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“This is about my father. I don’t need to send anyone.”
Detective Ford dismisses me anyway since I’ve taken up so much of his time. My shoulders hunch as I leave the office.
“No luck?” Chris asks when I get outside.
“No.”
“Maybe you should ask Nate. He’s your father’s attorney, right? He’ll be able to dig in with the police.”
“He hid it from me. He won’t magically decide to help. I have to see this for myself and find a way…oh, the dashcam! It’s not in evidence anymore and I can ask the company to send the footage over.”
“If it’s not in evidence, it probably means there’s nothing there.”
“I won’t know until I try.”
I feel giddy by the time Chris drops me off back at home. I just need to reach out to the car company that has the wreckage and retrieve the footage. I should probably rein in the hope, but I can’t help it.
Ever since Dad went into a coma, I’ve felt helpless, like I couldn’t do anything, which is part of the reason why I let those dark thoughts about him abandoning me fester inside me.
But now, I can.
Now, I can search for the truth. If there’s someone who messed with Dad, I’ll destroy them.
I wave at Chris as the sound of his Harley fills the neighborhood. They definitely hate him—and probably me for bringing him here.
I run to the stairs so I can get to Dad’s office for the car company’s phone number.
My feet cease to function when an ominous voice fills the air.
“What did I say about riding on that fucking bike, Gwyneth?”
21
Gwyneth
My spine tingles and jumps and I nearly reel from the shock of hearing his voice.
Not only do I plaster myself against the wall, but my whole body also hums to life. From my stuttering intakes of air to the curling of my toes in my white sneakers and all the way to my heaving chest. My nipples tighten and so does my pussy.
It’s just a voice, damn it, a voice among billions of others; however, it’s not merely any voice. It’shisvoice. The man I’m not supposed to be crushing on, because it’s a form of dependency.
It’s not healthy.
And Dad will kill him when he finds out about this.
But all those thoughts blur in the background, all those don’t matter, because what I’m feeling is healthy in my mind, and Dad isn’t here. He still doesn’t want to wake up, so I’ll think about everything else when he does.
Right now, there’s only Nate’s voice and me, his stern voice that I can recognize the anger in. There’s a slight vibration in it, so even though it sounds calm, I know he isn’t. Oh, and the cursing. He only does that when he’s mad or aroused. I don’t think it’s the latter at the moment.
Anyhow, Nate’s voice should probably go on the list so I can desensitize myself and not lose my shit whenever I hear it. Because even though he doesn’t sound to be in a good mood, all I can think about are the dirty words he’s whispered and growled and ordered with that voice.
“Answer me,” he insists, still angry, still on the verge of something.
I stare up at him, and I think Nate’s face should be on the list, too. Nate’s body as well and, more specifically, Nate’s presence. Because that’s what turns me into a bundle of hyperaware nerves. That’s the actual thief that steals my breath and sanity.
But I can’t stop staring at him, at his broad silhouette that’s bathed in the late afternoon sun and at his gorgeous hair that’s so perfect, I want to run my fingers through it and mess it up a little, maybe messhimup a little, too, because he’s perfect and I hate that.
I hate the dependency.
