Page 127 of The Broken Note

“M-my mother is dead.”

“We both know that’s not true, Cadey.” He tilts his head slightly, looking down at me with that cold, calculating expression.

I suddenly find it hard to breathe.

“She asked to meet me alone, so I went. She said she had dirt on my father and gave me the address to find it. We met some guy who gave us a package, but it turned out to be useless.”

“I don’t believe you.” My voice is weak. I’m grasping at straws.

Dutch fishes out his cell phone and plays back a recording.

I pale when I hear my mother’s voice. “Forty-Sixth and third, Hamshire Street. Eleven o’clock.”

“If that’s not enough, I’m willing to take a drug test to prove that I’m clean. I meant it when I said I never touch the stuff. And I never will.”

My eyes widen.

He stares down at me, contemplative. “I thought I saw a motorcycle tailing us that night. Where did you get the bike? How did you know where we were going to be?”

I open my mouth and then close it.

Dutch leans in, his lips hovering close to mine. “Is this why you’ve been meeting my dad after class? Did he ask you to spy on us?”

“N-no.” I push at him, feeling too exposed.

I was so sure I was right.

So sure he was the villain he’s always presented himself to be.

But when there are villains everywhere you turn, no one can be trusted.

Dutch refuses to let me run. He bends all the way down, flattening my back against the car. His eyes are hot enough to brand my face. I clench my teeth, trying hard to fight the blazing connection between us.

“Don’t lie to me, Cadey.” Dutch nips at my jaw, his mouth grazing my cheek to my ear. “I’ll believe you.”

His weight on top of me snaps the bonds of my restraint and sends up flashes of desire in the caverns of my body. I feel like I’m suffering whiplash. Back and forth. Hate and misunderstandings.

But the only thing that’s remained consistent… is this blazing pull between us.

A tug of cosmic proportions.

An antidote to the numbness.

My hand slides up Dutch’s abs, feeling taut muscle under the fabric of his uniform. How fair is this to him? To answer his question about secrets and trust with lust and desire?

I don’t know.

I don’t know anything anymore.

Dutch’s eyes drop to where my hands are caressing him. Storm clouds slip into his amber eyes.

I grind my hips against his jeans.

He groans.

Yes. Perfect.

I’m reeling from my mother’s duplicity and unwilling to face what this means going forward. I need a distraction from the chaos. A way to sidestep all the painful, harmful truths that I can’t handle yet.

---