Page 68 of Shadowed Obsession

The Outlaws are an aptly named gang that mostly keeps to their territory to the west. It's high desert, low tourists, and full of all kinds of shit to fuck someone up. In all the years they've been around, they've never waded into anything. And not because they don't have the manpower, they just can't be fucked to get involved.

Resolve loosens the tight grip of dread around my ribs. “If the Outlaws are buddying up to the duo from hell? Then, yeah, we need to do the fucking bodyguard thing. Because we're sure as fuck gonna need them soon.”

28

EVANGELINE

I've gotmy head in the refrigerator when I hear the knocking. It sounds like someone's slamming their fists against my front door hard enough to break the glass panes. I should've known something was going to happen soon. I've gone nearly a week of quiet contentment.

My heart kicks into overdrive, fear sluicing through my veins quickly behind it. I didn't realize how jumpy I'd become. Probably because I don't have the same feelings when I'm at Silas's house. There, I feel safe and secure.

And even though Rosewood is a safe town all things considered, I guess I do feel a little bit out in the open here. There's just so muchspace. The property lines are huge in this area of town, and outside of a few clusters of trees in the backend of the property, it's basically wide open.

I glance toward the sliding glass door, comforted by the last vestiges of the setting sun outside. I don't know why when just as many bad things can and do happen in the daylight, but I'm sure my cousin would have some opinions on the whole thing.

“Coming,” I yell as I hustle down the hallway.

I see two shapes through the frosted glass, and confusion draws my brows in tight. Maybe it's the neighbors or something. I haven't seen Mr. and Mrs. Johnston who live to the right yet.

“Hello?” I pull the door open a foot or so.

“Evangeline,” my mother greets me, her voice flat.

“Mother?” My grip on the doorknob slackens and the front door sways open further. “What are you doing here?”

Dressed in a navy pantsuit worthy of any one of her A-list events. A cranberry red handbag rests in the crook of her elbow. She holds her sunglasses and phone in one hand, and the other tucks a perfectly coifed strand of hair behind her ear.

Virginia Carter is a gorgeous woman, there's no denying that. Not that she would ever let anyone deny her anything.

She flicks her hand in the air, a graceful arc. “What? I can't come to my mother's house now?”

“It's my house, actually.”

“Hm. Yes, well, I heard about your recent homeowner's troubles, so I brought someone with me who could help.” She presses her index fingers against the front door, her pale pink polish a sharp contrast to the dusty painted door.

The implication is clear. She wants to come in, but she won't outright ask. That would be considered beneath her, because she expects everyone to adhere to whatever arbitrary etiquette guidelines and rules she's placed on herself and everyone who's in her orbit.

Which I guess means me.

I bite the inside of my cheek and regrip the door handle, not allowing her to push the door open. She notices immediately, because of course she does. The woman isn't called a shark for her fashion sense. She never misses anything.

“Now's not a good time, Mom.”

I mentally pat myself on the back for how even my tone was.

She leaves her finger pressed against the door as she sizes me up. I hate the way my shoulders pull back and I stand up taller on instinct, like some sort of Pavlovian response. It makes me want to slouch just to prove I can.

Baby steps, I remind myself.

“Yes, I can see that. Are you heading to the gym? Does this town even have a decent gym? Perhaps you could raze this down and build one here,” she says. “It'd definitely improve the quality of life in this town.”

I'm shaking my head before she even finishes talking. “What? No. I'm not tearing down Nana Jo's house—myhouse. And I'm not building a gym or going to the gym.”

“Hmph.”

It's the most judgmental noise I've ever heard come from someone, and it's probably Mom's most-used word in her vocabulary. There was one winter, when I was really young, that Lizzie and I kept a tally of how many times Mom made that noise in a week. I don't remember what the number ended up being, only that she used it for everything, all the time. Every time she was displeased about something, and Mom is often displeased.

The chef's dinner. Dad's beard. Lizzie's violin performances. My inability to play a sport or a real instrument becausesinging is something children do when they're not good at anything else.

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