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Zay is the first to get into the car, hopping into the driver’s seat. When I climb into the back, I scoot all the way over so that Jax can have room. But he doesn’t get in right away, standing just outside the car with Hunter. They’re talking about something quietly enough that I can’t hear.
Zay shakes his head in annoyance then he rotates around in the seat to look at me. “You know, you’re going to cause a lot of trouble for me.”
I point at myself. “Me?What the hell did I do except offer to help you out?”
He looks at me, his grey eyes dissecting me. I notice he has a scar across his brow.
I wonder what happened.
“You really have no idea, do you?” he finally says.
“I’m not clueless,” I reply. But for reals, I have no idea what he’s talking about. I’m not about to divulge that, especially to Zay.
He rubs his lips together. “Okay.”
“I’m not,” I say defensively.
“And I said okay.” Although the arrogant sparkle in his eyes completely contradicts what he’s saying.
My jaw ticks in annoyance as he twists fully around in the seat. Then he draws the hood of his hoodie over his head and something snags my attention—his hands. Or, well, his knuckles are raw, as if he scraped them badly and recently. And whatever he did, he must do a lot because beneath the rawness are elevated scars.
I rest my arms on the back of the seat. “What happened to your hands?”
He raises his knuckles. “What? This?”
I nod.
A cruel smile curves across his face. “I beat the shit out of someone last night.”
“Really?” I ask with intrigue.
“What do you think?” He almost seems to be mocking me.
I shrug. “I don’t know. You seem like the kind of guy who might’ve spent the night beating up people.”
He assesses me. “And that doesn’t scare you?”
I snort a laugh. “Hell no. My dad used to do stuff like that all the time.”
As soon as the words leave my lips, I bite down on my tongue. Why do I keep speaking about my father so openly with them?
Guilt begins to twist in my gut.
Murderer.
“What did your dad do for a living?” Zay wonders.
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
He frowns. “You don’t know?”
I shake my head, not liking the direction of this conversation. “I already told you I kind of have amnesia.”
“Yeah, but I thought that it was just that you couldn’t remember a traumatic moment in your life.”
“It mostly is, but there are holes that go way back to early in my childhood.”
His forehead creases. “Does anyone know what caused it?”
