He smiles, shaking his head. “It’s such a dumb idea, but they’re still at the house.”
“The clubhouse?”
“No, our old house.”
“As in whereyour family lived?”
He nods. “It’s still empty.”
“Oh.”
“Sometimes I hang out there, but I have to be sneaky about it. As soon as Mom left and Dad was locked up, Lance wanted me to stay with him full-time at the clubhouse.”
“I don’t get why you can’t have a home too.”
Dax shrugs. “He just wants power. I guess I’m the easiest person for him to control.”
I frown as my shoulders droop. “I get that.”
“I don’t know why I still care about that place. It’s falling to bits.”
I place my hand on the space over his heart. “It’s your home.”
He rubs his hand over mine, and the drumming of his heart enlivens.
“If it’s special to you, I’d love to see it.”
Dax’s smile twitches. “No way. You wouldn’t want to see it.”
“It’s your home.”
“It’s no palace,” he warns. “Actually, it’s the total opposite of a palace. It might be a dungeon.”
“I wasn’t expecting anything Buckingham-level.”
He hesitates. “You really want to see it?”
“Would it be okay? I don’t want to make your brother mad.”
“None of the crew have been there in months. It would be just the two of us.”
I grin. “Well, you know how much I enjoy it when it’s just us alone somewhere.”
Dax laughs and takes my hand. “You’re serious about this?”
“I’m dying to know more about you. If you’re willing to share it with me, I’d love to see it.”
Sixteen
Onthewaytothe registers to buy the aviator sunglasses, Dax grabs a sweatshirt because my arms get notoriously cold on the back of his motorcycle. It’s pale pink and says, ‘Dream Girl’ in white stitching. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t wear it in public. It’s more suited for a Tuesday night at the manor; when I’m wearing an avocado face mask and watching a trashy reality show. But Dax says I look cute in it, so I wear it with pride.
At this point, the ride from Victoria Falls to Logan’s Point on the motorcycle feels natural. Who knew I could get used to this mode of transport so quickly? But that’s where the comfort ends. When we reach Dax’s family home, my stomach tosses about like a rickety old ship in the middle of a bad storm.
Dax parks the motorcycle beside the house. The exterior siding is damaged. Large chunks of paint have stripped away. Long, prickly grass grows into the cracks in the wall.
I pick up my jaw before I slip off the motorcycle.
Dax pulls off his helmet and winks. “Home, sweet home.”
