Page 84 of Freckles

His room is stark with an extra-large bed stealing the focus. The bedside cabinet is bare apart from a tiny object resting on top. When I look closer, I see it’s the ladybug clip he stole from my hair.

Kincaid pulls me onto the bed and hugs me close until my mind is lazy with sleep. It would be easy to close my eyes and forget my problems.

But my secrets are too corrosive to leave until tomorrow.

I sit upright and take a sip of water. A thousand opening sentences swirl in my mind, but I decide on a more circular route. “There’s a rumour at school…”

He takes my hand and puts it on his cock, which instantly hardens under my fingers. “It’s all true,” he says. “If they’re talking about how monstrous I am, this is what they mean.”

I wrinkle my nose in amusement, taking firmer hold. “The other one. About how you killed a man over summer.”

“Ah. And where did you hear that?”

“Around school.” I nibble at the inside of my cheek, always bitten ragged. “On the very first day.”

“What a nice introduction to Westlake.”

“The girl who showed me around also mentioned that most of the families that attend are filthy rich and more than their fair share are complicit in organised crime.”

“What? I’ve never heard such slander. We really need to get your tour guide a new script. What’s her name?”

I poke him in the ribs. “Are you suggesting I’m a snitch?”

“Miss ‘I’ll call the police?’ Never.”

When he sniggers, I grip his cock harder. “I’m trying to have a serious conversation here.”

“Relax, Freckles. No one’s stopping you.” Kincaid captures my free hand, giving it a kiss before releasing it. “It’s true. Were you wanting tips?”

When I don’t immediately answer, he turns on his side, taking my hand off his cock and clasping it to his chest instead. His eyes meet mine, soft and undemanding, affection shimmering in their depths.

“Yes. I killed a man, and it wasn’t the first time, but it was the first time that it was my idea rather than an order.”

My breath catches. “Your uncle orders you to kill people?”

“Not often.” There’s a slight wariness in his expression, then he nods. “But, yeah. It’s part of the job.” After a short pause, he adds, “They’re not good men. He would never go to that length without a reason.”

I nod, closing my eyes. “And what was your reason?”

He cradles me closer, the warmth of his body heating mine like a furnace. I can’t remember being free of cold; both from the weather and the residual horror of the things I’ve done.

But now I’m not just warm, I’m toasty. I could stay wrapped in his heat forever.

“The man I killed…” Kincaid swallows, looking far younger as he forces out the words. “He raped my mother. I would’ve killed him sooner, but it took eighteen years to track him and earn enough standing that my uncle granted permission.”

“Your father?” I guess, appalled and sympathetic.

“My mother’s rapist is the moniker I prefer to use. Maybe sperm donor if I’m being generous.”

“And your uncle approved?” He nods. “Do you get on with him?”

“He’s my true family. I love him.” He kisses my fingertips, one by one. “And I also respect the hell out of him, which isn’t something I say lightly.”

I still haven’t admitted what I need to, but my urgency has faded. I enjoy lying here while he shares, discussing things I doubt he talks to many others about, if any.

It removes my doubt and replaces it with courage.

“There was a man my mother dated,” I say, sensing my way through the words. I can sense them, paused, waiting to scatter, or to clog my throat. “For long enough I thought of him as my stepfather. Mike. He…”

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