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“I have.”
“Really?” A surprised look paints her face.
I shrug. “Part of the gig.”
“That is so dangerous,” she says quietly. “I do not understand why you all do what you do.”
“Yeah? And what does your God say about the company you keep since you’ve been out of that cult?” I didn’t mean it to sound harsh, but it does, and I regret the words as soon as they're out of my mouth. Especially when she falls silent, her face suddenly serious.
I don’t bother filling the silence and wait for her to speak.
“I have encountered much bigger evil than you Bastian.Orthe Sin Eaters.”
The words hurt to hear, a spike of anger slicing through my chest at the implication. I want to tell her that I’d kill her brother if he wasn’t already dead. Even if I only have a vague idea of what happened to her inside that insidious cult. It doesn’t matter. I’d still dig him up and desecrate his corpse just to stop Lucy from ever saying shit like that again.
Instead, I say nothing. I barely acknowledge that I heard her.
We stay silent for a long stretch of time, the low hum of music covering up the sound of our breathing.
“My middle name is Malcolm,” I finally utter, avoiding her gaze.
“Hmm?” she says distractedly.
“That was the lie. My middle name isn’t Jared, it’s Malcolm.”
Her smile is genuine when she glances over. “Bastian Malcolm Maxwell,” she says slowly, her smile widening. “I know so much about you now.”
I let out one single chuckle. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
10
Bastian and I have been on the road for over a week now. We have settled into a routine. It mostly consists of me dragging him to roadside attractions and him hating every second of it.
Today is no different. While I explore, Bastian is near the entrance, ignoring everything—and everyone—around him.
One foot up on the cement wall, black t-shirt and usual blue jeans, his head rests behind him while he smokes a cigarette. His white blonde hair falls into his eyes and suddenly, the need to capture him like this—unbothered, but his presence still so…bold—makes me pull out my phone from my pants pocket. Making sure his attention is elsewhere, I take the photo.
My heart rate triples when I stare at the screen. The picture feels illicit, and an indescribable warmth trickles through my veins. I must have been studying my phone for longer than expected, jumping when I hear Bastian’s voice close to me.
“Ready?”
I quickly shut off my screen along with the incriminating picture and shove it back into my pocket, hoping I do not look guilty.
“Locked and loaded,” I say, slightly flustered.
A faint dimple appears on his left cheek while he puts his sunglasses on.
“That’s inaccurate,” he drawls.
“What is?”
“The—never mind. Let’s go,” he replies.
And this time Iknowthat it is amusement I hear in the low tenor of his voice.
* * *
An hour later,we are sitting across from each other in a diner as I watch Bastian take a bite of his burger. After sharing most meals together for the past ten days, the novelty of seeing him perform something so domestic should have worn off by now.
