Page 42 of Bitter Queen (Advantage Play 4)

Rocking back on my heels, I check on Q again, but she’s too immersed in the movie to sense my wariness. I’m grateful for it. Because she’s about to get thrown back into our shitty reality. And it won’t be pretty.

Resigned, I pinch the bridge of my nose. “We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

16

Q

“You okay?” Diece asks beside me before reaching over and squeezing my thigh.

We’ve been on the road for hours, but it’s done nothing to relieve the pressure in my chest.

With my gaze transfixed on the passing landscape of greens and blues, I continue chewing on my thumbnail.

“Blue?” D prods.

“I’m fine.”

“Liar,” he jests. “What’s wrong?”

Resting my head against the cool glass of the passenger window, I admit the truth that’s been weighing on me since last night. “I don’t want to go back.”

“To Kingston’s estate?”

“To reality in general.”

“Why?”

“Because reality sucks. I liked getting lost in my own little world with you.”

“So did I.” He squeezes my knee one more time before returning his hand to the steering wheel. “Can I ask you something?”

“What?”

“Someone has been asking about you….” His voice trails off, but I’m able to fill in the blank just fine.

A flock of rabid bats claws at my insides, but I keep my chin high and my voice clear as I ask, “Oh?”

“Yeah.”

“Who?”

“We’re not sure,” he returns vaguely. “But we think they’re connected with the FBI.”

What?

My jaw drops. “I’m not a Fed, D. I swear on my life, I’m not—”

“I know,” he interrupts before glancing over at me. And even though his dark eyes are covered with sunglasses, I can still feel the sincerity in his gaze before he reiterates, “I know you’re not working with the Feds. But do you know anyone who would be looking for you?”

“No one’s looking for me,” I repeat, twisting my hands in my lap like a dirty dishrag. “We’ve had this conversation before. I don’t know anything. I swear it.”

His attention drops down to my fidgeting hands, but he doesn’t comment on them.

“Okay, Q. I trust you.”

I swallow thickly, then rest my head against the passenger window as my guilt joins the nasty bats of anxiety that are still very present inside my stomach. The silence in the cab of the car is only broken by the occasional rev of the engine, but I don’t bother to change it. I don’t know what else to say, and sometimes it’s best to keep your mouth shut, anyway. Besides, when you’re locked in a room for weeks, with the devil as your only visitor, you begin to embrace the silence. But today feels different. And I hate it.

“We’re here,” he announces a little while later as we turn down a long, winding driveway.

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