Page 15 of Playing with Fyre

Charlotte hasn’t been in class this whole week. It’s taking all my willpower not to go to her apartment and knock on her door.

She doesn’t want to see me. I crossed the line, and now she knows it too.

I don’tdeserveto see her again. I know this. I’ve come to terms with it. But now I’m so worried about her, I’m trying to justify breaking my own rules just to make sure she’s safe.

I shift on the driver’s seat, rub my fingers over my mouth. It’s the middle of the day—despite my tinted windows, I shouldn’t be here. Someone could spot me through the windshield, recognize me, report me. But I’m past the point of logic right now. Nothing matters but Charlotte.

I’ve been wracking my brain figuring out how to fix this. I can’t go back in time and undo what I did, but is there a way to stop myself from getting into my car every day, every night, and driving out here, and sitting in my fucking car?

Watching her.

Protecting her.

My steering wheel creaks as I tighten my hands on the leather. Who the fuck am I kidding? The only person she needs protecting against isme.

I know what my visit could have done to her, mentally. Especially someone who’s been through her ordeal. But I did it anyway, because that’s how fucked I am. That’s howobsessedI am.

She will go to the police. They’ll revoke my license. I’ll lose my job.

And I don’t give a fuck.

I still want her.

More.

Every inch.

I laugh, the sound echoing manically in the confines of my cab. Sometimes my profession is more a curse than a blessing. Curiosity got me here in the first place. I couldn’t understand how a man could take the life of two people in such a violent, horrific manner and still function in society. No red flags.

Red Friday.

Those letters burn like fire across my mind, and I curl my fingers against my palms, my nails biting half-moons into my flesh in an effort to eviscerate that sudden treacherous memory.

Curiosity became a passion. It fascinated me how the human mind was so adept at concealing its own rotten depravity.

Somewhere behind me, a car alarm goes off. My eyes instantly move to Charlotte’s window.

I can’t take this. I have to know if she’s okay. If that triggers the end of my career, of myfreedom, I’m okay with that.

Chapter Ten

Fyre

“Charlotte!”

Blood sings in my ears. It drowns out all the sounds around me—my frantic panting, the shuffle of my suddenly heavy feet on the floorboards.

She tried to make it to the bathroom, but it was too far. She’s laying on her back, a streak of vomit down the side of her face, more in her hair. My hands are shaking so hard I’m scared I’ll hurt her as I shove her onto her side, dragging her leg up so she’s in a recovery position.

I press fingers to her neck.

Breath only enters my lungs again when I feel that faint, almost indistinguishable thrum of a pulse under my fingertips, then relief washes through me in a prickle of hot and cold. I sink back on my heels and wipe my hair out of my face as I stare down at her.

In a flash, my eyes dart up to her bedroom door.

Those fucking pills.

I saw them the first night I broke into her apartment. I’m thorough. They disturbed me back then, and now I know why.

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