Page 66 of Go Luck Yourself
I take the bottle. “You are way too concerned with my water intake.”
“I would na have to be, if you’d drink enough of it.”
He produces another granola bar, a bag of carrot sticks, sandwiches, and passes some up to Siobhán and Finn too.
A handful of snippy comebacks pop to mind.
But all I say is “Thanks.”
Shit, I need to sleep. Like, really sleep, but I doubt even this level of exhaustion will result in anything more than a few restless hours tonight.
We eat in silence, the car quickly going arctic, and I regret my tank top all over again. But my stomach is full now and I close my eyes again and lean against the open window, focusing on how the icy wind rolls into my lungs, crisp and cool.
His uncle is screwing him over. Worse than my father ever did, at least in the way he treated Coal and me. If I got proof that Malachy is the one stealing Christmas’s magic, what would happen? He cares about smearing Loch so much, making sure their court is against him—would the scandal of people knowing that Malachy’s a thief be enough to not only get Christmas’s joy back, but also force him to give Loch the throne too?
Could my presence here help undo Loch’s bad reputation—notnecessarily with the press, but with his court? That was the point, right, to set the story straight about hishazing incident.
Or he could have organized my being here to cover up stealing Christmas’s magic? Maybe he’s hoping he can find out how much we know about the theft.
The thought doesn’t come with the annoyance and hatred I expect. It’s… deflated.
IsawLoch at the festival. How he was with those vendors.
And how he was with me, when I fell.
I want his uncle to be the one screwing us over.
My own thoughts catch on themselves, trip and tumble into silence.
Why?a voice whispers.Why do you care whether Loch’s the thief?
After about thirty minutes of riding while holding myself angled away from Loch, straining all the muscles I abused today so I don’t bump into him, I put my hand flat on the seat to prop against it and give my torso a break.
But my eyes are shut.
And I don’t see his hand already on the cushion.
I feel it now, though. The edge of his wrist against mine.
My body goes even tenser. Concrete solidified.
Pull away. It was an innocent mistake.Pull back.
But a second passes.
Two.
And it rapidly barrels past the time when I could yank away and claim it’s an accident and now, now, I’m actively touching him,barelytouching him, and the beat of blood in my injuries channels to pound, pound, pound over my heart.
It’s an accident. He touched my knees earlier, and that meant nothing, so this, this means—
His finger moves.
Hooks with mine.
Holy shit.
The icy wind thrashes against my face and chaos ratchets to boiling in my head, it’s haunting me, that juxtaposition, cold to hot to cold—
