Page 113 of Wicked Dreams

A dose of reality seems to come back for a second, and she slouches. “Maybe you should take me home.”

“That’s the plan.” I exhale.

Her foster parents are going to kill me. I don’t think I can afford to drive around until she sobers up. I’m not drunk, but I’ve been drinking. And I can only imagine what my uncle would do if I got pulled over in this state.

There’s somewhere else I can go.

I drive carefully, one hand tracing invisible patterns on her leg. Her expression is blank, and it seems like her mind is very far away. She doesn’t even register arriving at our destination. Or when I kill the engine and come around to the passenger side. I pick her up out of the car. She rests her cheek on my shoulder, but her fingers dig into the front of my shirt.

“They’re gonna see,” she sniffles. “They’re going to send me back.”

“It’ll be okay.” I stride up the wide front walkway and into Eli’s family’s home.

Her eyes crack open, taking in the unfamiliar location.

“Where are we?”

“Shh,” I whisper. “If I bring you back to the Bryans like this, they’ll crucify me.”

“So this is a self-preservation thing.”

I scoff. Of course she’d think that. She was just worried about them sending her back—whatever the fuck that means. And now she thinks this motive is purely my own?

If her foster parents turn against me, my job becomes significantly harder.

Eli’s home is where I spend most of my time. I carry her down to the basement, where my converted room awaits.

It’s not much, but it’s better than any other option. And I am infinitely grateful to Eli’s family for taking me in.

I set her on the bed. She’s like a doll, all floppy and putting up zero resistance. I tug her sweatshirt off, then her shoes.

“Caleb Asher, are you trying to get me naked?” Her eyes are closed.

I roll my eyes. “You’re so fucking drunk. On one drink?”

“In my defense, it was mostly vodka.”

Ah, so Theo must’ve made her drink, too.

“That must’ve tasted great.” I sit beside her and brush her hair off her face. She seems younger like this, without the worry lines between her brows or the scowl that so often appears when I do something unsavory.

“Stop.” She knocks my hand away, and her tone stays rigid when she snaps, “Don’t get soft on me.”

Interesting.

“Sleep, then.” I kick off my shoes.

“I have a curfew.”

I climb onto the bed beside her, scooting her toward the wall, and stroke her hair again. Because it’s soft and nice, and also because it seems to piss her off.

“You have two hours before curfew,” I tell her. “And let me be fucking nice to you.”

She doesn’t relax.

“What’s the issue? You’re more tense now than…”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” She curls away from me.

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