Page 59 of Wanting Wentworth

The inevitable.

Questions I don’t want to answer.

Questions I can’t answer. Not without lying or even worse—telling the truth.

“Okay.” I give him a slight nod because my head is suddenly killing me and I want nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep for a year.

Looking up, he gives Abbey a nod. “Take her on up to the house and try not to—”

“I know how to sneak in and out of the house Damien,” Abbey tells him with an eyeroll. “I’ve been doing it for years.”

Damien’s jaw tightens before he looks back down at me and makes an obvious effort to relax it. “I’ll check in on you this afternoon,” he says giving me another shoulder squeeze.

“Okay.” I say it again, this time with a flat smile before flicking a quick look at his brother, who’s watching the exchange through the passenger side mirror. When he catches me looking at him, he doesn’t look away.

Come back.

It’s like he said it again out loud, and I feel my hand tighten around the notebook he gave me, in response.

Just in case this is it.

Taking a step back, I give Damien one of my faint, reassuring smiles. “Don’t worry about me, Damien,” I tell him. “Abbey will take good care of me.”

He flicks a look in her direction before shaking his head. “Alright.” Taking a step back, he sighs. “Better get inside before one of the other hands sees you.” Before I can answer him, Damien is around the side of his truck and in the driver’s seat. A few seconds later, the engine is started and shifted into drive.

Went is still watching me in the passenger side mirror, his dark eyes, pinned to mine. The muscle in his jaw ticking with pent up frustration.

Come back.

“Come on, Kaity.” Abbey wraps an arm around my shoulders and tries to guide me into the house like I’m an invalid but I don’t want to go inside. Not yet.

Planting my feet, I watch Damien’s truck shrink in the distance, gaze focused on the passenger side mirror, watching as Went moves farther and farther away from me. Even though I can’t see his face anymore, I know he’s watching me too.

THIRTY-FOUR

Kaitlyn

AFTER LEAVING NORTHPOINT, the rest of my morning was spent faking a stomach bug while waiting for Brock to show up with his father or maybe a few of his friends, demanding to know who attacked him at the lake last night. I imagined him making up another story that would undoubtedly paint me as the villain and him as the victim.

My father would undoubtedly hear about it. The whole town would know what happened—or at least Brock’s version, anyway—and I’ll be cast out even further. No one will talk to me. Even the few people left in Barrett who’re still kind to me will look the other way when I pass them on the street.

Judgmental looks.

Snide, behind-the-hand whispers.

More of the same, except this time, there’ll be no hope of escape. No plan to get out of Barrett. No possible future away from this place or the nightmare life as Mrs. Brock Morris that’s been planned for me.

Trying not to think about it, I fall asleep with Went’s red notebook under my pillow and don’t wake up until I hear my mother shout my name from the bottom of the stairs.

Kaitlyn Nicole Barrett—come down here, this instant.

Pushing myself up, I sit on the side of the bed. Feet on the floor, I roll my shoulders, the one Brock slammed into the side of his truck, stiff and achy, while my head swims through a sea of nausea and my face throbs.

The inevitable is here.

Standing on wobbly legs, I make my way through the door and down the hall. Stalling out on the second-floor landing, I look over the railing to see Abbey standing in the living room doorway, face aimed upward like she’s waiting for me to make an appearance. When she sees me, her face pales, and her gaze darts toward the front of the house in clear warning.

“Kaitlyn—” My mother calls for me again, this time louder, panic edging her tone. “Kaitlyn Nicole, if you don’t—”

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