Page 34 of Wicked Dreams

Me? There may as well be a spotlight following me around.

With a long sigh, I climb in. He closes my door and circles around, taking the driver’s seat. The car starts with a push of a button.

“Well?” He eyes me.

I glance at him. “What?”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Back to school.” I motion toward the doors we just exited.

“You’re a shit liar, baby. We’re missing out on the last twenty minutes of the day, not skipping the whole thing. Don’t blow it.” His gaze turns contemplative. “Or do. After all, it’ll just make things more… interesting.”

Baby. Is it better than the patronizing little lamb, or worse? It implies a familiarity that has long since eroded. But I also immediately objected to it—could that be why he’s sticking with it? Twice in one day.

I cannot be afraid of him. Even with the posturing and the games, even not truly knowing his intentions. My head is spinning with everything that’s happened in the last week—at least that much is true—but suddenly, I don’t feel like he’s going to kill me.

When some of the fear falls away, I can breathe a little easier.

Four months. I just need four more months, and then I can go wherever the hell I want. I don’t have to finish at Emery-Rose. Hell, I could get my GED and move to Japan, if I wanted.

Slight issue of money, but whatever.

I face him, my eyebrow lifting.

What’s the worst he can do?

And he knows it, judging from his expression.

“Tell me,” he says. Dark and deadly. There’s no crowd to witness his posturing, which leaves us with whatever monster chews him up from the inside.

There has to be something to knock him off-balance. Something that will give me the upper hand, if only for a moment.

I settle on, “Take me to your house.”

He tenses but otherwise doesn’t react. His blue eyes burn into my face for a long moment, then he finally nods. He backs out of the space without a word.

Now,I’mthe one disappointed. It rings through me in a minor key, with too much dissonance to handle. How does he manage to make me feel so much with just a change of his mood?

“Now you’re playing the game,” he murmurs.

He guns it out of the parking lot. I gasp, clutching at my seat belt as we fly down streets we used to run through. It’s surreal, in a way. It’s a dream turned nightmare.

“What if I don’t want to play your game? I just want to end it.”

My grip tightens on the strap across my chest. He drives like a madman, but his car handles his speed well. It’s low to the ground and hugs the sharp curves. My arm bumps the window, and I grimace.

He ignores it, and soon enough—faster than anticipated—we’re turning into a neighborhood of mansions.

Listen. I know Caleb is rich. I knew it when I was ten years old, too. It’s hard to hide the fact that we lived in theguest housebehind his, down the sloping lawn. Perfectly cut grass, manicured gardens, and a pool separated the back patio of the giant house his family lived in and the small two-bedroom one my parents and I did.

We didn’t always live there. I remember a cramped apartment in the city…

He pulls onto the long driveway. The gravel crunches under his car’s tires. It’s a circular driveway, coming down off the main road and passing by the front of the house before reconnecting. There’s a garage off to the side, and another narrower driveway that bypasses the garage and goes down to the guest house.

He parks right in front of the main house. Wide steps lead up to a wraparound porch, the wood-and-glass double doors foreboding. He twists to face me and grins.

It’s the smile that belongs to a madman, leaking darkness like an oil spill.

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