Page 22 of Better Watch Out

I wordlessly search his gaze, looking for any sign of malice or taunting. But I don’t find either. I just find honesty, and maybe a touch of curiosity, though I don’t know what he could be curious about.

But I don’t get the chance to voice my thoughts. The waitress is back a moment later, handing me my iced coffee and assuring us we won’t be waiting much longer for our food. Meaning it isn’t worth it to get into an argument that’ll have me breaking multiple rules this early in the game.

“Whatever.” I sigh once the waitress has walked away, hating how it feels like a surrender. “I’m too tired for your shit, Fletcher. So…whatever you say for now.”

For now, because if I can't do anything else, I’ll make their life hell any way that I can while we’re staying in the same house.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Your driving sucks.” The words are a straight up lie, and judging by Boone’s snort from the driver’s seat, he knows it. I’d refused to sit in the passenger seat, not that he’d asked. Instead, I got into the back to flop down on the bench. Not that he said anything about that either.

He’s a way better driver than I’ll ever be in the snow, and not just because I haven’t been here in a while. I’ve never been confident driving through snow, ice, or even windstorms of the midwest, though I have no idea why exactly. In theory, it shouldn’t be that big of a deal. Boone shouldn’t bethismuch better at it than I am.

But I suppose I’ll have to accept that even I have limitations.

“My driving is way better than anything you’ll ever accomplish,” Boone quips, leaning back against the driver’s seat. The sun is still up, seeing as it’s barely past two pm, but it feels like I could sleep for the rest of today and wake up tomorrow, on Christmas eve, to the disappointing fact I’m still here, still snowed in, and still stuck with my stepbrothers.

I huff and sit up, grabbing the door handle to open it and stalk off. Except…it doesn’t open. My momentum just sends my face into the window, where I stay with a long, slow, exhale withmy nose pressed to the glass and my eyes closed. “Turn off the child locks, Boone.”

“Ask me nicely.” He makes no move to get out. Just leans back in the driver’s seat in front of me.

But I don’t ask him nicely. That’s not in the cards for us. Instead, I shift and lean back to meet his eyes in the mirror before jamming my feet into the back of his seat until he snarls and leans forward.

“Hey,hey!”With his fingers white-knuckling the steering wheel, he twists in his seat to glare at me. “What the fuck is wrong with you? You’re acting like?—”

“Achild?” I sneer. “Yeah, that’s because I’m living up to how you’re treating me.” I kick at his seat again, being careful not to do any permanent damage. At worst there will be a few muddy footprints from my shoes when I’m done, but that’s fixable. Not by me, of course. Boone can scrub his mom’s car all on his own.

“You think this is going to make me unlock the door?” He glares at me still, and holds himself forward so my kicking barely affects him.

He’s not affected, I realize. He doesn’t care about any kind of fit I’m throwing, or the point I’m trying to make. I flip him off wordlessly before lunging forward, shoving between the front seats so I can climb out of the passenger door.

But I don’t expect him to grab me, his hand fisted in my hood. “Oh, I could make you regret this,” he sneers in my ear, face suddenly close enough I can feel his breath on my skin. “If I didn’t want to strip out of these layers right now I could make you?—”

“You’re all talk.” I shove out of his hold, nearly strangling myself until he lets go. “And in case it’s in any way unclear”—I dramatically kick the door open, revealing an unamused Fletcher on the other side of it, who doesn’t move even as the edge comes within inches of his face—“I hate you both. I don’twant to deal with you, I don’t want you to be here. I leftbecause of you. And no amount of creepy threats, diner lunches, or forced Christmases spent here will change that.” Sliding down to the ground lands me closer to Fletcher than I’d like to be, and I tilt my head up to glare at him, a rant ready on my lips.

But Fletcher just holds his hands up in surrender and steps back, brows raised. “Don’t look at me that way,” he murmurs. “You weren’t in this bad of a mood last time I saw you.” It had only been a fifteen minute drive, thanks to their comfort of driving in snow and ice and Boone’s familiarity with Cheryl’s SUV.

“Fuck you.” That’s the best argument I can think of, and when Fletcher’s eyes narrow, it makes me second guess myself.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even really look miffed. Instead he steps back, hands in his pockets, and looks over my shoulder at Boone almost questioningly, who then just mutters in response. But that’s more than fine with me. I walk past him, getting up the nerve to slam my shoulder into his, hoping to knock him over. Maybe it’s immature of me. Maybeallof this is immature, I’ll allow that. But I deserve even this petty revenge after what they put me through.

Fletcher’s grip on my upper arm is sudden and tight, making me wince at the sharp pain. “Don’t get too comfortable yet, princess,” he murmurs in my ear, still not turning to really look at me. “You’re really trying my patience and Boone’s temper. I intend to remind you why that’s not in your best interest. Or…” he trails off and finally turns to look me over. “Maybe it is. I can’t tell yet.”

I have no idea what he could mean by that, but I hold his gaze for a few seconds before dropping my eyes to the ground. “Let go,” I mutter, jerking out of his hold when he allows it. I wonder if maybe I should tone it down. At least where Fletcher isconcerned. Boone is easy. He’s an open book, with a temper that flares fast and quick before sputtering out.

But Fletcher knows how towaitandplan.

Without a word, I walk up the stairs, missing the iciest step by hopping over it, and close the door behind me with a grateful sigh. At least now I can change out of all my layers and take a shower to unfreeze my toes and maybe, just maybe, take a long nap afterward so I’m not so cranky and frustrated at everything.

There’s no ensuite bathroom downstairs, probably because when my dad bought this place, my room was a large office for the person who owned it before. Because of that, I have to grab my clothes as I let Sitka out, barely watching to see where she goes once she strides out of my room on light paws, her claws tapping on the hardwood floor. They’re just as good as a bell on her collar, in my opinion.

The closest bathroom is down the hall and across from my room, but I pause before I enter it, listening for any sign that Boone or Fletcher have come into the house. Strangely, I don’t think they have. I don’t hear them anywhere, and I certainly didn’t hear them going up the stairs into their room. For a few seconds more I hesitate, still listening as if something will change or one of them will let out some call to tell me where they are.

But then I remember there’s no reason for me to give a damn. A low sigh leaves me and I shake my head, clearing it and trying to get a hold of myself. I’m so strange when they’re around. I’m frustrated, on edge and…waiting for something. Though I have no idea what that something is. But I do know I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop, because I can tell from their expressions, from the way they talk and look at each other, that they’re not just here to say shit and make my life a little miserable.

“Whatever,” I mutter, forcing myself to walk on bare feet into the bathroom. There’s no tub down here, which I mourn a littlesince I’d love to fall asleep in a tub the size of the one attached to the boys’ room. But the shower is big enough to have a bench and cute cubbies in the walls where body wash, shampoo, and conditioner have been placed for me, either by Cheryl or her sister in an attempt to be welcoming.

Curiously, I open one of the bottles, wrinkling my nose at the clean smell of ‘fresh linen’ as the bottle says. I can’t really expect them to know what scents I love or hate. Honestly, I’m just grateful to have supplies here in the first place. Even if it’s not to my taste. “You’re being picky and selfish,” I tell my reflection once the water is going and slowly heating up, steaming up the bathroom while I strip out of my last layer of clothes. When I look at myself again I have to rub my hand over the glass, surveying my pale face and my hazel eyes that look different than usual.

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