White Rabbit(32)
My heart literally expanded, like a balloon, and for a second I could swear I had started to float off the bench. “Are you sure? I mean … so, I’m, like … I’m your boyfriend now? Officially?”
“Yes, dork.” He laughed a little, amused by my enthusiasm. “You’re my boyfriend now—officially.” Sebastian was quiet for just a moment after that, gazing into my eyes, and then he added softly, “I’d do anything to make you happy. You know that, right?”
I was so overjoyed that, to mark the occasion, I insisted we actually use the photo booth for its intended purpose. We put our money in, planning to make a series of wacky faces for the camera—to have a strip of tiny pictures of us behaving like one of those perfect couples you see in the movies, all carefree and zany and loving life; but after the first pulse of the flash went off, Sebastian pulled me into his lap and started to kiss me.
His tongue slipped into my mouth, I wrapped my hand around the back of his head, and for three more bursts of light I simply lost myself in the electrical bliss of being his boyfriend.
10
My father spares me but a single baleful glance before hustling April into the backseat of his Mercedes, where I presume that both Isabel and the family attorney sit, waiting to hear the full version of what they’ve been dragged out of bed for in the middle of the night. After Peter climbs in to join them, the slamming of his car door booms like cannon fire in the narrow, deserted parking lot.
“Rufus, wait,” Sebastian calls out as I start heading from the Jeep to the doors of the station house.
“I told you I don’t want to have this conversation right now,” I hiss back in annoyance, making a point not to look over at the shiny black windows of the Covingtons’ luxury sedan as I hurry past. If I know Peter, he’s already working out some way to hold me responsible for April’s predicament, and I’m eager to avoid speaking to him for as long as possible. With any luck, he’ll be tied up with my sister and her lawyer until long after the police are finished with me. Whenever that might be.
“It’s not that!” Sebastian breaks into a jog, grabbing my arm and stopping me a few feet from one of the pillars that support the triangular overhang above the building’s entrance. When I turn to face him, I’m surprised to see fear in his eyes. “What’s the plan, here? I mean, are we seriously gonna go in there and just start talking about murder? Should we have lawyers? And, I mean … are they gonna call our parents?”
The very idea of this last possibility seems to fill him with more dread than the whole going-in-there-to-talk-about-murder part, which surprises me a little. I sure as hell don’t want my mom involved—she has more than enough to worry about, and getting her and Peter under the same roof will surely only result in at least one more homicide for the Burlington police blotter—but I can think of no reason why Sebastian wouldn’t want his well-known and widely-respected father to come down and swing some influence.
Still, he’s rigid with concern, his lips pressed together as he drills the question into me with worried eyes. An unwelcome wave of sympathy buries me. “We won’t need lawyers,” I say, almost sure it’s true. “We’re not even witnesses, right? We just picked April up. Our parents will only have to be present if they decide to question us, and they won’t; the murder didn’t even happen in this jurisdiction. Probably they’ll just want to take our statements—what did we see, when did we see it … that stuff.”
I am, of course, putting a very optimistic face on it. We’re about to walk into a police station with blood on our clothes, and while we have an explanation, that doesn’t mean they’re just going to accept it. And if they choose to search me for any reason, I’m going to have a hell of a time explaining away Fox’s drug money.
The truth is, sooner rather than later, our parents will be dragged into this—I know that—and I’ve got no kind of plan worked up for easing into that particular phase. Stalling for time is the best strategy I’ve got. Sebastian seems mollified by my arguments, though, because he gives me a weak smile. “You almost sound like you know what you’re talking about.”
My own smile is too weak to survive. “Peter’s reported me to the cops before.”
“That’s because you’re a complete psycho with a history of violent behavior.” The disembodied and chillingly familiar voice comes from somewhere over my right shoulder, and I turn slowly, like a monster-movie extra just becoming aware that the shadow behind him is actually a sixty-foot-tall radioactive tarantula.
As I pivot, my body tensing up reflexively for fight or flight, Hayden Covington emerges from behind the support pillar, where he’d apparently been leaning and smoking all along, just out of sight. His blond hair combed back from his forehead, his polo shirt the same aqua hue as his eyes, he tosses a cigarette to the ground and stomps it out with the toe of a suede deck shoe before giving me a predatory smile.
“Hayden,” I say cautiously, fighting against the urge to take a step back. Mentally, and at top speed, I replay the entire conversation Sebastian and I have just had, wondering if we’ve incriminated ourselves somehow. I don’t think so, but Hayden has an uncanny way of knowing things …
“Faggot,” the boy acknowledges me casually and then, looking past me, gives a constrained nod. “Bash. What the hell are you doing here?”