Page 103 of The One
And to make it even more special, he’d had the same wild horses design from my guitar and the bench under the oak tree etched into the case. Every time I look at it, I smile, wanting to get out my guitar and play that song. He’s so thoughtful.
The phone in my hand, though? It’s plain, utilitarian, and black like the soul of the sender.
It’s heavier in my hand than it should be, pressing down on me in a way I can’t explain.
This isn’t a gift. It’s an expectation. A demand.
I drop the box back onto the bed as if it’s burned me. The happy anticipation that had been bubbling under my skin mere moments ago is replaced by a cold, sinking dread.
I spot a sticky note on the lid and take in my father’s handwriting.
When I call, you answer. I want a report every night at nine.
A report?
Of what? It’s not like I’m privy to information.
And there’s no way in hell I’m sharing anything about what’s happening between Mateo and me with my father. God knows what he’d do then.
Crap, what now?
My good mood has vanished, blown away like smoke in the wind, leaving a bitter taste in its wake.
I glance at the phone again, its dark screen an unspoken reminder of what it represents, control, surveillance, chains I can’t seem to break.
How am I supposed to balance this?
Being with Mateo is like an exciting escape from everything I’ve known, but now my father’s shadow looms large, casting doubts over the tentative steps I was daring to take.
He’s watching me, isn’t he?
Father has his goons planted everywhere.
Why does he need me?
And how am I meant to talk to him tonight when I’ll be out with Mateo?
I press the power button on the phone, watching as the screen lights up, then hold it down until it powers off. If the phone isn’t on, he can’t call me.
Problem solved.
If only it were that simple.
With a sigh, I open the drawer of my bedside table and place the phone next to Isa’s. For a moment, I hesitate, then pull out the phone Mateo gave me and drop it in the drawer as well.
Three phones.
I went through twenty years of my life without owning a single one, and now, in the span of a few days, I’ve somehow ended up with three.
Chapter Forty
Mateo
Ilean against the wall, arms crossed, wishing Rom wouldn’t draw out these things so much. But I won’t stifle his fun, not yet, anyway.
Rom’s fist connects with the captain’s nose. Blood spurts in all directions from the blow, but I’m good. It’s not a small wound. Rom knows to make it bloody.
“Where are the crates, captain?” he spits out his title as if it was poison.
