Page 31 of Crawl
“Jenna?”
“Different friend. The cop friend I told you about.” I try to read Cash’s facial expression, to see if he’s jealous that a man came by. But he doesn’t shift at all. “He asked about the murders. Wanted to see if I knew anything.”
“And those murders scare you?”
We always try to fix these rules and connections between the criminals and these horrific deaths, to assert meaning when there is none. And a killer like that isn’t going to be interested in someone like me. In the end, it comes down to luck. The wrong place at the wrong time. No one can prevent something like that.
I shake my head. “I just don’t trust cops.”
“Who do you trust?”
I blink. Cash is asking about Peter, but he’s also asking if I trust him. And I don’t know. I’m supposed to hate Cash more than anyone in the Keys, and yet I keep drawing closer to him. I’m like an insect chasing his sugary scent.
I can’t answer his question, so instead, I ask, “Why don’t you hate me?”
The corners of his mouth lift, but then he drops back into his stoic expression. It’s almost like he doesn’t appreciate that I’ve caught him off guard by asking questions he doesn’t know the answer to, but I don’t know what else to say.
“I’ve tried to kill you multiple times now,” I explain. “Shouldn’t you hate me? Or at least fire me? If anything,youshouldn’t trustme.Why do you care if I feel like crap when I’m around cops?”
A real grin forms on his face, dissolving the cold, detached expression, and a strange warmth washes over me. Cash is a billionaire real estate developer, my best friend’s abuser, my blackmailer, and the only person who has ever made me come. But he also seems like the only man who listens to me, who actually tries to understand where I’m coming from. And I can’t wrap my head around it.
“Your murder attempts were an act of passion,” he says in a matter-of-fact tone, a subtle emphasis on the word ‘attempts,’ almost like he’s teasing me for failing. “Why should I hate you for doing what you want? I do what I want too.”
“But you’ve stayed inside of your estate for years,” I blurt out. “Isn’t that beingcagedby your desires?”
He bares his teeth, and for a split second, he looks like a wolf. I’m his red riding hood, but this time, there’s no one to save me. I’m alone with my wolf.
The anger dissipates, relaxing his shoulders. “That passion is the real side of you,” he says, ignoring my question. “Not much interests me anymore. But when a person has passion like that, a desire that drives them to murder?” He licks his lips. “That interests me. I like that about you.”
My cheeks flutter with heat, burning under his gaze. I clear my throat, tossing my hair over my shoulders, then quickly adjust the bobby pins. But the question flashes in my mind: is heencouragingmy emotions?
He’s so different from my mom, my ex, even Peter. And though I like that about him, it confuses me. What does it mean when you’re actuallyseenby a man who assaulted your best friend and trapped you in an arrangement where you’re his fuck doll?
I can’t figure it out. In a panic, I change the subject.
“What areyoupassionate about?” I ask.
“You.”
A chill runs through me.I’m just his fuck doll,I tell myself.This means nothing.But he’s not talking about our arrangement anymore, and he knows it. Every nerve in my body tingles like butterflies trapped in a net. It’s like he’s been planning this for a long time, even before we met.
But he’s been a recluse until recently. I would’ve remembered those freckles in his eyes, like wrinkles on the surface of a dark pond.
Before I can stop myself, I blurt out: “Go on a double date with me.” I smack my hands across my mouth, realizing my error. He’s my boss. My blackmailer. My enemy. What am I doing? I shrink behind my shoulders. I don’t want to take it back. “Please,” I whisper.
His lips curl in amusement. “A double date?”
I suck in a breath. “My mom has been bugging me to meet her new boyfriend, and if I go alone, she’ll keep insisting that we arrange a double date until I finally give in. My guess is that it has something to do with proving that her new boyfriend isn’t that bad. Like, as long as my date doesn’t see red flags, then nothing can be wrong.” I sigh to myself. That’s probably too much info, but I don’t care. “It’ll be at her apartment. Game night and pizza. We’ll be inside. It’ll be a good step to—” I raise my hands, “—reintegration?”
He lifts his chin, actually considering the idea. But that nerve in the back of my skull pokes me. How can someone go from newspaper-covered and concrete-covered windows, to being okay with anything, even standing on a front porch? Would he actually be okay with a double date at my mom’s house?
“What’s in it for me?” he asks, like we’re bartering goods.
“That’s not enough?”
“Reintegration is a chore, not a desire.”
His nostrils flare as he studies me, and I try to think of something I can offer him. It seems so stupid to invite him—butifhe comes, mom will let go of the idea.AndCash will be out of his element.
