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“Is it?” He raises dark brows at me, but I refuse to admit he’s right. “Can I at least wash the shampoo out of my hair before we get into whatever drama brought you here?”
“Who said anything about drama?” Dane gives me a look that tells me he sees right through my shit, and I wave him off, dropping onto the couch. Seriously, where did the little asshole get the money for a leather couch?
The answer becomes apparent when he stops to slide the gun I hadn’t noticed he was holding into a spot between the armrest and the end table. “You had time to grab a gun but not to put on pants?”
“I have my priorities, fuckface,” he snarks back, flipping me off before disappearing down the hall.
The shower turns on, and I slip my shoes off to curl my feet beneath my thighs. I need a nap. Maybe a few naps? A few naps, a good fuck, or a lobotomy. Anything to forget the last three days.
When I realized I had no choice but to leave New York City, I knew exactly where I was going. I left Forest Falls the day I got my acceptance letter to Paris College of Art, and I haven’t spoken of it a single time since.
Other than the time I told Stellan. We’d been dating for two years, and he insisted it was weird he didn’t know anything about my past, so I laid it all out for him. Then he ghosted me so hard I put out a missing person’s report and moved all his belongings into a storage unit in case he ever came back for them.
He didn’t, and I never told another person about Forest Falls.
“Why do you look so tired?”
“Because I am,” I crack open one eye to glare at a now dressed and drying version of my brother, though his hair is still a fucking mess. “Driving for twenty-eight hours will do that to you.”
“You drove here?” Dane’s eyebrows shoot toward his hairline, and I can see him trying to connect the dots. Eventually, he blows out a long breath, dropping over the couch arm without taking his eyes off me. Pulling his feet onto the cushion between us, he kicks my arm out of the way to wiggle his cold toes under my thigh. “What happened?”
“Nothing hap?—”
“Don’t,” he cuts me off, crossing both arms over his chest. “I know you, Cherry. Something ran you out of New York.”
My hand snaps out, slapping him on the temple. He doesn’t try to avoid the hit. I don’t know if he intentionally stayed still or if I should be concerned about his self-preservation instincts. “Don’t call me Cherry, shithead.”
“Still a freak about nicknames, then.”
“They’re stupid.”
“You’re stupid.”
“Says the mobster.”
“To the art major.”
That makes me snort against my better judgment, and Dane smiles triumphantly. I use the momentary break in his concentration to slap him again. “Fuck! That one hurt.”
“You deserve it.” He huffs dramatically at my words but doesn’t deny them. “How is the mobster-ing going, anyway? You’re being safe?”
“Yes, Mother,” he rolls his eyes dramatically, making me roll mine in return.
“Fuck off, you little shit. I just want to make sure everything is good with you.”
“Everything is good,” he admits with a shrug. “Now stop deflecting and tell me what happened.”
“You’re like a fucking dog with a bone.” Sighing, I sink further into the couch cushion as I try to put the right words together. “Eric and I broke up.”
Dane makes a face, but he smooths it over quickly. “Ah, shit. I’m sorry, sis.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re not?”
My eyes close as I try to fight the urge to cry from exhaustion, but it feels like a losing battle. I mean what I say: I’m not sorry we broke up. I’m only sorry I let him get so deeply entwined in my life before I knew his true colors. “It’s complicated.”
“Did that asshole hurt you?”
