Page 141 of Brutal Prince

Indi: Can you pick me up?

Addy: Send me your deets.

I text her my address, and devour more of my inner lip while I wait for her to reply. I twitch at a distant door closing, but it has to be Marigold’s en-suite bathroom or something.

Here’s hoping, anyway.

Addy: see you in 15.

Shit. That’s not a lot of time to get ready. I shove to my feet and grab my backpack from the dresser. It has everything I own inside, so there’s no way I’m leaving it behind. Especially since I have this sneaking suspicion that Marigold might be throwing me out of the house tomorrow when she realizes I snuck out in the middle of the night.

* * *

My mother’sbedroom door opens and I step inside the dark room. The white walls glow everywhere except where the dark shapes of her artwork cover them.

Should I dare to turn on her light?

God, no. If Marigold happens to come downstairs, the light will be a veritable beacon and I don’t want to know what happens when Marigold realizes I’m disobeying her. I really, really don’t.

My heart pounds in my throat as I open first one closet door and then another. Books, art supplies, rotting cardboard boxes.

This place feels like a museum, but the inside of the closets look more like a rubbish dump. It’s as if Marigold took everything that wasn’t nailed down in Mom’s room and threw it in the closets.

Have these doors ever been opened?

The second to last door has what I want. As it swings open, something deep inside shimmers, despite the lack of light inside this mausoleum.

I reach in and grab a handful of slinky fabric.

Too many precious minutes have already ticked away inside my head, so I grab the fabric and tug it off its hanger. A moment later it’s in my backpack and I’m easing my way out of my grandmother’s house.

I spend a second at the backdoor, my hand clasped on the handle, listening.

That’s when I see the shoes behind the shrub.

I stare at them for long seconds, minutes even, my brain scrambling to make sense of such an incongruous object. What the fuck is a men’s sized pair of sneakers doing tucked behind Marigold’s shrubs? My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I abandon idle speculation in favor of creeping around the side of the house.

I doubt Marigold’s the type of woman to stare dreamily out of her window at night, but I keep to the shadows as much as I can, anyway, only breaking into a run when I’m obscured by some of the pine trees lining the long drive down to her gates.

Addy left her headlamps on. They illuminate me when I’m a few yards away from the gate. When I press the key fob, I’m entirely convinced that the gates won’t open, that Marigold realized I’ve snuck out, and somehow locked them from inside her house.

But they do open for me.

Addy’s passenger door unlocks with a quiet snick when I get close. I fall into her seat with a sigh, my backpack bundled against my stomach.

I glance over at her with a smile, and then do a double-take.

“Holy crap, you look fucking stunning,” I blurt out.

Addison gives me a faint smile. “Thanks, lesbo.” Then she’s reversing, her attention on the rearview mirror.

I feel dirty and ruffled and all kinds of unsophisticated sitting beside her in this cute little sports car while she smells of strawberries and cream and I reek of snickerdoodles and despair.

Addy’s dashboard clock mocks me with its massive digits.

“It’s midnight,” I say quietly. “Should we even—”

“What does your hair do when it’s wet?” Addy cuts in.

---