feels like it might leach into me and start a round of tears again. His eyes hold mine, and his voice is quiet and low. “I’ve never given a girl a reason to be afraid of me.”
He sounds so earnest, so wounded. All at once, I want to beg him to pick me up again. Nicole would be a melted puddle on the ground.
I’m not afraid of you , I think. And it’s almost true.
Whatever I feel, it’s definitely not the same automatic revulsion that everyone else in town seems to feel.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
“What do you want, Charlotte?” he says.
He’s so close, we could dance. We could kiss. A few inches of motion could turn his grip on my arms into an embrace.
Or an assault.
The thought hits me so suddenly that I almost stumble away from him.
He must read it in my face, because his expression shuts down. “I’ll take you back to your car.” It sounds like he’s biting the words out. “Or you can wait here while I go back to Stan’s. Whatever. Just tell me what you want.”
I shake my head. “No. Stop. I didn’t mean—”
“What?” he says, his tone cruel. “What didn’t you mean this time?”
Those words are the slap in the face.
I had no idea you could be attracted to, afraid of, and irritated by the same person, all within a three-minute period.
“Go away,” I snap. “Just go away. I’m sorry I tried to be kind to you.”
He deflates like I’ve poked him with a straight pin. The fight goes right out of him. He shakes his head and his face twists. “You’re right,” he says. “I told you I don’t have any idea how to do this. You and Stan are the only two people who’ll give me the time of day, and I’m wasting time being shitty with you both.”
“I’m pretty sure if you got shitty with anyone else, you’d end up in a jail cell again.”
“Exactly.” He takes a deep breath. He looks aggrieved. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag you into the middle of the woods. If someone sees me, they see me. I’ll help you back to your car.”
“No.” I swallow. I might have played a part in his trips to the police station yesterday, but I’m not playing a role in another one today. “You can take me home with you.”
His eyebrows go up, and I wince at the double entendre. “I mean. Um. You can take me back to Stan’s.”
“Can you walk at all?”
I try to put weight on my ankle. It feels like I’m stepping in fire.
I can’t ask him to carry me. It’s too awkward. I bite back the pain and try to take another step.
“Don’t be a hero,” he says.
And then, before I can say another word, I’m in his arms again.
CHAPTER NINE
THOMAS
S o here’s the irony of this whole situation. I used to think I could read people. Mom always warned me I’d grow up and find myself in messes I couldn’t charm myself out of. She said that’s what happened to my father—which made me hate the comparison. I’ve never been a troublemaker, but I’m pretty good at reading people and figuring out what makes them tick.
Or at least I used to be. Forgot to study for a test at school? I could tell the teacher I was so busy working because my mom couldn’t afford the electric bill this month, and they’d give me another day. (Even though we always had enough money for the electric bill.) Didn’t have lunch money? I could compliment the heavily made-up cafeteria lady on anything about her appearance, and then feign shock when my wallet turned up empty.
It wasn’t just school, either. I worked nights at Best Buy, moving stock. If I showed up late, the manager never hassled me. Once I dropped the end of a big screen television, shattering the screen—something I’d seen a guy get fired for. My apology got a smile and a “Don’t worry about it, kid.”
Here? In this town? I’m a murderer.
No one trusts me.
No one will hire me.
Everyone hates me.
And Charlotte is afraid of me.
I wish I could hold her away from my body somehow. Her sundress isn’t skimpy, but it’s not
He sounds so earnest, so wounded. All at once, I want to beg him to pick me up again. Nicole would be a melted puddle on the ground.
I’m not afraid of you , I think. And it’s almost true.
Whatever I feel, it’s definitely not the same automatic revulsion that everyone else in town seems to feel.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
“What do you want, Charlotte?” he says.
He’s so close, we could dance. We could kiss. A few inches of motion could turn his grip on my arms into an embrace.
Or an assault.
The thought hits me so suddenly that I almost stumble away from him.
He must read it in my face, because his expression shuts down. “I’ll take you back to your car.” It sounds like he’s biting the words out. “Or you can wait here while I go back to Stan’s. Whatever. Just tell me what you want.”
I shake my head. “No. Stop. I didn’t mean—”
“What?” he says, his tone cruel. “What didn’t you mean this time?”
Those words are the slap in the face.
I had no idea you could be attracted to, afraid of, and irritated by the same person, all within a three-minute period.
“Go away,” I snap. “Just go away. I’m sorry I tried to be kind to you.”
He deflates like I’ve poked him with a straight pin. The fight goes right out of him. He shakes his head and his face twists. “You’re right,” he says. “I told you I don’t have any idea how to do this. You and Stan are the only two people who’ll give me the time of day, and I’m wasting time being shitty with you both.”
“I’m pretty sure if you got shitty with anyone else, you’d end up in a jail cell again.”
“Exactly.” He takes a deep breath. He looks aggrieved. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag you into the middle of the woods. If someone sees me, they see me. I’ll help you back to your car.”
“No.” I swallow. I might have played a part in his trips to the police station yesterday, but I’m not playing a role in another one today. “You can take me home with you.”
His eyebrows go up, and I wince at the double entendre. “I mean. Um. You can take me back to Stan’s.”
“Can you walk at all?”
I try to put weight on my ankle. It feels like I’m stepping in fire.
I can’t ask him to carry me. It’s too awkward. I bite back the pain and try to take another step.
“Don’t be a hero,” he says.
And then, before I can say another word, I’m in his arms again.
CHAPTER NINE
THOMAS
S o here’s the irony of this whole situation. I used to think I could read people. Mom always warned me I’d grow up and find myself in messes I couldn’t charm myself out of. She said that’s what happened to my father—which made me hate the comparison. I’ve never been a troublemaker, but I’m pretty good at reading people and figuring out what makes them tick.
Or at least I used to be. Forgot to study for a test at school? I could tell the teacher I was so busy working because my mom couldn’t afford the electric bill this month, and they’d give me another day. (Even though we always had enough money for the electric bill.) Didn’t have lunch money? I could compliment the heavily made-up cafeteria lady on anything about her appearance, and then feign shock when my wallet turned up empty.
It wasn’t just school, either. I worked nights at Best Buy, moving stock. If I showed up late, the manager never hassled me. Once I dropped the end of a big screen television, shattering the screen—something I’d seen a guy get fired for. My apology got a smile and a “Don’t worry about it, kid.”
Here? In this town? I’m a murderer.
No one trusts me.
No one will hire me.
Everyone hates me.
And Charlotte is afraid of me.
I wish I could hold her away from my body somehow. Her sundress isn’t skimpy, but it’s not
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