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“We can stop and get something.”
“No. No, I want to go home. You have no idea how badly.”
I don’t think she can possibly know how much I wanted to hear those words from her. I’ve done too many things to send her the wrong messages over the years, but I plan to fix that. “And I want to take you home, baby.” I motion to Savage that we’re ready.
A few minutes later, we’re in the back of an SUV with him in the driver’s spot, and he’s handing Alana a Gatorade through the break in the two seats. “Drink it,” he orders. “You show signs of dehydration.”
Alana accepts it and sips, with Savage watching her closely in the mirror. Only after he’s sure she’s gulped a good bit does he face forward and pull us onto the road. Alana stares at the building that was her prison for several hours as we depart, and she murmurs, “I never liked that apartment.” She glances at me. “Did you know that?”
“I didn’t. Why?”
“I know you know that despite living next door to you, I always felt we were lesser than your family.” When I open my mouth to object, she holds up a hand. “I know I’m not less than you, Damion, but—in some ways, that’s because of you, but truly, that’s something for later. The point is, selling our house felt like it was a necessary act of survival, and yet we moved to an apartment that said otherwise. But I knew better. I felt it. We were always living above our means. And maybe that was because my father was gambling even back then.”
Savage’s gaze collides with mine in the mirror, and the look on his face says yes; Walker has dug deep enough into their family history to know everything she never could without them. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad, not when she’s already cut and bleeding. “I don’t know if you should tear yourself up over the past, sweetheart.” I tap the Gatorade. “Drink.”
She laughs and says, “Probably not a good idea without a bathroom nearby. I have not been in a very long time. I have no concept of how long I was gone. But either way, drinking this before there is a bathroom might be a problem.”
“Drink it anyway, wench,” Savage calls out. “The fact that you haven’t needed to pee and didn’t ask to go right away when we freed you supports my diagnosis of dehydration.”
“I need a nickname for you, too, Savage. One worthy of my wench name.”
“Bring it, wench, but drink as you throw deliciously rude names at me.”
“So, you admit wench is rude?” she challenges, and I officially like Savage a little more than before. He not only took care of her in that basement, he’s too smart not to be aware of the way he’s distracting her from the topic of her father’s gambling.
“What fun would a nickname be if it’s not rude, at least to someone?” Savage counters.
“What sucks right now,” Alana says, “is that I got nothing for a comeback. I can’t think of one nickname at all that suits you.”
“As long as it’s not little bitch, I can handle it. I have a strong dislike for little bitch. It makes me want to punch someone—not you, but someone. It’s like my Power Ranger ignition switch. The asshole who calls me that might as well have said, ‘Savage, will you punch me in the face?’”
“That’s too bad,” Alana says thoughtfully. “I was going to suggest little bitch. Now I have nothing.”
Just call me Twinkles,” he replies. “I promise to be wildly embarrassed.”
“I don’t think anything embarrasses you, Savage,” she teases in the midst of a laugh. “I mean, Twinkles.”
Savage pulls up in front of the building where Smith is waiting on us. “Give me a minute,” Savage says, and exits the vehicle to meet Smith at the hood.
“What do you want to eat?” I ask Alana.
“You still owe me a pizza, if I remember correctly,” she says, referencing that night so many years ago, smiling up at me as she does, but that smile does not reach her eyes. All that banter between her and Savage has offered me a false sense of her being far better than this moment suggests.
“I owe you a pizza, and you owe me a kiss, remember?”
“I’m fairly certain you’ve received your kiss and then some,” and her eyes light with the idea, as if kissing me is everything.
I think it’s more.
Savage knocks on the window, and I cup her face and kiss her. “Now for the pizza.” I knock back, and Savage opens the door.
Once I’ve helped Alana exit the backseat, it’s clear that Savage is not going away. He’s hovering and obviously intent on coming upstairs with us. It’s not ideal. I really wanted to enter the apartment—our apartment—with her and have that moment mean something. Apparently, Alana feels the same. We reach our front door, and she whirls on him. “I’m fine, Savage. I need to be done right now. I need time with Damion. I need a shower. I need to just wash this day off of me. Please. We’ll call you if I’m not well.”
Savage studies her long and hard while I take the lead. I open the already unlocked door. “Go shower, baby,” I say softly. “I’ll order the pizza. I’m just going to stay and talk to Savage a minute.”
Savage’s expression is sour grapes, but he motions her away as well.
“Thanks, Twinkles,” she says, and then she’s gone, disappearing inside and shutting the door firmly behind her, as if she wants to be sure we don’t follow.
