Until the Day I Die(62)

And then, in one swift movement, he does it. His lips touch mine. Once, softly, then again. The third time he doesn’t move, just leaves his lips pressed against mine, and our breath mingles, hot and speeding up.

Taking his time, he repositions his mouth on mine. It’s like he’s concentrating on learning the feel of my lips. His fingertips brush my jaw and move down to my neck. His breath smells like beer. And peach cobbler. And I decide it’s time to quit thinking about my parents.

And then he breaks the kiss, yelping and leaping back and sending the porch swing into wild gyrations.

“What, what?” I scream, jumping off the swing too.

“Spider!” Now he’s dancing around the dark porch, brushing and slapping at himself. I burst into laughter.

“You’re scared of spiders?”

He gives me a defensive look. “They bite.”

“I know,” I say, and my heart suddenly brims with so much homesickness and longing and regret that I think it might explode.

“Do you see him?” Rhys asks.

“I think you either smashed him or scared the bejesus out of him.”

“So I may have overreacted.” He shoots me an endearing smile. “Anyway. It’s getting dark. I should probably get you home.”

All the wonderful kissing emotions drain right out of me. I know it’s Tuesday, but I’d hoped maybe we were going to hang out. And do some more of what we’d been doing.

“Sorry. I’ve got work,” he says.

I can’t tell if he’s making up an excuse or telling me the truth. Maybe Ben, that jerk, really did hire him to keep an eye on me. Or maybe he’s just a guy, just a random guy who happens to be cute and who I like very much and who likes me back. Then why is he taking me home so early? Shit, shit, shit!

Rhys is quiet on the drive, and back in my dorm, lying on my bed, I stare at the blank white ceiling. But I’m too exhausted to name my emotions. It’s a stupid thing anyway, labeling your feelings. Who cares if you’re rapturous or rankled? What I need are answers. What I need is to talk to my mom, to tell her what I found out about Ben and Jax. But of course, she doesn’t have her phone. And if I called the resort, I don’t know if they’d even let me talk to her.

I hear her voice in my head: What’s the reality, Shorie? What’s the challenge?

I don’t know what the reality is. Or the challenge. Surprisingly, without my mother here, I truly feel like I don’t know anything.

I miss her suddenly, and it feels like a sharp, allover body cramp. The kind that hits you on the first day of the flu. It makes me feel even sicker to think that at some point soon, if Ben is involved in stealing from Jax, I may have to call the police. But what the hell am I supposed to say when I do?

I think maybe someone I know is stealing from my parents’ company.

I can’t trust anyone.

I’m afraid.

The thought of doing such a thing terrifies me. What if Ben comes after me? If he were angry enough about my telling the authorities, would he do something violent? I’m just a kid, but I don’t know. But I don’t feel safe now, not at all. It’s like I’m standing just outside something vast and dark. A rocky cave, its yawning, jagged mouth the entrance to a monster’s lair. And that monster—Ben, maybe—waits inside, a grin on his hideous face.

Because he knows I’m weak.





33

ERIN

I stand in the empty bathroom, steam wafting around me and out the open window. As the faucet drips a steady beat, I try to force my brain to slow down.

Think, Erin.

All signs point to a struggle, then Jess possibly wiggling out the window and dropping down to one of the faded red awnings. There’s water everywhere. Bottles on the floor. The open window, big enough for a person to squeeze through. But when I peek out, the portico below is deserted.

Or—and the thought is admittedly crazy, but what’s a little more crazy in an already senseless situation?—Jess could’ve messed up the bathroom herself. Set it up to look like someone, Lach probably, barged in here, fought with her before she was able to escape. But would Jess really do that? Could she really be somehow in on Antonia’s plan? I saw Lach aim his gun at her and pull the trigger. I saw her sob with fear.

No. Jess hasn’t betrayed me.

Lach’s taken her.

I feel the blood rush from my head and steady myself against the counter. Out in the bedroom, the door slams open, and I jump so hard I nearly slip in a puddle. I move to the bathroom door and peer through the crack.

It’s the actress—she of love, light, and limoncello fame. She’s slung her backpack on the floor and shucked off her boots, followed by her shirt and shorts. She’s wearing filmy sky-blue lingerie—definitely not Hidden Sands regulation—and she’s thin but muscular and curvy all at the same time, which seems like something only a film actress could achieve.

As she moves to the windows, flings them up, letting the ocean breeze lift her hair, I order my thundering heart to slow. She has thick, impossibly shiny caramel tresses that fall around her shoulders like in a shampoo commercial. The gauzy canopy on the bed whips wildly, and she tosses her oversize sunglasses in the direction of her backpack. At the dressing table, she selects an opalescent jar and unscrews the silver lid. Plucking a straw from a crystal tumbler, she takes a dainty sniff with each nostril, then tilts her head back.