Page 28 of Destroy (Deadly Hearts 2)

ChapterThirteen

Ruby

About forty-five minutes later, we are well on our way to the airport. I’m sitting in the back of a black Range Rover Evoque, which has appeared out of nowhere and belongs to Declan. He has more cars than he must know what to do with. I’m sitting gingerly on the passenger window side with poor Ramsey squashed in the middle and David on his other side. I wanted it this way and no one was willing to argue with me about it. The reason being, there is something bothering Ramsey, apart from my trauma, and I want to talk to him about it.

“Wanna tell me what’s up?” I ask him, picking my moment. It’s good to focus on something else.

“Nothing,” he says evasively, which just confirms my suspicions.

“You can tell me,” I say.

He exhales through his nose, his mouth pressed into a grim line. “My mom died. It’s no big deal.”

I blink, wondering if I heard him right. “Your mom?” I ask. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says shortly. “She was a cow and I’m glad she’s gone.”

Wow. That’s cold. If it was my mom, I’d be devastated.

“Still, it must hurt a little.”

“Nope.”

Okay, this conversation is going nowhere. I ponder whether to pursue it or not for a few moments when he blurts out.

“Look, my childhood sucked shit. I don’t like to think about it. I definitely don’t like to dwell on it. She’s gone and that’s that.”

“Understood,” I murmur.

He turns to look at me. “I wasn’t shouting at you. I’m just…frustrated and there’s this stupid feeling of guilt that I don’t care, but it’s not enough to make me care…I’m not explaining it right.”

“No, I get it,” I say. “You do whatever you need to.”

He gives me a soft smile. “Thanks.”

“If you ever want to talk about it, though. I’m here.”

“I know.” He takes my hand gently, giving me the opportunity to pull back if I need to.

I don’t.

We sit in silence for the rest of the journey, and soon we are queuing for yet another checkpoint.

“Shit,” Layton mutters, but Declan doesn’t fluster or start to panic.

He just rolls down his window and says, “Evening.”

The Constable bends down to look at all of us crammed in the back. I sincerely hope he doesn’t ask us to get out because I’m fairly sure I can’t do that without drawing attention to my gut wound.

“Where you off to?” the Constable asks.

“Ireland,” Declan says.

“Passports.” Declan hands them all over, having anticipated this and asked for them all before we left the house.

I grimace. Between Declan’s fake one and my American one, I hope that we get away without too much suspicion.

I try to relax. The tension is causing my wound to ache.

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