Page 166 of Trailer Trash

“How did you know about that?”

“Frida. She told me.”

I don’t want to push Killian away or dirty the afterglow of our darkly magical night together, but what’s the point of all this if Killian carries the same demons that make him scribble in notebooks and text the dead. Those demons will kill him, eventually. He can’t remember cutting his own face. That’s huge, and I know in my heart it has something to do with his brother.

“Did you accidentally shoot Asher?”

“What the fuck?” He gawks at me.

“Well?” I say weakly. “This is that trust I was talking about.”

His gaze lingers on mine.

I lower my voice. “It will make us closer, Killian.”

He broods once more, folding his arms and looking away several times. I can see the anxiety sinking into his bones like a physical force.

I wait.

I hope.

“Fine,” he replies, exasperated. “For you.”

“For us,” I clarify.

His arms uncross and he sighs, mumbling, “For us.”

45

Killian

It’s hard to walk through the past, but for Harlow, I step into the blackness of my darkest memory.

The moment I walk through the door, something’s off. The room is small. The walls are bare and the furniture doesn’t match. Holes litter the drywall. It’s not a posh place, but houses like this are becoming our second home.

Asher sits on a couch. Cocaine and pills are strewn on the low table he’s facing, using paper to create thin lines of powder. A 9mm pistol rests in the middle. Honestly, drugs and guns are not unusual around here.

After snorting a few lines, I sit across from him in a gaming chair and recline.

I fling his ATM card at him like a boomerang, which he catches.

“Mom said don’t make any big purchases so Dad isn’t alerted.”

He smirks, but his energy is nothing like his texts. He seems too calm.

“What’s the matter?” I point at the cocaine. “Not feeling it tonight?”

“What are we doing? What’s the future?”

I cock my head, finding the question odd.

“The same plan as always. We’ll keep dancing. I got a call for another music video. They need backup dancers for some artists going on tour. We could go audition. Then we’ll settle down. The condo is great for now, but we’ll each get a wife. Have some kids and live next to each other—”

“No, I don’t want those things, and I don’t think you do either.”

I furrow my brow. “I do.”

Casually, he picks up the handgun and leans back into the cushion. He runs his finger along the top of the barrel, studying it with feigned interest.