Page 21 of Hide and Keep

Please.

“I hate you because you want to help my father ruin my life.”Thatis what I need to remember, what I need to hold on to. My short run at freedom isn’t up yet. As soon as I ditch Crue, I can get back to it.

“Jesus, you’resofucking dramatic. Nobody’s trying to ruin your life. Everyone has rules, responsibilities, obligations. Why the fuck do you think you’re so different?”

It’s not that I can’t handle rules, responsibilities, obligations; I already have plenty. It’s that I don’t wantthoserules, responsibilities, obligations. Each one is a shackle around my entire existence, chaining me to a life I didn’t agree to.

“I need to use the restroom.”

“Again? Didn’t youjustgo?”

“What am I, back in middle school, only allowed to pee between classes?”

“You look like it with that shirt.”

“You look at a lot of middle school girls?”

“What? No. I just meant—”

“Mm-hm. Sure. Where’s your bathroom?”

Crue studies me for so long, my hands find themselves behind my back, my fingers twisting together roughly.

“Or can you not afford indoor plumbing? Do you have an outhouse out back or something?”

With yetanotherheadshake, he points at the hall, telling me, “It’s the door on the left. I’ll be watching the alarm system.”

“Like you’d catch me,” I mumble once I’m out of earshot. Lifting weights doesn’t necessarily translate to stamina. Sure, Crue’s muscular, but I bet I could still outrun him, probably on the worst day of my period.

“What was that?”

Whoops. He heard me.

“You’re poor,” I call out sweetly before slamming the bathroom door shut.

Sitting on the edge of the tub, I stare down at my phone, my thumb hovering.

Don’t overthink it. Don’t even think about it. Just…do it.

Do it.

I do it. I dial.

“What do we have the rest of the day?” Crue asks while driving, his left hand gripping the top of the steering wheel, his right elbow on the center console as he plays with his bottom lip.

He’s obsessed with it, always fidgeting with it.

“Ihave hair, nails, and makeup,” I rattle off even though I don’t. It’s what he expects.

“Dowehave enough time to drop my stuff off at your house before your appointments?”

“They come to me.”

“Who?”

“Everyone. Stylists, designers.”

He frowns. “They can do that?”

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