Page 271 of Hide and Keep

I grip the edge of the desk for support and hold my breath, wishing that lump in my throat would expand right this second to keep me from having to say what needs to be said next. This is going to hurt and not just me.

“As Miss Munreaux’s personal protection agent, all her whereabouts are my concern.”

“Not anymore, they’re not.”

“Sir? I was hired to get her through school. She’s not done—”

“Oh, yes, she is. Today marks the last day of her college career.”

I canfeelthe weight of Crue’s stare on the right side of my face.

“But…she still has three years left.”

“Three years? Munreaux Motorcycles doesn’t have that kind of time. We need this now.”

A shake of my head causes me to lose consciousness briefly. How hard did he hit me?

“You actually thought it was for three years?” I taunt with laughter I can’t seem to control. Or hear.

Crue steps forward, into my right eye’s periphery, but I don’t let myself move a single muscle to see him better. If I do, he might seemebetter.

“You knew it wasn’t?”

ThatI can hear just fine. The betrayal.

“Never didn’t tell you?” my father asks Crue.

“Of course I didn’t,” I’m quick to answer. “I wouldn’t tell this renta-cop wannabe if his ass was on fire.”

Even with one fuzzy eye, I can see the pain slash across Crue’s face, leaving behind a deeper cut than that airbag ever could.

Ripping his attention off me, Crue tells my father, “She’s nowhere near ready to run your company yet.”

It won’t make a difference. Nothing will. His decision’s been made for months. Years. Since my birth, apparently.

I am like veal, raised only for the slaughter.

Father pretends to mull that over before ordering Edwin, “See that Mr. Brantley signs the necessary paperwork before vacating the premises.”

He’s fired. We’re over. This is the only goodbye we’ll ever get. And if I want there to be as little damage as possible to Crue, I have to make this believable.

“I told you I’d send you back to where you belong,” I singsong as if I wanted this. As if I couldn’t be happier about this.

Crue crowds me from the side to sneer, “It’s funny,Never…”

I fight not to wince at the name. I fight not to react at all, but it’s like I can feel every cell in my body calling to his. My bodyburnsto lean into his.

Lowering his voice, he finishes near my ear, “I thought that’s where you belonged, too.”

I do belong with you, I long to say, to shout, to etch onto my skin and heart and bones for all of eternity because it’s true. I’ve always felt like an outsider in my own circle, in my own house, in my own life. In Crue’s arms is the only place I feel like I’m where I’m supposed to be, where I feel like I’m home.

Father’s gaze drilling into mine, I reply to Crue without looking at him, “The reeking shack? Please. I’ve driven by salt marshes that smelled better than your little hovel by the sea.”

My father makes a terrible sound in his throat. “That’s why we live up here, away from the odor.”

Although he could easily be referring to the coastal wetlands that stink like rotten eggs, I know Arthur Munreaux better than that. He’s talking about the people. The lower class. Crue.

My Crue.

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