Page 33 of Even in the Dark

Dylan curses as I sit back and straighten the wheel.

Then my phone rings. I answer it on speakerphone. “What’s up?”

“Your shitty driving,” Xavier Rockwell’s smooth voice fills the car. “You smearing on that watermelon lip crap in your visor mirror right now?”

I glance in my rear-view mirror. Sure enough, Xavier’s army green Subaru is following close behind us (yes—his father is a multi-billionaire, and he chooses to drive a freaking Subaru Outback. Because Xave’s weird like that).

“Oh, chill your precious chestnut curls. No, I’m not applying lip gloss,” I sneer, lowering my visor and gliding pink gloss across my lips in the mirror. I don’t miss Dylan’s marginally arched eyebrow in my peripheral as I pop my lips a couple of times.

Xavier laughs. “Precious chestnut curls?”

I flip the visor closed, ignoring the question. Which wasn’t really even a question, anyway. “I thought you had a spare first period on Thursdays.”

“I do. I’m heading to the hospital to visit Seb.”

“Cool.” I toss the lip gloss into the cup holder. The car swerves (only a bit this time) and I jerk us back onto the road. “Tell him I said hi.”

Xavier cusses on speakerphone. “Christ, how did you even get your license?”

Another rhetorical question I don’t bother answering.

He veers left behind me, off towards the highway. “Alright, I’ll catch you in English second period.” Then he adds, “And for the love of God, keep your eyes on the road.”

“Bite me, Xave.” I grin, then hang up. I slow the car a bit as we pass Main Street.Lavenderhas a new window display and there are some really nice cream and black silk pajamas on one of the mannequins. I’ll have to drop in next weekend and check them out.

“What happened to your hand?” I ask, motioning with my chin at Dylan’s bandaged right hand.

“Hurt it skateboarding.”

I nod. “Huh.”

He’s totally lying. I saw the only skateboarding he did last night, and that was just a few tricks out on the back deck. And he didn’t so much as stumble. He clearly busted his knuckles punching something—or someone. Hard.

I don’t push him, though. It’ll only piss him off. Possibly incite him into leaping out of the moving vehicle.

So, we go back to driving in silence.

When we pass the Volt billboard ad a little while later—the one marking the spot where the car leaping occurred, I glance over at him again, watching his eyes skim the ad with that cool, detached expression.

“What’s the deal there?” I ask. “With the Volt ads.”

“There is no deal,” he says in that bored tone I’m totally not buying anymore.

I roll my eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“They gave me a contract; I signed it. They took a bunch of photos.”

I roll my eyes again. “Wow, thanks for explaining how a modeling contract works.” I turn onto Winchester Street. “I meant, why did you do it?”

He’s quiet for a moment, and when I glance his way, he’s tonguing that damn lip ring.

I sigh. “Are you doing that thing where you don’t answer? Or just taking your time coming up with a response that clocks in at less than five full words?”

He shrugs. “Paid good money,” he says, still not looking at me.

So, Option B, then.

“Because you’re so strapped for cash these days?” I tease. But he doesn’t even grace that one with a response.

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