Page 132 of Crew Princess
Zellman yawned, sitting up. He’d had his legs up on the dashboard, his cup in one hand, a half-eaten hot dog in the other. “Nah, man.” He threw a lopsided grin over his shoulder to where Cross and I were in the back. “Let’s take the truck to the lovebirds’ house, get in mine. Tabatha took Sunday home in your truck. I’ll drop you off.”
Jordan didn’t respond; he just drove us home.
When we got there, Zellman and Jordan went to Z’s truck, and Cross lingered on the sidewalk.
No one said goodbye. We just dispersed.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
Z and Jordan heard, stopping.
Cross had his hands in his pockets, his head hanging down. “I, uh, I know I should go in there with you, but Taz. She’s…” He gestured to his head. “She’s been on my mind. I can’t get her out, and I think… I don’t know, I think it’s a twin thing. I think she needs me.”
My eyebrows rose. “You’re going to your house?”
He shrugged. “Or wherever she is. If she’s not at the house, I’ll go to Race’s. I got no problem sneaking in and crashing on their couch. He told us where the key is.” He eyed me. “That okay with you?”
“Yeah.”
I was surprised, because it truly was. I didn’t know if Channing was in our house, but it didn’t matter. I didn’t feel alone walking in there—not the way I used to when I would avoid going home.
“I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?” He took my hands and pulled me in. His lips brushed over mine. “I love you.”
I kissed him back. “I love you.”
He walked backward first, then turned toward his truck. Z and Jordan, seeing we were fine, waved and got into Z’s truck. A second later, they were gone. Cross was waiting for me to get in, so I did. Unlocking the door, I gave him a last wave over my shoulder and stepped inside.
I heard him drive away as I walked into the kitchen. Then the hairs on the back of my neck shot straight up and I froze, mid-step. But there was no one in the kitchen.
I whirled.
There, sitting in the farthest chair in the living room, near the fireplace, was Drake, a poker in hand.
“We need to talk.”
My heart was pounding.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
“Drake.”
It just kept thumping. Loud. Strong.
Using the poker, he shoved himself out of the seat, and even across the room, he seemed to loom over me. He didn’t look good. He had a different edge, harder, more desperate.
He moved toward me.
I backed up. “Stop.”
He didn’t acknowledge me, just put the poker down and resumed his path toward me.
“Come on.” His tone was brisk. His eyes tired. His hair looked like he’d been raking his fingers through it nonstop, and underneath the edge, the desperation, the roughness, was exhaustion. He was resigned—I saw it now as he passed me.
He always had a purpose—everything he did, every move he made. Now, he was just trudging along. Life had weighed him down.
The round face he and his brother both shared was more haggard now, even since I last saw him at the store. His dark eyes looked almost washed out, and I hadn’t noticed in the store, but he’d lost some of his bulk. He was thinning down.
