Total pages in book: 168
Estimated words: 164910 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 825(@200wpm)___ 660(@250wpm)___ 550(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164910 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 825(@200wpm)___ 660(@250wpm)___ 550(@300wpm)
“Let me guess,” I hiss. “ ‘Unless I come to your bed tonight.’ Right?”
His mouth widens in a sardonic smile, but he quickly tries to contain it. “Not tonight,” he says. “I have other plans.”
One thing I know about men is that if we’re not getting it one place, we’re getting it another. Does he have a date tonight?
I’m sure he bottomed for him all weekend and more than earned that pricey chain around his neck. The first of many gifts Micah—or whatever the fuck his name is—will bestow on his pretty boy.
Callum leaves, and it takes me all of four seconds to decide I’m staying.
For tonight, anyway.
He’ll be out of the house and the curfew’s over.
* * *
—
The tropical storm is expected to reach us tomorrow, so everyone is boarding up windows and businesses are closing early as they pull down their awnings and take in their outdoor tables. The Ameses’ house already has the shutters closed and cars tucked in the garages. I cruise through the open gate, my tires hitting the tiled driveway as I coast to a parking spot off to the side. Under the trees probably isn’t a good idea, but I’ll be gone long before the high winds hit us.
Locking the door, I jog through the rain, drops pelting my shirt.
I knock on the door, only waiting a couple of seconds before it opens.
Damaris Hernandez, a seventeen-year-old from the Bay, smiles. “Dallas.”
Anna-Katherine is perfectly capable of looking after herself, but with Garrett Ames able to return anytime and Milo around, I don’t think she—or Callum—wants her alone.
I walk in, forcing Damaris to back up. “It’s getting bad out there,” I explain. “I’ll stay with Anna-Katherine till he gets back. You go home.”
Her mouth falls open—she’s about to protest, but she knows she shouldn’t. When Macon speaks, even the seventy-year-olds do what they’re told.
I’m not him, but she knows I’m not Trace, Liv, or Army, either.
Finally, she nods. “Okay.” Heading to the foyer table, she picks up her bag and keys. “Are you sure?” she asks. “He might be gone overnight.”
Motherf—
I draw in a hard breath and hold the door open for her. “Weather’s bad and getting worse. Drive careful.”
In any case, he’ll get a notification from the exterior cameras that I arrived and that Damaris left, while I didn’t. He’ll come home.
The kid leaves, and I lock the door, walking farther into the house. “Anna-Katherine?”
I hear the pitter-patter of footsteps across the hardwood floor upstairs. She rushes up to the railing, drying her hair with a towel. “Hi!” She beams. “Are you staying with me?”
“Yeah.”
She makes some sound, a mix between a yip and a gasp, and disappears back into her room. In six seconds she’s back with her hair dryer and a brush. “Damaris was going to dry my hair,” she says as she hurries down the steps.
Holding the shit out to me, she smiles.
I grimace, not even trying to hide my discomfort as I take the brush and dryer. “I’m sure you could do a better job yourself than I could.”
She starts walking for the kitchen, telling me, “It’s relaxing.”
I didn’t even do my sister’s hair when she was little.
Following, I frown as she takes a seat at the island. “Who brushes your hair when Damaris isn’t here?” I ask.
“My brother.”
I cock a brow at how easy the image pops into my head. He seems fatherly to her. I mean, the right kind of fatherly. Protective. Nurturing. It’s why I don’t fear not being around for her anymore. He’ll take good care of her. If he can keep his father away from her.
Plugging in the hair dryer, I hesitate. But then I take her long hair and run the brush down it.
Her head jerks backward. “Ouch,” she whines. “You gotta do the ends first.”
I purse my lips. If she were Liv, I’d throw the fucking brush out the window, but I don’t want to make her cry. Taking her hair in my fist, I work the ends and then gently move the brush farther and farther up until I’m combing through in long, smooth strokes.
As I glide the brush down her brown locks, I go still, a memory hitting me.
My parents’ bedroom. The curtain billowing in the breeze, a storm coming. My mother sighing—happy—as I ran a brush down her shiny, long black hair. Maybe I was nine or ten.
My arm moves on its own, combing Anna-Katherine’s locks, almost seeing my mom’s hand reaching back and patting mine as I brush.
I blink, water in my eyes and my throat aching, but I grab the dryer and start working the strands.
In a moment, she’s tipping her head back like my mother did and I’m brushing as I dry.
I completely forgot that I brushed her hair sometimes. Why didn’t I remember that? It’s a good memory, and I have almost none of those with her.