Page 145 of Wicked Dreams

Caleb comes upstairs before I start on my makeup.

He takes my makeup bag out of my hand. “You don’t need this. Not today.”

I frown. “But I want to feel pretty.”

“You can feel pretty without it.”

I try to snatch it back, but he raises it over his head.

“Caleb,” I snap.

“Stop.”

I jump for it.

“Goddamn it, Margo,” he snarls, shoving me back against the wall. “Just—stop. You don’t need it, okay?”

His hand stays on my chest. His fingers are dangerously close to my throat, splayed over my collarbone, and his thumb brushes my nipple.

I suck in a breath. I’m an idiot. My face gets hot.

“Go to the car.”

I stare at him, then lift my chin. If he wants to bare me to the world without a speck of makeup,fine. He’s the one who will hate it as soon as he realizes how out of place I am. Caleb follows me down the stairs, and it’s absolutely intentional.

Because if he didn’t, I would’ve rushed back up and locked myself in the bathroom to swipe on some mascara and eyeliner in peace.

I wave goodbye to Robert, and Lenora, who returned home just in time to see us leave.

Robert stops me, handing me a few folded bills. “Have fun.”

“Thank you!” I wasn’t planning on spending more than I could afford—which wouldn’t have been much at all. I tuck the money in my wallet, and Caleb follows me out.

He beats me to his car and opens the door. I smile and climb in, and we’re on the road in a flash. There’s a mischievous look in his eye that I can’t place. I bite my lip instead of asking about it, and soon enough we’re on the highway.

Up, up, and away.

“Why is makeup so important to you?” he asks. “You don’t think you’re pretty?”

“It’s hard to have self-confidence when everyone is trying to bring you down.” I rub my hands together.

“Of course.”

“Of course?” I echo. “Great.”

He shoots me a glance. “It makes sense. It doesn’t mean it’s true, though. You’re beautiful.”

There are skyscrapers in the distance. I focus on those instead of the compliment I’m not ready to swallow.

“I don’t really like Halloween,” I comment.

He keeps glancing over at me. “Why?”

I tick off the instances on my fingers. “Getting chased by a foster brother with a machete. He threatened to cut off my hair. Being locked in a closet for trying to take a piece of candy meant for the other kids. Having my costume ripped the morning of Halloween by a foster family’s kid. She didn’t like that I got to be a unicorn.”

“How old were you?” His voice is dark.

“It was every year.”

---