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Partially true, since my parents tried to force sleazy Sam Blake on me as yet another way to control my life. Now I know all their dirty skeletons they hid from Holden and I.
It’s subtle, but the corners of her mouth pinch in disapproval. She does a good job of acting like everything’s normal while each slight gesture tells me I’ll be sorry if I make a scene. Years of learned behavior rises in me, calling me to her will because it can’t be unlearned overnight. I clench my teeth.
Do you know? I want to scream. Do you know that the psychos paying you shot at me and Fox?
“You should be at home,” Mom says with a well-practiced casual air. She’s a pro at doublespeaking to get her meaning across without raising alarms to anyone who doesn’t know what she’s really like. “It’s too soon for you to be out and about after how seriously ill you were.”
Translation: stop fucking around and do as I say.
Pressing my lips into a thin line, I stretch my arms overhead in a show of defiance. “I feel a lot better now.”
“All the same, I’d rather see you go home, sweetheart.”
The mayor’s bodyguard is eerily transfixed on me. He gives me a yellow-toothed grin when I catch him staring at me for the third time instead of keeping an eye out for any potential threats, like a bodyguard is supposed to.
I roll my shoulders back. “I don’t think I will.”
Mom’s eyes flash in annoyance. “Well. If you insist on being difficult.”
Is it difficult or am I just thinking for myself? Not that she’d care. Her world only consists of what she wants to control.
“Jacqueline,” the mayor says. “We should…”
“In a moment. We’ll make it on time for the...” She pauses and her sleek bob swings when she turns back to me. The bodyguard shifts restlessly and she sighs. “Investors. I just want to make sure my daughter makes it home.”
She grabs my wrist, nails digging in hard. I suck in a breath, shocked that she would do it in front of an audience. There isn’t a shred of empathy or compassion in her gaze. If she doesn’t know I was shot at, I doubt she’d be moved.
The truth of it is a punch to the gut. After seeing proof of her dirty business dealings, I can barely look at her. We haven’t had a great relationship, or even an okay one for years, but it hurts to know she feels little for my well being.
A rumbling around the corner snags my attention. Fox’s motorcycle turns down the road and relief washes over me. He must’ve stayed nearby. With his leather jacket, tousled dark hair, and the fresh cuts from our run in with the criminals my parents are working with, he looks every inch the dangerous bad boy whispered about throughout town. Mom and the others stiffen at the sight of him.
Oddly, she exchanges a look with the bodyguard, as if he’s the one in control rather than her or the mayor.
“Bye, Mom.”
Yanking my wrist from her talon-like nails, I keep my gaze locked with hers as I move toward the curb. The bike stops behind me and Fox’s stony presence envelops me like a hug, warding off anyone else who dares get close while welcoming me into its embrace. Mom watches, enraged, as I get on the back of the bike and wrap my arms around Fox’s waist.
“Maisy,” she hisses.
Fox revs the engine, arrogantly cutting off whatever she tries to say next to save face and puts a hand over mine for a beat.
Mom cuts a sharp glance to the bodyguard, then the mayor, before looking back at me and silently commanding me to get off the motorcycle. I set my jaw. All I hear is the sound of glass shattering and the angry blast of gunshots.
Without another word, we peel away from my mother, the mayor, and his bodyguard. Later I’ll apologize to Thea for ditching, but Fox couldn’t have come at a better time.
It’s like he knew I needed him. No matter what, he’ll come for me.
Thirty-One
Fox
Bright light filters through the industrial windows, making Maisy’s hair shine in the summery morning rays. It’s fanned out on the pillow as she sleeps. One of her hands is tucked beneath her cheek and the other reaches out to me, draped over my inked chest. Carefully, I roll toward her with a content, sleep-tinged sigh.
Having her in my arms, in my bed, to chase away the tortured images my mind fills with in sleep is wonderful. They haven’t been bothering me as much. It’s the best sleep I’ve gotten in years.
As I watch her, she cracks her eyes open groggily. My lips twitch and my heart turns over. For someone that loves to move and stretch her body with yoga, she doesn’t love mornings. Maybe yoga is what helps her accept being awake.
“Morning,” she whispers huskily.
