Page 134 of Exposed

I took control. Once I crossed into Virginia, I could smell home. I mean, it smells like a humid forest in the dead of summer, but it’s home. A different kind of green than I’m used to in Miami.There’s no water and no horizon, but it’s a different kind of beautiful. I’m trading sunsets for low mountain ranges and hilly forests.

One beauty for another.

But most importantly, I’ve put fifteen hours between myself and King—seventeen if there’s an accident. For someone who was quick to beg me to come back, he sure gave up fast. He might’ve talked a big game, with theI don’t give upbit, but I didn’t get another text.

No message.

No call.

He gave up.

Or he got busy with his case. I can’t hold that against him, I guess.

I turn off the last pavement I’ll see before I get home. The long dirt road is almost a mile until I find the small farmhouse I grew up in. The sun is setting over my home state. Orange and yellows peek through the trees, barely giving me a hint of the beauty I’ve become used to in South Florida.

Right before I hit the dead end, I take a left and make it up the short drive. The kitchen light is on over the sink and Mom’s antique lamps warm the family room. I park on the gravel drive near the house next to Mom’s tan and baby blue conversion van. Her potted flowers are flourishing on the narrow steps leading to the screened in porch.

It’s like I’m five years old and nothing has changed. The flowers, the tree swing in the front yard, and the rickety screen door that slams every time someone comes and goes.

But a lot has changed.

I’m a confidential informant for the DEA, enjoying lots of amazing orgasms and sex with my agent.

Or, I was.

I’m also the almost-rape victim of my half-brother’s bodyguard. And I know beyond a shadow of a doubt it was an orderfrom Dex himself. Rand told me. The only reason I’m not a full-fledged victim is because one of the kitchen staff walked in on us.

That dish washer literally saved me.

Then, I saved myself.

It took six months, but I did it. Special Agent Kingston Jennings might’ve dragged me back into The Pink, but I refuse to allow him or anyone to drag me back to that dark place that I fought so hard to escape.

Just when I’d finally felt normal again.

Me.

The old me.

The me before the Rand event.

“Mom, I’m home!” I call. The splintered screen door acts as my exclamation point announcing my arrival.

“In the front room, Goldielocks,” she calls back. “You’ll never guess who’s here!”

My shoulders slump. I’m tired, I need a shower, and my old lumpy bed. I do not feel like chatting with the neighbors.

I dump fast food wrappers and empty cups on the counter to deal with later and hoist my duffle and backpack up my shoulder.

“It’s fine,” I call, more than a little irritated at whomever is here keeping my mom from running to the door to barrel me over in a mom-hug. “I just drove seventeen hours, thanks to the Carolinas, but I’ll come to you.”

She’s sitting in a very straight chair, wearing her favorite baggy, ripped jeans, Birkenstocks that she’s had since college, and a tank top. We must have company who’s special, because she’s actually wearing a bra.

Her face lights up when she sees me and she finally jumps to her feet, like any decent mom would. She wraps her tanned arms around me and jumps up and down. “You could’ve told me on the phone! I can’t believe you drove all this way, to do it in person, but I’m so happy for you!”

My bags fall from my shoulders. I barely catch them on my forearms that are pinned at my middle as she jerks me up and down. “Have you been making your special brownies again, Mom?”

She stops and grips me tight by the shoulders to push me back. Her expression tells me to shut the heck up and reminds me of how she used to communicate with me telepathically in Walmart when I was little.

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