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Mycariscloaked by that type of stillness that only exists after three-am. Outside, the first flakes of snow settle on the bonnet, and frost spreads like spider veins along the windshield. But inside, heat blooms from Penelope’s sleeping body and fills the space with a drowsy warmth.
When I flashed my headlights against her living room window at one a.m., it was with a vengeance. I’d spent the entire evening with a throbbing cock, and all I could think about was what I’d started in my office, and if there was enough room to finish it on my back seat. Now I know what her pussy tastes like, the urge to taste it again was maddening. Her wet thong around my cock wasn’t going to cut it, because that shit she said about always being wet just pissed me off. I’d planned on punishing her for making me dwell on it all night, but then she emerged from her apartment building holding two cups of hot cocoa, her pajamas peeking out from underneath her puffer jacket. She slid into my car, handed me a cup in silence, then drank hers while staring sleepily at the dash.
The ache moved from my groin to my chest and filled the black hole there. It was heavy with a perverse satisfaction, and for once, it didn’t stem from winning a petty bet. She was comfortable here, in my car, beside me, her hair piled on top of her head and her face make-up free. It was with a sickening sweetness that I realized she sought out the warmth of my car to do the most vulnerable thing a human can do: sleep.
My satisfaction was tinged with unease, but still, I drove around Devil’s Dip with the heater on full blast until she was snoring under the blanket I’d bought her. I went down to the port to check on reconstruction efforts, before driving over to Hollow to discuss New Year’s Eve plans with Cas and Benny. Now, I’m parked in front of my father’s old church, fighting fires over email. The brightness of my MacBook screen is turned down as far as it goes and I’m trying not to slam on the keys.
I’d laugh in disbelief if I was certain it wouldn’t wake Penelope up. If my business partners could see me now, running my multi-billion-dollar company hunched over my steering wheel, they’d think I’d lost the plot.
I have.
My cell buzzes on the center console, disrupting the silence. With a cautious glance in Penelope’s direction, I snatch it up to mute it, but freeze when I see the name on the screen.
Gabe.
My brother never calls me. He doesn’t text me, either. Our iMessage history is all blue boxes and read receipts. I text, he turns up, and that’s the way it’s always been.
Despite my heart racing, I slow my movements to get out of the car. I shut the door behind myself with a soft click, and crunch over fresh snow to get to the edge of the cliff.
“What have you done?”
“Why are you whispering?”
I roll my eyes at the Pacific. “It’s four a.m., brother. People whisper at this time of night. What’s wrong with you?”
The line goes quiet for a moment. I turn around and, through the sleet, see Griffin slipping out of his armored Sedan. He creeps toward me and jerks his chin, silently asking if there’s an issue. I dismiss him with a shake of my head.
“What do you need, Gabe? Medical attention? A lawyer? A shoulder to cry on?” I run my hand through my hair. “Fuck, please don’t let it be a shoulder to cry on.”
“Meet me where we strung up Old MacDonald.”
The line goes dead.
I stare down at my cell until it locks itself due to inactivity. Is he serious? Growing up, Old MacDonald was our nickname for the creepy groundskeeper at Devil’s Coast Academy. We always thought there was something off about him, but it was confirmed when, one Sunday, he slid into our father’s confession box and admitted he’d touched up one of the school girls underneath the bleachers. Naturally, we chose him as our sinner of the month. We strung him up from an old oak tree in Hollow, but only after Angelo had snapped his neck.
He’d wanted to know what it felt like.
Glancing through Griffin’s windshield, I jab a finger in the direction of Hollow. He nods, and his car engine comes to life.
I drive slowly, only taking my hand off Penelope’s blanket-clad thigh when we reach Grim Reaper road. Little more than a strip of asphalt cut into the curve of the cliff, it’s a bastard of a route in optimal conditions, let alone during the first snow of the season. I curse Gabe under my breath for making me descend it in the middle of the night with Penelope in the car. The road tapers off into rocky terrain and ravines, and as the oak tree comes into view, I kill the engine and let out a quiet hiss.
What the fuck are you playing at, Gabe? I’m just about to ask him via text when a shadow shifting between the thick brush lining the road catches my eye.
Gabe strolls into the beam of my headlights, shirtless and covered in blood.
Unease quickens my pulse, and I grab the Glock from my side door pocket and jump out the car.
“Dio mio, cazzo. Cosa è successo?” What happened?
His lazy gaze drops to my gun. “Not mine,” is all he grunts, before disappearing back into the bushes.
My breath of annoyance comes out in a white puff and mingles with the falling snow. Keeping my eyes trained on Penelope sleeping on the other side of the windshield, I walk back to my car. I left the door open, because I knew if I shut it, I’d slam it. I drop to my haunches in the driver’s seat and study her.
The red strands have escaped her hair tie and fan over the pillow like a copper halo. My gaze sweeps over her pale skin—the perfect pink from the warmth of her heater—and then drops to her plump pout, parted in sweet serenity.
Fuck’s sake. A tug-of-war plays out inside my chest, a tussle between logic and superstition.
Logic tells me a million dollars is nothing.
