Page 46 of Devil's Bargain

I nearly drop the bottled juice I just picked up.

He takes his wallet out of his back pocket. “It’s your address.”

I swallow thickly. “How do you know?”

He pays the cashier and picks up his tray. “I’ll be around later.”

Then he’s gone.

“Are you ready to pay?”

I blink, staring at the cashier. “Oh, right.” My heart races in my chest as I hand the money over. What did he mean by ‘I’ll be around later?’ He’s not coming to my house, is he?

* * *

Turns out that’s exactly what he meant.

I step outside and close the screen door behind me. “What are you doing here?” My mom is not home, but I’m keeping my voice down anyway. You never know who might be watching.

“I told you I’d come to see you.”

His dark hair is a tousled mess, and his hazel eyes are as piercing as always. I sweep my gaze across the street lined by run-down houses and graffiti. I’m suddenly painfully aware of what this part of town must look like to him. There’s even a big hole in the window next to my front door from when the neighbor’s kid accidentally kicked his soccer ball at it.

I tuck my pink hair behind my ear. “You should go.”

“Are you not going to invite me in?”

I look past him to his white Porsche in my driveway.

He follows my line of sight. “I’ll park it somewhere else if you want?”

“It’s not that. It’s just…” I look down at my bare feet. My toenails are painted black. “It’ll get stolen in these parts of town, or vandalized.” I’m more ashamed at this moment than I was last night, covered in semen and money.

Rick simply shrugs. “It’s not a big deal.”

I laugh. “It’s not a big deal if someone vandalizes your Porsche?”

His eyes come back to mine. “Yeah… I realize now how that sounded.”

I duck my head to hide my smile. “I can’t be seen with you, Rick.”

He puts his hands beside my face on the door and leans in close. “Then let me in.”

My heart is hammering in my chest. “Let me get the tarpaulin.”

He steps back, and I race down the steps to the side of the house where a sheet of it lies abandoned. Rick helps me cover his car and then follows me inside.

The moment the door clicks shut, I feel like I’m trapped inside with a live wire. I’m intensely aware of Rick and his overwhelming presence.

He runs his eyes over the smoke-stained walls that used to be white but are now yellowed. In front of us is the small couch where my strung-out mother is usually found sleeping or drinking.

I tidied up earlier when I arrived home from school, which I’m grateful for now. There isn’t a single bottle of alcohol on our living room table for once.

“It’s nothing special.”

Rick is looking at the photographs of me on the mantelpiece. He picks one up and runs his fingers over my big smile. “How old are you here?”

I lean close and fight the urge to breathe him in. “I was eight.”

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