Page 112 of Trailer Trash

Very. Good. Sign.

He pulls into a complex I don’t recognize. It’s gated and high-end.

“Where are we?”

“I want to show you something.”

“Okay,” I whisper.

He leads me to a condo on the top floor. Inside, it’s immaculate, but nothing like the mansion. Tall ceilings rise above dark furniture, while wall-size windows turn the Atlantic into moving artwork. Disturbing paintings cover the few walls that aren’t made of glass. The place isn’t warm, exactly, but it is honest. Nobody decorated it to make Killian appear normal.

“This is… very nice.”

“I own it. I lived here before the drugs. I’m moving back.”

“Oh.” I swallow hard, trying to process this news. “Out of your parents’ place.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Well, where does that leave me?”

He shrugs. “Where do you want it to leave you?”

“If we’re dating, I can’t keep being paid as your sober aide. Does your father know you’re moving?”

His eyes narrow. I guess he didn’t like that answer.

Ting, ting.

What the—?

I shut that off!

My hands fumble as I retrieve my phone, desperate to turn it off.

It’s Evan again.

Evan: Did you get my flowers?

Yes. I wish he would quit sending those. They arrived an hour before Killian showed up. I’m glad he didn’t see them on my kitchen counter.

I peek over at Killian. He’s on his phone, perhaps checking his own notifications. Patiently, I wait for him to finish. He slips his phone into his pocket, then side-eyes me. There’s something off. His expression is colder. His eyes darker.

Maybe he got a bad text.

“Everything okay?”

Suddenly, he strides toward me. He snatches my upper arm and drags me into the kitchen. I struggle to stay upright on my high heels.

“Killian!”

“Some women need pain to be properly ruined. That’s you, Harlow.”

The glint of his knife catches in the low light.

30

Harlow