Page 49 of The Oscar Escape
“Yourself.”
“Bullshit,” she shot back.
He could tell he’d struck a nerve from the stubborn set of her jaw. “It’s not bullshit, and you know it.”
“For four freaking years, you didn’t give a damn about me.”
That wasn’t true. He’d barely thought of anything else. He schooled his features. “You didn’t need me then.”
“How would you know that?” she fired back, slightly breathless either from the trail’s steep incline or from her heightened emotions—or both.
And she wasn’t the only one.
“I’ve kept tabs on you. I knew that after I left school, a record label contacted you, and you started writing songs. You had Sebastian and Phoebe, and then Dom came on as your manager after you graduated. You were working, but you weren’t—”
“What?” she challenged.
“You weren’t running yourself into the ground like you did last night.”
“Boston was nothing. A slight bump in the road.”
She had to be kidding.
“Now I’m calling bullshit,” he roared as the rain intensified. “I could smell the whiskey on you. Dom said you’d been downing cold medication, popping muscle relaxers, and taking prescription pain meds. It’s fucking irresponsible behavior.”
“My behavior is none of your business,” she snarled, eyes flashing with anger.
“Like it or not, Pop Princess, after what happened on the island, your behavior sure as hell is my business now. We were supposed to be here for a few days so you could rest and lie low. But then you went all Aria-crazy when the ferry arrived in the harbor, and—”
“Aria-crazy?” she lobbed back, cutting off his tirade. “Is this a new expression I’m unaware of?”
“Yeah, it’s your brand. Your eat-worms persona. The I’m-as-tough-as-nails-and-nothing-scares-me facade. And God help anyone or anything that gets between you and a box of bonbons.”
She scoffed. “That’s my brand?”
He couldn’t slow down. The dam had burst, and every clawing emotion he’d felt since he’d kissed her on his twenty-first birthday came rushing out.
“Wait, there’s more to Aria-crazy,” he continued, his voice rising a harried octave. “I forgot to mention the whole I’m-gonna-punch-your-lights-out-because-I’m-a-firecracker-of-a-fighter quality to your craziness.”
“You’re lucky I don’t want to get charged with another crime,” she fumed. “Otherwise, I’d embrace my firecracker ways and kick you in the shins like I’d wanted to kick the bully in second grade but couldn’t because, that’s right, you had to save me from myself,” she exclaimed and stopped in front of an arched gate that led into the lighthouse’s fenced-in yard. “What do you want from me, Oscar?” she demanded over the pound of rain, her eyes wild with passion.
“We don’t have time for this. It’s fucking pouring. We need to seek shelter.”
“Oh, forget shelter,” she barked. “What is it? Do you think I’m too stupid to understand? Do you want to take a page from Justin’s playbook and make fun of me for using highlighters to help me read and write?”
How could she accuse him of that?
His blood boiled. “I’m nothing like him, and you know I don’t think you’re stupid. How could you even accuse me of that?”
“You’re treating me like a child and not telling me everything. I’ll ask you again. What do you want from me? Why are we here?”
He stood there like a goddamn chump.
“Okay, Oscar, if that’s how it’s going to be, I’ll find my own shelter. Thank you very much,” she raged, opening the little gate, then hauling ass toward the lighthouse.
Soaked to the bone, he stared at the path and listened to her footsteps fade. A door slammed. He looked up as a crack of lightning lit up the sky, followed by a booming clap of thunder. “Dammit,” he muttered and hightailed it through the arched gate. He surveyed the quaint lighthouse compound that consisted of a little white house connected to a stone column with a beacon on top. He took the three steps to the porch in one stride. His saturated hair dripped into his eyes as he fiddled with the knob, but the door wouldn’t budge.
He banged his fist against the solid surface. “Aria, open up. There’s lightning, and it’s really coming down out here.”
