I stare at the wet road ahead, some System of a Down song playing as the weight of the situation sinking in. His motorcycle, his car, his gear, his hideout, his food, his friends, his town…
Everything relies on him. I feel like luggage.
“I need my phone,” I say.
“No.”
I jerk my eyes over to him. “I need a phone.” Any phone. I really don’t care. “Give me one, or I’ll find one.”
Is he that afraid I’ll screw up? Or does he need to control where I go and who I talk to like he apparently does with every woman in his life?
I watch him, his eyes zoned in on the road, his face expressionless. “What if I need you?” I ask in a soft tone.
Who else am I going to call? He knows I don’t have anyone.
He presses his lips together, gazing at the road like he’s about to take a math test.
Finally, he sighs, reaches over and opens the glove box, and I see at least three smartphones inside. Digging one out, he dumps it into my lap.
“Charge it,” he says, pulling out a cord between his seat and the console.
I plug it in. In a moment it beeps, signaling it’s powering up.
“You can’t contact anyone,” he instructs.
“I need to make sure my family is okay.”
I have no idea if my stepfather’s been treated, and not that I really care, but I do want to know if he’s been discharged and is back at home.
But Hawke just says, “They’re fine.”
“How do you know?”
“I issued a warrant for your stepfather’s arrest.”
“What?” I blurt out, snapping up in my seat. “How…? What…?” I shake my head, not sure I’m understanding. “You can’t do that!”
How the hell did he pull that off? Jesus.
“I don’t know what my mom will do if she can’t pay the bills,” I bite out. Goddammit.
I don’t want the motherfucker there either, but she can’t keep a roof over their heads without him. Without me.
Hawke keeps his gaze on the road. “The devil you know versus the one you don’t, I get it,” he says, “but he was forcing himself on you. I got that much from his body language when I showed up last night. I can’t let him stay in a house with kids.”
You can’t let him? “I had it under control.”
He just laughs.
“I had him under control,” I say more clearly.
Finally, he looks over at me. “You’re funny.”
What the hell does that mean? Flinging my own words back at me with his condescending, little smirk…
I open my mouth to retort, but he jerks the wheel right, and I grab the door to steady myself as the road under the tires switches from pavement to gravel, and the trees overhead provide a canopy.
We drive down a long road, but I can make out a clearing at the end. Is this where Tommy Dietrich lives?
He turns down one of the adjoining paths, parking off to the side, and we get out, me pulling up my hood as we jog through the woods toward her house. I’m not really quite sure why we don’t just drive up and knock on the door, but if he explains, then I have to listen to it, and I have a headache from him already.
I follow him but race ahead, veering toward the side of the house and taking the lead. But he grabs the collar of my hoodie and yanks me back.
I whip around and punch his hand away. “Stop that!”
That’s the second time today.
“Shhh,” he whispers hard, and I know to close my mouth immediately.
He pulls me down, and we hunch behind a bush, watching a man with short-cropped brown hair carry a lunchbox to his truck, his white T-shirt advertising some bar and stained with grease. Tommy has his eyes.
“I thought he was gone,” I ask Hawke.
“He’s leaving now.”
I hope no one else lives there besides her and her father.
“Ugh, you do smell like the pond,” Hawke grumbles. “And wet potato chips.”
Wet potato chips? What the fuck? I was caught in some rain last night.
The rusty, blue Ford coasts out of the driveway, and I move to stand up, but Hawke stops me.
I glare at him.
“No one knows about the hideout, outside of that little group last night,” he warns. “And now you. Don’t tell Tommy.”
“Why?” I ask.
But of course, he doesn’t answer.
“It’s not yours, is it?” I ask.
He doesn’t own it. He confiscated it.
“It’s not about keeping it to myself,” he tells me. “No one else can know about it. Just not yet. Okay?”
“Why? What is that place?”
His brow arches, and I can tell he’s losing patience with me, but oh well.
Instead, he leans in, and I smell his breath, still minty from brushing his teeth.
Which I haven’t done in almost forty-eight hours. I clamp my mouth shut as he gets closer.