I laugh, a jagged, nervous sound. "I don't think so. I think I just... I think I like him, Tania."
I say it out loud, and it feels like the air in the pantry just got sucked out.
"You what?"
"I don't hate him," I say, the realization blooming in my chest like a dark flower. "I’m scared of him, and I’m mad at him, and he kidnapped me, but... he’s kind to Maeve. And when he touches me, I don't feel trapped. I feel... awake."
"Atara, this is insane. Get out of there."
"I don't know if I want to," I admit, the confession hanging in the air.
I hear footsteps on the floor outside the pantry.
"I have to go," I hiss, slamming the phone shut and shoving it into my apron pocket just as the door opens.
Lorcan stands there, his eyes narrowing as he looks at me. He’s holding a glass of water, his shirt sleeves rolled up, and he looks exhausted.
"What are you doing in here?" he asks.
"Just... looking for a snack," I say, my heart rate spiking.
He steps into the pantry, closing the door behind him. The space is tiny, and suddenly he’s everywhere. I can feel the heat radiating off his chest, smell that mix of cedar and cold air. He looks down at me, his eyes searching my face, and for a second, I’m terrified he knows exactly what I just said.
"You’re hiding something," he says, his voice a low vibration against my skin.
"I’m not," I lie, trying to step past him.
He doesn't let me. He places a hand on the wall next to my head, trapping me. "You’re lying. You’re always lying."
He’s so close. His lips are just inches from mine. I can feel his breath on my face. I’m supposed to be angry. I’m supposed to be defiant. But all I can think about is how much I want to lean forward and press my mouth to his.
I want to know if he tastes like the whiskey he drinks. I want to know if he’s as soft as he acts when he thinks no one is watching.
"Why are you doing this?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
"Doing what?"
"The silence. The ignoring. The distance."
He looks at me, his eyes dark with something I can’t name. He doesn't move. He just stares at my mouth, his gaze heavy and possessive.
"Because if I don't keep my distance," he says, his voice a raw, jagged edge of sound, "I’m going to do something I can’t take back."
He pulls back abruptly, leaving the pantry, leaving me in the silence with my heart beating like a trapped bird.
I sink against the pantry wall, sliding down until I’m sitting on the floor. I’m in trouble. I’m really, truly in trouble.
I sit there for a long time, just listening to the quiet of the house. I don't hate him. I don't hate him at all. And the worst part is, I think I’m just starting to figure out that I never really did.
20
Lorcan
The Suburban smells of leather and the stale air of a man who hasn't slept in two days. Outside, the Nevada desert runs past in a blur of ochre and burnt orange, the sun hammering the hood.
I look at my hands. Steady, the way they always are. But there's a tremor somewhere underneath the knuckles that won't quit.
My mind is supposed to be on the regional capos and the port security. It isn't.
