Page 34 of Picture Perfect

"Concern? It's admiration, babe." Dre's laugh is like gravel, and I can almost feel the weight of his presence leaning toward her.

My hands tighten into fists. I want to turn around, tell him to back off, but Saint's orders are clear. I twist my head just enough to see her from the corner of my eye. She's sitting ramrod straight, as if bracing against every word, every breath Dre takes.

"Admiration doesn't require an invasion of personal space," she retorts, and there's a tremble in her voice that I haven't heard before. It makes something in my chest clench tight.

"Everything okay over there, Chess?" Saint's voice snaps me out of my reverie, and I realize he's watching me watch her.

"Fine," I mutter, turning to face the front again. Yet, I can't shake the sight of Addy's blank gaze, the way she's trapped in her own fortress of solitude with Dre pressing in like siege machinery.

"Ease up, Dre," I finally say, unable to keep silent any longer. "She's not one of your conquests."

Dre's chuckle is a dark sound that fills the car. "Chess, always the white knight. But sometimes, the princess doesn't want saving. Do you, Snowflake?"

I bite back a sharper retort, knowing it would only escalate things. Instead, I focus on the passing streetlights, each one illuminating fragments of my roiling thoughts. Addy's resilience shines through her guarded exterior, and it stirs something deep within me—a desire to shield her from more than just Dre's advances. But that's a dangerous path, one fraught with complications and Saint's shadowed plans.

"Whatever, man," I say, trying to sound disinterested, even though every fiber of my being disagrees.

"Let's just get to Iggy's and grab some food," Saint interjects, his voice devoid of the warmth I know he's capable of.

"Sounds good to me," Dre agrees, his tone suggesting victory.

I glance at Addy once more, wishing I could reach past the barriers she's built and offer her a safe haven, even if just for a moment. But wishes are like whispers in the wind—fleeting and easily swept away. So I settle back into my seat and keep that shit to myself.

Saint's gaze is locked on the road, his hands steady on the wheel, but I can tell he's listening—always listening. And I'm here, next to him, trying not to drown in the tension that's coiled tight in the backseat.

"Chess, you need to chill," Dre's voice slices through the silence, and I swear I can feel each word like a physical nudge against my conscience.

I'm trying. I don't want to turn around, don't want to see Addy trapped by Dre's unwanted closeness again. But as if pulled by an invisible string, I find myself stealing another glance at her reflection in the rearview mirror. Her eyes are a fortress of ice, but it's a cold that's been forced upon her, not one she's chosen. It hits me then—a pang of guilt sharp enough to make my stomach clench. I've been prying, digging for secrets she never intended to share. Secrets aren't meant to be unearthed with careless hands.

"Addy doesn't mind, do you?" Dre prods her side, and she stiffens.

"Leave her alone, Dre," I say, the words slipping out with more force than I intend.

The truth slams into me, heavy and undeniable—I want her. Addy, with her walls and her mysteries. But desire is a dangerous game, and I'm a player with tied hands. Because even though I want her, I know I can't have her. Not with Saint's intricate plans weaving a web I'm caught in, not with the precarious balance we all maintain.

Saint's eyebrow ticks upwards, a silent question, or maybe a warning. He doesn't miss a thing; he sees the shadows we all try to hide in. "We're almost there. Keep your drama contained until after we eat."

The neon lights of Iggy's flicker into view, casting a glow on the car's interior. "Here we are," Saint announces, pulling into a parking spot with practiced ease.

"Finally," Dre mutters, and Addy releases a breath that sounds like relief—or maybe resignation.

I step out into the cool afternoon, the scent of greasy food and the sound of chatter spilling out from Iggy's open door. Inside, it's a time capsule with vinyl seats and checkered floors.

"Ah, the smell of nostalgia and cholesterol," I quip, trying to lighten the mood.

"Best combo there is," Dre replies, holding the door for us with a grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Hey, boys!" Marge, the forever-waitress with a beehive stuck in the '60s, calls out as we enter. "Your usual booth just freed up."

"Thanks, Marge," Saint says, and we slide into the booth like pieces in a well-worn puzzle. Gen makes sure she's beside Addy, saving her from Dre's hovering.

"Drinks?" she asks, already scribbling on her pad.

"Same as always," Dre responds, and he winks at Marge, who rolls her eyes but can't hide a smile. "And a water for the new girl."

"Comin' right up, darlings. Back in a jiff," she says before disappearing behind the counter.

This place comes alive with familiar faces and the hum of voices. We love it here. Most from Saint Ignatius wouldn't be caught dead here, but this place is a sanctuary of sorts.

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