“Mo! Hold up. I’ll give you a ride,” Danny calls.
I don’t have the energy to argue with him right now.
God, I’m such an idiot. I really could’ve ended up—well, who knows what Paul had planned? If it hadn’t been for Danny—it was Danny of all people who saved me from—whatever would’ve happened.
A yellow cab pulls up. I step off the curb. Déjà vu overruns me as an arm comes around my waist. His deep voice whispers, “What are you doing?”
I wriggle out of his hold. “What are you doing?”
A skinny brunette—not the hallway-screw either, a new one—runs her hand down Danny’s forearm. “Come inside, Dan. We’re missing the fun.”
He rolls his eyes. “So, go back in.”
“But, Dan—”
Danny steps to the cab and tosses a twenty into the window. “She’s got a ride. Thanks anyway.”
I try to grab the cab’s rear door handle, but my knuckles drag along the smooth surface of the car’s door as I completely miss. I focus on my fingers as though they’re attached to someone else’s hand. When I move them in front of my face, they echo.
Can fingers echo?
The cab speeds away. “What the heck?”
“I said I’ll take you home. Come on.”
A ball of frustration gathers in my chest. “Who do you think you are? You can’t tell me what to do.”
The chick puts her hands on her hips. “See, Dan? She must have other plans. Come on, I’ll show you a good time.”
“Chrystal—Chrissie—” Danny snaps his fingers twice, glaring at her. “Christy—whatever your damned name is, that’s enough. I told you I have shit to take care of. We’ll catch up some other time. Or not.”
My cab’s taillights disappear down the street as I pull out my phone to call another.
Chrystal-Chrissie-Christy pouts, but finally crosses her arms and stalks back into the bar.
Danny snatches my phone out of my hand and hangs up on the cab company lady who just answered. “You don’t need that. You have a ride.”
“I’m not getting on that death trap you call a bike.”
“No, you aren’t. I have my car.” He turns me toward the parking lot.
Try as I might to stand stiff, I can’t. But that doesn’t mean I have to go easily. “I don’t want to be alone with you.”
“Well, it’s got to be better than being on your own with Fuck-face back there.” He drops his arm over my shoulder. “Look, Mo, I saved your ass twice today. If I don’t get you home soon, you might end up in the hospital.”
Exhaustion spreads through me like a prelude to death. My feet are leaded and my hands are made of clay. The concrete sucks me down like quick sand. How did it do that?
Danny grabs me. “Oh shit, that was fast.”
He sweeps me into his arms and hikes me to his chest. He’s so strong and his heart beats so powerfully against me.
“Why haven’t I ever listened to your heart before? It’s so—so—”
The world wobbles under my feet. Or maybe they’re Danny’s feet. I don’t know which.
Fucking splooge spigot. Some dudes are assholes.
And Mo. What the hell was she thinking, taking a drink from some guy she obviously doesn’t know that well?
I jog to her front door and jiggle the handle.
Damn it. Locked
She’s sacked out in my passenger’s seat like a little girl who’s had too long of a day at the fair. I grab her bag and open it. Somehow, looking through a woman’s purse is akin to going into no man’s land. Some kind of sacred ground or shit.
Forget it. She’s liable to cut my fucking hand off or something if I rummage through her things.
* * *
I carry her through the house. Up the stairs. Into my room.
After I deposit her onto the bed, I plop down next to her, pull her into my arms, and wait. No telling what the fuck that guy gave her.
Her breaths are even, but heavy. At least she’s breathing. First sign she’s having trouble, I’ll call an ambulance.
She’s soft. Sweet.
I soak it in. This is probably as close as I’ll get to—well, it doesn’t matter. It’s not forever. But it is for now.
Eventually, Dad won’t have anything to hold over me and things will be different. Until then, I’ll take my revenge out on him—one tat, one girl, one speeding ticket at a time. Shithead’s lucky I love Mom and Rach, or I’d burn his fucking house down.
I could sink his car in the lake. Maybe shred his thousand dollar suits and his Italian loafers. Or, better yet, I could go on the news and tell the world the Jennings aren’t the cover family for Holier Than Thou Magazine like everyone thinks we are—well, except for me. No one thinks that about me; I’ve made sure of that.