Page 65 of Bribed by the Billionaire Bad Boy

I can’t let her take this away. Not this.

I swallow my tears, keep my nails digging into my skull, and force out a single word while I curl in on myself, begging to hide. “No.”

“What?” she demand.

“No!” My voice breaks, and I gasp a breath. “I’m an adult.You don’t—”Get to control my life anymore.

“You are still a child!” The conviction in her tone makes my eyes snap open; they’re filled with tears. She tosses a hand in my direction. “Just look at yourself right now, Calypso. You really think you’re not acting like a child?” Exasperation fills her voice. “What are you possibly doing to earn money that makes you so guilty you’re in tears and refuse to tell me?”

I don’t answer. Because I can’t.

I just can’t.

No words or logical thoughts are forming anymore.

Mom rambles on for much too long in response to my silence, and I’m glad I can’t really put whatever she’s saying into words. I don’t want to make any of it physical. I already know the tone will haunt me forever.

When she finally stands, I don’t know what she’s decided about anything. When the door to her room finally closes, I try my best to push away the idea that she’s on the verge of tears. I could be mistaken. It was hard enough seeing through my own.

The emptiness in the living room clenches a fist around my soul, and I don’t like how loud the silence in the house is building to. I have to get out.

Away.

Anywhere else.

Still latched to my backpack, I stand on wobbling legs and reach into the side pocket for my phone. Strength grows, even as teardrops splash against the screen, and I manage to make it out the front door, down the street.

Night is getting earlier and earlier, and we’re well past the the navy purple taste of dusk. I push my way through darkness.

Stare at my four contacts.

Dad.

Dad will come. I know that. I know if I call, he’ll come pick me up. I don’t have a singular doubt in my head he won’tquestion anything before driving across town to get me. But I also know he’ll take me back to his house, to a guest room, to his family,hisfamily that too often I feel like an intrusion upon.

Lex Hawthorn.

His name glares up at me. And I smell muffins and hear music and feel hugs.

Whatever the heck we are, I don’t have a single clear clue.

But I text him anyway.

Are you busy?

The reply comes within moments.

Lex: Too busy for you, sugar? Never.

More tears splash against the screen and my little pull-out keyboard. I choke on a sob and force my legs to go faster.

Can you come get me?

It feels wrong.

It’s late.

I have no intention of coming back tonight.

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