Page 66 of Wicked Dreams

Why did we go this way?

“I’m afraid ofyou,” I blurt out. “When you get that look in your eye. When you do mean things. When you hurt me.”

He shakes his head and slams on the brakes. The tires squeal, smoking as the car stops on a dime. He meets my gaze. “I don’t do anything you don’t deserve.”

I laugh in disbelief. “I didn’t deserve you kissing Savannah. I don’t deserve these games.”

He inhales deeply. Under his armor, he’s human, too. I can’t forget that. We sit in the middle of the road in silence, both of us catching our breath. I loosen my grip on the edge of the seat, smoothing my palms down my bare legs.

After a long moment, he continues at a normal speed.

We take a few turns, suddenly headed back toward the Bryans’ house. Or… his. The neighborhoods are right next to each other, so it’s a guessing game at this point.

Still.

In the end, we arrive at his house. He parks in front, either expecting or not caring about the two other vehicles parked in the circular drive. He hops out and disappears into the house.

Per usual, I’m left to follow him.

The last time I was here… bad shit happened.Andhe left me to walk back to the Bryans’. If he does that again, I’m never going to get in another vehicle with him.

After a long moment of consideration, I grab my bag and get out of the car.

Entering the house takes another spoonful of courage, but then I’m in, with the door swinging shut behind me.

Liam and Theo are in the front room, leaning over a chessboard. The furniture is still covered in sheets. Everything has a ghost-like quality to it, and I’m not convinced anyoneactuallylives here. Not the downstairs anyway.

But why would Caleb be living in a shut-down house?

They don’t acknowledge me, even though I watch their game from the room’s threshold.

The sound of voices from farther back in the house float toward me, and I head down the hall.

Eli and Caleb are in the kitchen.

“She’s arrived,” Eli announces.

I frown. “What’s going on?”

Eli pops the cap off a beer bottle and offers it to me. Caleb is at the sink, hands braced on the counter. There’s a window there that looks out onto the back patio, and his expression is distant.

When I silently decline the beer, Eli takes a long swallow.

“We’re planning a party,” he says. “A real rager.”

Parties. I think I hate those. The public schools I went to had parties, but they were loud and obnoxious. The cops were almost always called, which is a disaster if you’re in the foster system and they catch you. Those had cheap liquor and a half-keg that everyone was “taxed” for—someone’s way of recouping their money. People drank out of red off-brand cups.

I’m curious how the rich kids really party. Do they use actual Solo cups? Or maybe they drink their mixed drinks out of actual glassware? And they probably splurge on a full keg, possibly two. Alcohol that doesn’t taste like gasoline, and mixers to boot.

Imagine.

“A party for what?”

“Why does anyone plan a party?” Eli asks.

“For after the Fall Ball,” Caleb answers, turning away from the window.

I pause. “Is that a school dance?”

---