“Fuck, he’s something, isn’t he?” Casey finally says, his eyes meeting mine.
“Yeah. He is.”
“I thought he was going to break that plate over your head, man.”
Running a hand down my face, I give a small nod. “Yeah, honestly, if he did, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Has it been like this since you started working with him? Shit….”
“It’s gotten progressively worse, but yeah. He’s a little brat.”
Most times he is, but when he’s worn-out and pliable he’s like a big marshmallow. Soft and squishy and so fucking sweet.
“Seems like a shit gig,” Casey adds, and I shake my head.
“Yeah, well, it is what it is. I’m stuck with him until Elio’s found. So buckle up, baby. We have a long-ass ride.”
Casey leans back and pats his stomach. “Seems like it.”
Our eyes clash and we both sigh.
If only I could go in and talk to Diablo, to try and get into that head of his, but I’m pretty sure that he’d try and murder me. And I know Casey is suspicious already, he knows something’s up.
So that night, when it’s finally time to turn in, I don’t make any attempts to reach out. I do check on him, to make sure he’s still in his room, but end up closing the door softly and tiptoeing into my own bedroom, leaving my door open so I can still hear him.
My eyes shift to the ceiling where the hole he made gapes, and I feel my lips curl up at the corners.
He is a little shit, I wasn’t wrong about that. But in many ways he’s mine.
And mine alone.
CHAPTERELEVEN
DIABLO
When I was a child I always had this itch inside of me, this need for chaos and destruction. It happened the first time when I was four years old. I’d found a coffee mug of my father’s and I chucked it through a window. The shattering panes of glass made something potent surge through my small body. It was a thrill watching something break.
My father glowered at me when he saw the damage but never told me to stop, and so I found other ways to latch on to that particular thrill. When I discovered matches at age ten, I lit anything I could on fire. And when my father found the charred remains of his old table, he said nothing, just cocked his head at me and walked away.
He never said a word about it.
I’ve had that same itch throughout my entire life. It has been growing with a vengeance all day, clawing at my insides, making me feel deranged—more than normal, anyhow. Ever since Casey showed up and I’ve had to behave myself, that itch has spread andspreaduntil I find myself sprawled on my bed hyperventilating.
I need todosomething. Need to satiate the urges. If I stay inside a moment longer I will expire. I won’t last.
“I cannot cope,” I mutter to myself, dragging a hand down my face. “I can’t.”
I sit up abruptly, moving to the bedroom door. Quietly, I wrench it open and sneak down the hallway. Skylar is nowhere to be found, but Casey is. He’s in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a phone in his hand. He looks far too sexy in the evening light than he has any right to be. And yet he doesn’t hold a candle to Skylar.
“Hey,” he says softly when I move past him. “You okay?”
“I’m just taking a breather,” I say as I move toward the front door. Unlike Skylar, he doesn’t stop me. He just lets me walk outside. I can hear him behind me, following me, but he doesn’t say a word.
Fuck, I want to run into the darkness all around me and lose myself.
“It’s fucking pitch black out here,” he says, and I clench my hands around the railing.
“Yeah. You could get lost out there,” I say and then turn my head to glance at Casey who is watching me with curiosity.