All the Inside Howling (Hollow Folk #2)(28)

The taste of him lingered in my mouth, and the earth had gone soft and slippery. “Can’t think of single thing. But you could ask me again. See if my memory gets better.”

His hand skated across my pecs, his fingers tightening possessively, and the next kiss hit me like something out of a cartoon: if I’d been wearing a stovepipe hat, the top of it would have flipped open to let out all the steam. I was grinning this sloppy, kid grin, when he pulled away, but his face was serious.

“Really? Nothing?”

And that seriousness burst the bubble. I shifted away, and he slid his hand free, and I did the buttons. Trying to keep my grin light, I shrugged. “What can I say? We’re boring.” But I couldn’t meet his eyes.

“Ok. But, Vie?” He paused. “Whenever you want to.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” I kept my eyes on the buttons until it felt safe to look up.

He was still smiling, but he didn’t look convinced. “So. How’s the cut?”

For a moment, I’d forgotten the razor blade, and the bathroom, and the clean sting of the cut along my side. Guilt and shame made my skin prickle, and I tried to pull away. He knew. Somehow he’d known. But his hand dropped to mine, and he inspected the bandage from where I’d cut myself the night before. The fresh cut along my side throbbed, and a wave of dizzy relief washed over me.

“Oh. That. Um, fine.”

“Did you get antibiotics?”

“Uh . . . no. Not yet.”

He shook his head. “Let me grab a shirt and my keys. I’ll take you.”

“I don’t—”

“Are we going to argue about this?”

By the look in his eyes, I knew how that was going to go. “I guess not.”

“I’ll get my keys.”

I didn’t remind him that, the first time, he had said keys and shirt. Keys were just fine with me. And, sure enough, when he came back he was still shirtless. He motioned for me to follow, and we climbed in the Charger—electric blue and rumbling like it had a jet engine under the hood—and headed back into town. The cut-grass smell mixed with Austin’s sweat. To my surprise, his hand slid off the gear shift and onto my knee. That’s all. It just rested there, hot as a coal through the khaki fabric.

“I wanted to apologize,” he said, his gaze fixed on the road. “For last night. What I said. And how I acted. I was . . .”

“Drunk?”

“I’d had some beers, yeah. But I was . . .” Again he trailed off, and then he set his jaw. “I was scared. And, to be honest, embarrassed. And that made me scared in a different way.”

“You don’t need to apologize.”

“Yes. I do.” He turned the Charger into a smooth, controlled sweep around the next corner, and we bumped up into the parking lot of a drugstore with a drive-through pharmacy. The pharmacy’s sign, which spelled out Wall’s in off-white letters, blocked the sun, and only a sliver of light reached the dash, spilling over Austin’s knuckles as they popped out on the steering wheel. “And you know what? It’s a problem, it’s a really big problem, that you don’t think I need to apologize. I mean, I was an ass to you last night. I hurt you. But you don’t think I need to apologize because you’re so used to taking crap from everyone around you.”

“Nice try. Pop psychology. The kid who cuts himself needs more love, more kindness, more attention.”

“You do.” Before I could respond, we’d reach the drive-through, and Austin rolled down his window. “Prescription for Vie Eliot.”

A thin-faced girl with a shock of short, bleached hair, asked for the address, and I called it out to her. She typed something in her computer and then walked back between the shelves. I grabbed my wallet and counted the cash I had left: twenty-eight dollars.

“Put that away,” Austin said, turning a credit card between his fingers. “You’re not paying for this.”

“I am paying for this. And I don’t need your pity. I don’t need anybody to feel bad for me. I sure as hell don’t need love like I’m a puppy that’s been kicked one too many times. You want to talk about last night? Fine, let’s talk about it, but not because you feel bad for me. Not because you think I’m just some kid who cuts himself. Last night, I forgot your birthday. Last night, I treated you like shit when you invited me to dinner. So you were right to be mad at me. I deserved it.”

“Dude,” Austin said, his voice so low and gravelly that you could have shoveled it up off the asphalt. “Nobody deserves to be treated badly.”

Then the pharmacy attendant returned, and she said, “That will be two twenty-eight sixty-seven.”

“What?” I said.

“You don’t have any insurance on file. That’s the price without insurance.”

“Want to check your wallet again?” Austin asked.

“Asshole.” I shoved the money back into my pocket. “Never mind,” I said to the girl. “I don’t want it.”

“God Almighty,” Austin groaned. “Yes, he does want it. Here.” And he passed her the card.

The window slid shut as the girl processed the card, and Austin dropped back against his seat. I stared ahead, trying not to look at him. He had paid. He had paid two hundred and twenty-eight dollars. Oh, and sixty-seven cents. Austin Miller had paid all of it. And I couldn’t pay him back, not now, maybe not ever, not the way things were always going with Dad. So now I owed him.