Page 12 of A Photo Finish
My legs move before I process what I’m doing. I shove myself between Billie and Vaughn and approach the truck. Violet is laid out across the back seat, feet toward me and back propped against the opposite door. Her leg is wrapped in a plastic walking cast and is supported by rolled up horse blankets. Her pupils are dilated, and fat tears of laughter stream down her muddy cheeks.
“Hey! It’s Butterface!”
I growl as I reach into the truck. “Violet. Shut up.”
She throws her head back and bursts out laughing again. Like spilling our personal history is the most hysterical thing in the world.Comedy gold, everyone. My jaw pops under the pressure of my bite. All I can think about is getting her away from prying eyes and ears, so I lean in and reach for her waist. I don’t miss the way my hands wrap almost the entire way around her as I pull her across the leather seats toward me.
When I slide my arm under her knees, she winces.
“Are you okay?” I rasp so only she can hear me. I should have been more careful with her.
“A bit sore.” Her glassy eyes gaze up into mine unsteadily, wide and lost and so fucking pretty. My lungs constrict at the sight of her, the girl I haven’t been able to shake.
Never mind Billie.I’mgoing to kill Patrick Cassel. I move slowly now, less agitated and more concerned, and wrap my other arm around Violet’s narrow back. She feels small and vulnerable against me, and for all the times I let myself imagine meeting her—it was never like this.
Her head lolls drunkenly into my armpit as she announces, “Isn’t he so strong!” One tiny fist knocks against my bicep. “Look at these arms!”
I blink once, slowly, working hard at keeping my cool, as I carry her limp body up to the front porch. No one this small should feel this heavy. I fight the dread crawling up my spine, the memories of carrying my friends’ limp bodies under the cover of darkness. The weight. The dry heat.
I take a deep inhale of the thick, humid air to remind myself where I am. “What the hell did they give her?”
Billie pulls a small orange container out of her back pocket and offers it up. “I don’t know, but they probably should have given her a child’s dose instead.”
I just grunt. I’ll look at it later. “I’ve got this,” I bark, as I push past them and into the old farmhouse with Violet held firmly against my chest.
“He’s so romantic!” Violet giggles, and I roll my eyes. In the past, Violet had been one of the few people I actually enjoyed talking to. But that girl is definitely not here right now. This girl is high as a fucking kite.
“Violet, are you okay with this?” Billie looks concerned, but I kick the door shut behind me, right in her face, done talking about this.
“Isn’t he rude?” Violet shouts back through the closed door. “All those times you complained about what a dick he is—”
Now it’s Billie’s turn to shut her up. “I’ll bring you your stuff in the morning, Vi!” Billie calls back. “If you need me, just call!”
My cheek twitches. Take that,sis.
“Don’t worry about me, B! I told you. I know him!”
A deep sense of dread fills me. All I can see is my privacy slipping away. A part of my life that was always meant to be kept separate is now going to be sleeping in the bedroom below me, and probably blabbed about with my brother’s fiancée. Which will inevitably get back to my brother. Nevermind the fact that I’ve been pining for her—a girl I’ve basically never met—for the last couple years.
Nothing good can come from this kind of forced proximity.
I groan as I carry Violet to the spare bedroom. Feeling my meticulously organized life slipping through my fingers like fucking sand, and I haven’t even been in Ruby Creek for twenty-four hours. This place is cursed. It took my dad down, and now it’s going to take me down too.
The room is dark, but the spare bed is already made. Like it’s been ready for her this whole time. Like this is some sort of huge cosmic joke.
Leaning down, I gently place Violet on the bed, not wanting to hurt her. She’s even more beautiful than I remember, soft and feminine, and soothing without even trying. Getting to know Violet was like discovering a medicine I didn’t even know I needed.
“Why are you staring at me?” she asks quietly from where she’s sprawled, her voice not so giddy anymore.
“I’m not,” I grumble, jumping back into action, not wanting to talk. I pull a pillow from the headboard and prop it under her braced knee. How I know it feels best. When I lean over her to pull the covers down, I sneak a look up at her face, something I’ve avoided doing since that first day I saw her at the track, but I can’t seem to stop staring now. It’s like the mere sight of her has short-circuited my brain, opened the floodgates to me gawking at her like some sort of slack-jawed neanderthal.
I expect those almost too-big blue eyes to be staring back at me. But her long lashes are casting shadows over her high cheekbones and her heart-shaped mouth has fallen just slightly ajar, shallow quiet breaths whispering past her lips.
Knocked right out.
Which means I can really look. I stare at her openly—every line, every angle, every heavy rise and fall of her chest—my eyes adjusting rapidly to the low light filtering in from the living room, knowing she won’t catch me now.
Is her breathing too light? Too slow?
