lead her around, sitting her in the driver’s seat. I fold her into it, even as she stares at me. Confusion mars her face, turning it ugly.

Confusion is akin to stupidity. If you can’t understand something, you’re just not thinking about it hard enough.

“Where’s your phone, baby?”

Bless her soul, she perks up when I call her that. It’s not her fault she doesn’t know it’s my cover, because I don’t have a clue what her name is. She points to the floor of the passenger seat. To her purse.

“You were driving,” I tell her. I lean into her, cupping the back of her neck. “I need you to tell them that, okay?”

Her brow furrows. “Why?”

“Because I’ll make sure your wildest dreams come true if you do this for me.” I meet her eyes, my thumb rubbing a soft spot on her neck just under her ear. She leans into it, barely, and sucks her lower lip into her mouth. “You borrowed my car for the night. You were going to return it to me tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” she repeats.

I nod once and release her, closing her back into the door. I dial nine-one-one on her phone and hand it to her, then take a step back. Once I’m halfway down the block, I call my father.

I thought that would be the end of the story. He wouldn’t blame me for leaving the scene. It isn’t just about getting our way. It’s about preserving his image. Our image.

Exactly as I predict, he doesn’t say a word about my bad luck. Or who I was with. I send him the address of the house I’m sitting in front of, and he sends a car for me.

I arrive home thirty minutes later, and he doesn’t ask what happened. He’s like a lawyer, unwilling to incriminate himself in the fine print. If anything comes up, he’ll expect me to smooth it over. If I can’t, he will.

Two hours later, the cop cars come screaming into our driveway. I’m arrested on the spot.





SIX MONTHS LATER





1





VIOLET





A widely known fact about me: I don’t like surprises. I’m jumpy. I make unholy noises. My face gets beet red, and my body gets hot and tingly, and sometimes I feel like I’ve run out of air. Unfortunately, that combination is the perfect reaction for people who do like surprises.

Which is why I’ve spent my life being surprised. Birthday parties, jump-scares, visitors I wasn’t expecting… People love to see the dramatic reaction, and I seem unable to help but give it to them.

And, na?ve me, I keep expecting people will remember I loathe them.

Not today.

I’ve barely pushed open the apartment door when the lights come on and a dozen people scream, “WELCOME BACK!”

I scream right along with them. My coffee goes everywhere, and my feet go out from under me. Only quick hands grasping my arms keeps me upright.

And falling would probably suck a lot under my conditions.

After my heart stops trying to escape from my tight chest, I find my darling roommate-slash-best friend at the center of the group, grinning wickedly. Willow knows my feelings on surprises and gleefully continues. I shake my head at her and laugh. If she had such reactions to surprises, I’d spring them on her, too.

With a wide smile, I glance around the room. Familiar faces that I’ve missed in the last six months fill the space. If anyone was here to surprise me, I’d want it to be them. Willow knows. Sometimes she knows what I want before I do.

I finally realize that someone is still holding my arms. I look over my shoulder, already sheepish, and meet Jack’s gaze. It takes me a second to register that it’s actually him, and my stomach knots.

“You okay, Violet?” His lips twist, him trying not to laugh at me. His eyes still crinkle, though. And damn, does he look as good as I remember.

I stabilize my feet under me before gently pulling away. “I’m good. Thanks.”

Not good. Not by a long shot. But I’m definitely not going to be spilling my heart out to my ex-boyfriend. Guess I forgot to mention that to Willow…

“I’m surprised you’re here,” I say.

He shifts and rubs the back of his neck. It’s his turn to be sheepish. We met here, at Crown Point University, our freshman year, and it was lust at first sight. I was on the dance team, and he was a football player. We would perform during half-time, and it didn’t take long for us to notice each other.

And why wouldn’t I have noticed him? He’s gorgeous. Wavy dark hair that he keeps a little longer than most guys, warm honey eyes. A square jaw, strong nose. He towers over me, too. People always said we looked good together.

We were opposites in appearance. He has the muscle mass, and I’m lean. The classic blonde hair and blue eye combination my mother always made a fuss about. Maybe that’s why my skin crawled every time someone commented on how attractive a couple we were. It was more a reflection on me than us.

He lifts his hand and moves my hair off my forehead. The gesture is intimate, but I’m too stunned to stop him. He brushes his thumb over the scar on my temple. “I was worried about you. You wouldn’t let me see you in the hospital. Or after?”