Page 62 of Wicked Games

“Why?” I ask.

“Just get in the car, Margo.” He circles the car and slides into it without preamble.

Into the passenger seat.

I shake my head. He can’t be serious. A heavy feeling comes over my limbs, making it hard to open the driver’s door and lower myself into the car.

“Adjust the seat.”

When I don’t move, he leans over me and does it for me; a little button on the side slides the seat forward and up. His head is even with my breasts, but he doesn’t even glance at them.

“Put your foot on the brake and press this button.” He’s still close, his head tilted so he can meet my eyes. He takes the key fob from my hand and drops it into the cup holder.

I try not to inhale. The car smells like his cologne—the same scent in my bed. It’s familiar and distant at the same time. It carves a hollow space in my chest where my heart should be.

He sits back, watching me like this is just another fucking game.

“Why?” I ask.

“Because it’s cold out, and if we’re just going to sit here, I’d like to be warm.” He shrugs. “Your choice.”

That didn’t answer anything. I put my foot on the left pedal and press the button.

His hand snakes out, covering mine. “No need to hold it there. Gentle with this baby.”

I release the pressure, and the engine catches with a purr. Heat pours from the vents.

“A nighttime driving lesson,” I murmur. “Probably not the greatest place to start.”

He lifts his shoulder. “Even if we don’t go anywhere, I figured you’d be more comfortable in the driver’s seat.”

I keep my eyes on the dash. “Why?”

“Because you’re in control.”

A secret admission.

I tighten my grip. It’s confusing—one minute he’s brash, angry, spiteful. And the next he’s trying to get me to kiss him back and telling me I’m killing him, and giving me control…

Which version of Caleb is the truth?

“I can’t—” I grab the door handle. I need to get out of here and sort through my feelings on my own. Away from his influence.

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” he says. “But only tonight. Only if you stay.”

I twist toward him, shaking my head. “There’s always a catch.”

His gaze remains solemn. “No catch. Not tonight.”

I drop my hand into my lap and lean back, getting comfortable. I remind myself that this is my choice—even if it isn’t—and I can go back inside at any moment.

“Why did you mess with my previous foster homes?”

“I didn’t want you to be happy.” He appraises me. “When did you find out about…?”

“Well, Claire recognized you from the foster house we were at together, although she didn’t realize. And I figured you had to be behind some of the others.”

“All of the others,” he replies. “Minus the one where the guy hit you. I didn’t get a chance to report him before you were out of there.”

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