The Help (Kings of Linwood Academy, #1)(40)

My brows draw together slightly, and I shift uncomfortably in the tight grip of his hands, which are clamped around my shoulders.

There’s a warning in his voice, but there’s something else too.

A plea.

He means what he’s saying. And no matter what else I might think about Lincoln Black, I don’t believe he’s an evil person. All five of us had our lives turned upside down tonight, and I honestly think he’s trying to do the best thing he can right now. He’s worried for his friends, I can see that in his eyes. Maybe even worried for me—although that makes less sense. You have to care about someone to worry for them.

His hands move up my shoulders, and one slides around the back of my neck, threading through the hair at the base of my skull, while the other traces the line of my jaw. I freeze, blinking at him as his thumb skims lightly over my lower lip. He’s staring at it, but I’m not sure he’s really seeing it. His mind seems a million miles away.

“It’ll be okay, Harlow,” he murmurs. “No one will hurt you. But you have to trust me on this.”

Warmth cascades through my body from the places he’s touching me, and I swallow hard. What the hell is wrong with me? Two seconds ago, I was kissing his friend, and now I’m responding to his touch like my body has been craving this for weeks.

It’s the shock. It has to be.

It’s left me feeling too open and vulnerable, exposed and raw like a fresh wound. My emotions are all over the place, and my body is looking for comfort from any source it can find.

My hand drifts up to brush the back of his, and I can feel his grip tighten slightly.

Then he stiffens, as if he just realized he was seeking comfort from the wrong place too. His voice is harder when he whispers again.

“All you have to do is not do anything. Let the police sort it out on their own. This is important, Pool Girl. You’re the help—so help.”

My lip curls, and I pull my chin out of his grasp. Goddammit. Every time I think he’s shown another side of himself, he reminds me it’s all the same stupid side. Selfish. Entitled. Condescending. When am I going to stop looking for more? When am I going to stop letting him slip past my walls only to fuck with my emotions?

I bat his hand away, stepping back. “Yeah, I get it, sir. Duly noted. Don’t worry, I’ll be a good little maid.” My nostrils flare. “I’ll keep your damn secret, but I don’t want anything else to do with you, your friends, or your insane, fucked up world. Leave me out of your plans and your stupid schemes from now on. And as far as I’m concerned, my favor to River has been cashed in. I don’t owe any of you shit.”

Without waiting for him to respond, I turn and stalk down the hall toward the wing I share with my mom. I swipe under my eyes as more tears well, clearing away the mascara I’m sure is smeared there.

Before I go into my room, I peer around the corner at my mom’s apartment. I press a button on the side of my phone, and the screen lights up, flashing 11:54 p.m. She’s probably home from her date, but for some reason, I’m filled with a desperate need to be sure. To be absolutely certain my mom is tucked safely away in her bed, and not out there in the dark night where a man in a black ski mask roams the streets.

So I slip inside her apartment and pad toward the bedroom door. It’s open a crack already, and I push it wider as I peer inside.

She’s sprawled on the right side of her bed, her hair messy and her face peacefully composed.

I let out a soft breath of relief, and she stirs slightly, blinking awake with that mom sixth sense she’s had since I was a little kid.

“Hey, Low,” she murmurs, squinting through the darkness at me. “You okay, sweetie?”

“Yeah.” The word is a little choked, but for this one second, I am okay. Because she’s okay.

She blinks again. “What are you wearing?”

Oh. I look down at the skimpy black dress the guys brought me. It’s still twisted slightly on my body, still riding up too high on my hips.

“It’s a… Halloween costume. I went to a party tonight.”

“Ah.” The word is half sigh as her eyes drift closed again. “I hope you had fun.”

“Yeah,” I lie. “I did.”

Her breathing evens out, and I step carefully across the room, tugging the covers up tighter around her before pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“I love you, Mom.”

“Love… you more… Low.”

When I return to my own bedroom, I turn on all the lights. Then I quickly strip off the dress and toss it in the laundry basket before stepping into the shower. I turn on the water as hot as I can tolerate and stand under it, not even bothering to use soap, just baptizing myself in the spray of scalding water.

When my skin is pink and almost numb again, I finally get out and put on a soft pair of pajamas before crawling into bed.

But I don’t sleep.





17





I spend most of Sunday in bed. I feel hungover, even though I didn’t drink anything last night. My body is exhausted, wrung out, and sore, like I ran a marathon or something, and the shakes return for a while.

My mom insists on taking my temperature, and even though I don’t have one, she hovers anyway, which is how I know I look like shit. I think she worries a little bit every time I get sick that it could be the cancer returning, but she usually hides it pretty well. I tell her I just need sleep though. And it’s true. I do.