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Nausea churns in my gut.
My vision is fucked, I can barely drive, and I need to find somewhere to rest.
Maybe her couch will suffice.
I’m sure it’s pretty fucking creepy to sleep at her place when she’s not here, but I know I’d crash my car if I tried to drive the two hours back to my own apartment.
But as I unlock her front door, I catch a familiar scent.
Motherfucker.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I snap at Landon, who looks just as shocked to see me. He’s sitting on her couch with his laptop open, a document on the screen.
His shocked expression quickly turns to annoyance. “I could ask you the same thing,” he mutters, but his voice doesn’t carry his usual bite. He looks just as exhausted as I feel, with dark circles under his eyes and his mouth pulled into a thin line.
“You look like shit,” I counter, placing my duffel bag on the kitchen counter. Landon glances at the bag then back at me, scrutinizing my face.
“Better than you,” he grumbles, running a hand through his hair. “What are you doing here? It’s one in the morning. And you look like you haven’t slept in a year.” He glances at my hands, which are shaking again.
Fuck.
I put them in my pockets and scowl. “I’m here to work,” I lie.
He scoffs. “Well, so am I.”
I narrow my eyes and lean back against the counter. “How did you even get in? You don’t have a key.”
He turns his attention back to his laptop. “I found a spare the other night,” he says quietly.
That gets my attention. “That’s a violation of her privacy,” I snap, knowing how hypocritical I sound. “You would lose your shit if I did that.”
He shakes his head and chuckles humorlessly. “Well, you did the same thing, didn’t you?” he retorts, his eyes flicking to the keys on the counter next to my bag.
I sigh.
I’m not leaving. The place still smells like Skylar, even though it’s faint and muted. Her scent, delicate and inviting, reminds me why I’m doing this.
Of why she means so much to me.
I have no energy. And frankly, I don’t give a fuck anymore if Landon knows.
We have to work together to find her.
I still don’t like him…but our truce never technically ended.
“I don’t want a repeat,” I say finally. “Of what happened three years ago.”
Landon stops typing.
The room is silent, and I wait for him to tell me off or to say something condescending and make me feel worse.
“Me neither,” he says, still staring at his screen. “I don’t want it to happen to any of them.”
I swallow. This is the most we’ve ever talked about what happened that day.
“It would kill Vincent,” I murmur, even though part of me hopes that fucker would die, anyway.
Landon nods and turns to me. “If we work together, we have a better chance of finding her,” he says solemnly. “I don’t know what you’ve been doing, but?—”
