Page 172 of Hate Mates

“That didn’t hurt you. Don’t even think about accusing me of some shit again, or I will drag you out of the car and leave you here.”

Cradling my arm as his eyes flick between me and the road, silently, I whisper, “I wasn’t. I wouldn’t.”

Maybe he didn’t hear me, but either way, he didn’t reply.

His finger hits the button that winds his window to the top. He adjusts the heaters only to keep the windshield clear, but I still say, “Thank you.”

FIVE

Lourdez

I’d tried to sleep and failed. Every time my eyes closed, I saw a younger Lochlan on that stand, lawyers interrogating him, the jury staring at him with blank faces. The whole time, his eyes stayed on me, pleading with me to tell them that it was all lies.

At one point during the trial, I almost stood up and told the courtroom everything. But my father’s calloused fingers scraped against my pants and jabbed into the flesh below, warning me to stay put that I’d sworn an oath. That I’d get into so much trouble.

And I’d back down, terrified.

I glance over at Lochlan. He’s so different from the skinny twenty-one-year-old boy he was three and a half years ago. He was never like Colten. Colten was into sports and pop stars in skimpy outfits. Lochlan was into punk rock, and his love for morbidly depressing tunes is ever-present on this drive.

A new song begins, setting the hairs on the back of my neck on edge. It was playing that night. While my grandfather’s carpet burned my thighs as I tried to get away.

Tears fill my eyes.

Through blurry vision, I’m almost sure he glances my way. The car judders slightly as the song cuts short, another beginning before a single word was sung.

Does he remember walking in with that playing? To wiping away my tears as the drums faded out and it came to an end?

His face gives nothing away as he casually slides his glasses higher up a nose that looks to have been broken once. The little bump that he never had before torments me with thoughts I don’t know to be true.

What happened to him in prison? Did someone start a fight with him because they had a daughter my age? Did someone hurt him just because they were an asshole or because they thought he was?

“What happened to your nose?”

He visually swallows. “It got broken around a year ago.”

“How?” I probe because I don’t think he’ll answer, but he does.

“Some guy told me I was scum for assaulting a teenage girl and then elbowed me in the face.”

“Did he get away with it?”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Did you at least hit him back?”

“No. It wasn’t worth my freedom. I knew the end was near, and I didn’t wanna do anything that would add even a day on.”

I nod and let silence settle between us, but he talks again, “Is it that noticeable?”

As if he’s conscious, his fingers move to the bump.

“I just don’t remember you having it before.”

“What, you knew what shape my nose was?” His eyebrow raises when his eyes meet mine, and the blue looks so innocent behind those black rims. Like he could never do anything wrong, and honestly, I’m not sure he ever has.

“I had a mild crush.”

A buzzing comes between us, interrupting the awkwardness I’d placed there. He swipes his finger across the phone, answering the call from his dad.

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