Page 82 of A Million To Fall

“You’re such a fucking idiot, Rawlings,” I groan.

I just knew tonight was going to be a disaster. I’ve known for days.

All day, tension was buzzing under my skin, getting worse as afternoon approached, then evening.

Jake and his dad left for their hunting trip this morning, which means it’s just going to be me and Mrs. Davis the next few days. I have zero doubt that she’s going to commandeer my time—and body—the first chance she gets. She’s dropped enough hints after all, even while her husband was still home.

That made tonight’s early release from AJ’s even more annoying.

It was slower than usual for a Friday night and, as the most junior employee, my hours were the first to get cut. So not only am I missing out on a good chunk of pay, but I’m almost guaranteed to lose another little bit of my dignity. Even though Mrs. Davis has already cashed in on our arrangement more times than I’m willing to count, the shame is still just as nauseating as it was the first time.

The worst part is that unless I’m out of the house, there’s really no way to avoid her. It could be two a.m. and she’d happily wake me and drag me back to her bedroom for an hour. She proved that the night before Jake’s dad came home from his latest business trip.

To say I was on edge when I readied myself to head back to Jake’s after my too-early dismissal would be downplaying it dramatically.

But then I ran into Skye. Actually, she ran into me. Literally. Well, the door did.

A reluctant smile pulls at my mouth despite myself.

Stormy.

Only she could manage to concuss herself with a soccer ball one week and assault me with a Coke the next.

And when she told me she wanted to spend time with me? I think that one confession probably bought me six months’ worth of daydream material, which is unfortunate because my imagination was already working overtime.

The last ten days have been a special kind of torture. Ever since Riverfront and the soccer ball incident. Ever since witnessing Skye hit the floor with a sickening thud and realizing that my heart is dangerously close to being tangled up in someone I have no business wanting.

I should’ve kept my distance after that. And fuck, I tried. At least as much distance as possible while still making sure she wasn’t overexerting herself, drinking enough water, taking breaks, and not getting hit in the head a second time.

Which, given her collision with me today, is apparently harder for this girl than it sounds.

I scrub a hand over my face, coming to a stop at a red light.

The memory of her waking up flashes through my head. Those blue eyes blinking open. Confused. Sleepy. Then focusing on me.

Lilac.

For the love of—

I groan, letting my forehead thunk lightly against the steering wheel.

This is bad. Really bad. So horribly, terribly, awfully bad. Worse even than her finding out I’m homeless because the look she gave me when she found out was nothing like I had expected.

She wasn’t disgusted or judgmental. She didn’t even look at me like Jake did—with pity. Skye just looked… heartbroken. Like the idea of me sleeping in my car caused her physical pain.

I can handle people looking down on me. I know what to do with that—ignore it. But I don’t know what to do with Skye Monroe looking at me like I matter.

She pulls into Jake’s driveway next to me, and we exit our cars almost at the same time. For a moment, I hesitate to take her inside with me. I’m worried about her running into Mrs. Davis—what kind of conversation that would trigger. But what am I supposed to do instead? I can’t well order her to stay in her car. She knows Jake’s family, probably as well as I do.

So I meet her at the front of her car, plastering an uneasy smile on my face, then lead us into the house, fully planning to set a new world record for changing my shirt and getting the hell out of here. But clearly the universe has it out for me tonight because the very second I step into the foyer, Mrs. Davis appears.

“Well, hey, Boss,” she says in exactly the tone I’ve come to expect from her when it’s just her and me in the evening. At least she’s still wearing regular clothes instead of her silk robe or—god forbid—some of her even more provocative attire. “Wasn’t expecting you back until—oh, goodness, hello, Skye,” she says, her voice losing its private edge when Skye steps out from behind me.

I tense.

“Hi, Mrs. Davis,” Skye greets her politely.

Mrs. Davis gives her a saccharine grin, then shifts her attention to me, her brow arched like she’s stumbled upon something interesting. “What are you two up to?”