Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(90)

She doesn’t pull away.

“Have you been here a while?”

She swallows, and her gaze drops to the empty sweetener packets covering the closed menu lying on the table. “Since I called you.”

It’s after seven. That means she’s been sitting here for four hours. Something’s wrong. That much is obvious. “Where’s Viktor?

“Out for business.”

“So not much has changed.”

She shrugs. “He hasn’t hurt me again.”

“Yet.”

“I haven’t given him a reason to.”

What the f**k does that mean? I’m running a few scenarios in my head, and they all involve her doing things that make me want to scream. “And the tattoo? What does he think about the tattoo?” My voice is full of bitterness. I’m sure he’s seen it by now.

“He liked it, actually.” She pauses. “I told him that I went out with a few girlfriends from school and we all got one done.” Her voice drops an octave. “I said it was a surprise. For him.”

Well, now I’m just pissed. “It wasn’t for him, Alex. It was for you.” For us.

Before she can speak, the waitress strolls by. “You thinking of ordering food, darling?”

Taking a deep, calming breath, I answer “Yeah” for both of us, knowing that Alex probably hasn’t eaten. I may be angry, but I’m also starving. I had just enough time to race home to shower and change. I don’t bother opening the menu. “Can you bring me a burger? No toppings. And what do you have with blueberries?”

The waitress sighs, looking at the ceiling. “Pie, cheesecake, mousse, ice cream—”

I cut her off. “Good. Bring one of each. And a beer for me. Do you want one?”

Alex shakes her head. I watch the waitress walk away and then return my focus to Alex, ready to push her. I need her to remember how happy she was with me.

Because I was so damn happy with her, and now I’m miserable.

“How’s school?”

She shrugs. “I just finished the semester. But . . . I’m not going back in January.”

“Alex—”

“How’s Boone? And Licks? Are you going home for Christmas?”

I heave an exasperated sigh.

She reaches across the table to curl her fingers around mine, her eyes pleading with me. “Can we not talk about me for tonight? Please?”

I want to argue. I want to demand that she tell me everything and promise me that she’s okay, even though I know she’s can’t possibly be okay with him.

But I merely nod.

Denial it is.

The overhead lights are shutting off, a polite signal to get the hell out.

“You ready to leave?”

She shakes her head but stands, sliding her pink coat on over a short black dress. Damn, how I’ve missed seeing her long legs.

I climb out of the booth and offer her my hand. “We don’t have to go right away.”

She takes it and we exit, hearing the distinct lock of the deadbolt as soon as we step outside.

“Come on, this way.” It feels so natural, Alex’s hand in mine as we stroll through the cold, dark parking lot, snowflakes drifting down from the dark sky.

An invisible but palpable barrier between us.

I did what she had asked. All through dinner, we talked about everything but Alex. I bit my tongue against the urge to ask her if he’s yelled at her, slapped her, touched her, been inside her. All the questions that have kept me tossing and turning at night for weeks, I kept in.

I don’t think I can handle the answers.

And every time I opened my mouth to urge her to leave him, I promptly shut it.

When we reach my car, I pull open the passenger-side door and guide her in. Ducking into the driver’s side, I start the engine and rev it, hoping to quickly crank up the heat. I leave the lights off, though. I’m not ready to leave, either.

“How are you liking the car?” She reaches forward and runs her fingertips along the dashboard.

And I wish those fingertips were running over me again. Prickles run down my neck with just the thought.

“Still love it,” I admit, turning the radio down before reaching into the backseat for the red-and-blue plaid blanket that I now keep there. When I start stretching it over her legs, her eyes light up. “I hate that I do, but . . . I do. It’s what I’ve always wanted.” Viktor found me a car with a solid engine and an interior in mint condition. “Found” being the operative word. Everything looks legit paper-wise. I’ll bet money that my father ran the VIN when I went home that first weekend, but I haven’t heard a word about it since. I can’t be certain that someone’s not missing a 1969 Barracuda. That’s the thing with these old cars—they’re not stamped with their VIN codes, so unless there’s some identifying marker on them, they’re as good as gone when a guy like Viktor gets his hands on them. Plus, with his legitimate car sales business, I’m sure he has the connections to get ownership documents created.

“It’s okay.” She reaches out and grasps my forearm. “You’re happy with this car. That makes me happy.” She pauses. “Fuck Viktor.”

I’ve never heard her swear before. It makes me smile. “Fuck Viktor,” I echo, rolling my head to take her face in. I find beautiful russet-colored eyes with a thousand questions swirling in them staring back at me.