Filthy Foreign Exchange(50)

“My father used to…” I lower my head, mumbling the next word. “Drink. He’s been sober for years, and was never a mean drunk.” I look up as I clarify that important point. “I just worried about him—wanted to check on him during the night.

“That somehow morphed into sleepwalking once he got sober. Even after all these years of sobriety, I guess my subconscious still thinks I need to make sure he’s okay…and yet also somehow knows he is, because I now walk to Seb instead of him.” I exhale. “I know it sounds crazy. I don’t understand it either. If I did, I’d make it stop.”

“That certainly explains a lot about your father,” Kingston replies after a short silence. “But I have to wonder: If Sebastian is so protective over you, how’d he possibly think it was safe for you to have the room with the balcony?”

“He puts a bar through the handles. Didn’t you see it under my bed when you snooped around?”

“Ah.” He smiles grimly, understanding. “But why aren’t we still doing that? A bloody lot of good it does under your bed.”

“Because he’s not here to do it.” I hear the nonsense in my answer, but it’s the truth. I don’t put the bar there because Sebastian is gone, and my refusal to do it for him gives me a small sense of pride that I am managing and controlling things myself. “And my mom wanted me, the girl, to have the room with the balcony. This has always been my room, my entire life, so I couldn’t very well ask to switch without raising suspicions.”

“And the stairs? So dangerous. Any precautions you’re refusing to take there that I might talk you back into using?”

I fiddle with my blanket, staring at it rather than him. “I had a bell on my door. I swear, Sebastian could hear that thing before it even really rang. But when he left, I took it down. Wouldn’t be anyone to hear it then but my parents, and that wasn’t happening. And when I found out you’d be staying here, it really wasn’t going back up. I…didn’t want you to know. Damn tea. Guess I’ll start doubling my dose.”

He chuckles, jiggling my hand to pull my gaze to his. “No need for all that. It hasn’t been every night. I know things are complicated—making you restless.”

And…? I wait, but I guess he’s not going to offer a solution. So I dash the hope and respond accordingly.

“Thank you for your help…and for not saying anything.”

“Echo.” He moves closer, cupping my cheek with a timid touch. “It’s no trouble. Yes, things are a bit off between us, but I would never let any harm come to you. Surely you never doubted that.”

His smile grows as I lean my face into his hand. “I didn’t. Not for a second,” I admit, hushed. “So, how have you been?” I ask with no shame. He knows my darkest secret, so there’s no sense hiding anything else now. And I have truly been wondering.

“Ask me, Love. Ask me, and I’ll tell you the truth.”

I’m not imagining the plea in his words.

“Did…do you miss me, Kingston?”

“Very much,” he says as though a huge burden has been lifted. He raises his other hand, to hold both sides of my face. “Don’t think me a cad, but I was almost thankful for your sleepwalking. At least I got to see you then—hold you, carry you back to bed. A few times I’d thought you’d woken, whispering my name, but you hadn’t. You were saying it in your sleep—my name.” His fingertips brush along my skin reverently, and he follows their path with his eyes. “And I used that to get me through—a bit unfair, I admit, as is what I’m doing right now.”

He stands suddenly. My cheeks feel an immediate chill from the loss of his hands, which now tug at his own hair.

“I’ll always keep you safe, Echo. And if you need anything, anything at all,” he says, his voice sinking, “do let me know. But this…”

He pauses, then shakes his head.

“Sleep well, Love.”

Long after he walks out, I still sit rooted in place, stunned. No one would be able to keep up with the crushing, disorienting, infuriating game of back-and-forth he plays.

Kingston giveth, Kingston taketh away.

Masochist.





Chapter 20


I head to the pavilion to practice—not on “his” dance, although I’ve almost perfected it anyway (set to “Powerful,” by Ellie Goulding).

One step from entering, I freeze at the sound of Savannah’s voice.

I’m always begging her to practice, only to be dismissed with how she’s “too busy.” But today, it appears she’s taking the initiative herself, and I’m more than a little surprised.

But I’m glad she’s here, since we obviously need to talk—not just about the party, but her antics over the entire night, starting with her promise to not abandon me (which took all of five steps inside the door for her to break) and ending somewhere around her reeking of booze and eagerly awaiting guys who weren’t my brother to dare her to do God only knows what.

Savannah’s voice escalates, frantic and shrill, and I’m just about to run in and see who else is in there when her shrieking is suddenly joined by my mother’s.

I stand completely still outside the tarp, to…well, for lack of a better term, eavesdrop.