Page 34 of Never Die for a Sinner
My skin bristles at the sound of his voice, and I shiver. He reaches over and turns the heat up.
“I was visiting my grandmother,” I answer quietly, keeping my eyes trained on the dash.
“This late?”
This feels like a breach in some unspoken contract. A moment of truce in a never-ending battle between us over who can get further under the other’s skin.
“She lives in a nursing home. I visit her a few times a week.”
I cast a glance in his direction and notice his hand on the steering wheel, the other on the shift knob in the center.
Why is watching him shift his fancy car the hottest thing I’ve ever seen?
And why have I never noticed the veins in his hands?
I readjust in the seat, suddenly hot in the small space, and tear my eyes away.
“I take it you’re close.”
I pause, trying to clear my head of the Levi-induced haze.
“She raised me . . . When I was twelve, I came to live with her. She’s the only family I have.”
I don’t know why I’m telling him this. He doesn’t care.
It’s Levi freaking Cross. If it’s not a vagina attached to some leggy blonde or a bottle of whiskey, it’s beneath him.
I’mbeneath him in his eyes. Probably why he goes out of his way to be a flaming asshole nearly every second of his life.
I clear my throat, readjusting in the seat to give my mind something else to focus on other than the vortex of a man beside me.
Levi is quiet, his fingers gripping the steering wheel tight enough that his knuckles start to turn white.
Guess I pissed him off, again.
“You shouldn’t be out so late,” he says after a long moment. “Especially in that piece of shit you call a car.”
Irritation and embarrassment flood through me in waves. I shove it down, propping my elbow on the door and laying my head in my hand while I continue to watch the Washington forest pass outside.
“Not all of us can afford Aston Martins, Levi.”
“Maybe you should think about saving your money a little better.” I hate it when he speaks to me like I’m a child in need of guidance.
“I’ll get right on that,” I reply coolly. “Right after I pay for the nursing home—”
“You’re paying for it?” He has the audacity to cock an eyebrow at me.
I’ll rip that eyebrow off in your sleep, Mr. Cross.
“How much does it cost a month?”
“Enough,” I reply curtly.
I don’t know why he cares so much. It’s not like I’m stealing from his family. I’m paying my dues by working six days a week at their fancy mansion to afford it.
“I should have walked home,” I grumble.
“I’d be happy to stop the car if you’d like.”
