Page 63 of Tell Me Why
At first, the silence between us was super awkward. So I just started talking, asking him questions, and eventually he opened up to me. We ended up chatting all night—about life, work, everything. He’s a cool guy.
When I’m given the all-clear by the doctor, and discharged, Lowe walks me down to the parking lot, where Christian is parked, already waiting for me. He’s leaning against his red Viper, wearing jeans and a gray surf club sweatshirt, hood pulled over his wavy blond hair as he scrolls on his phone. He looks less polished than he normally does, but the rough, grungy vibe only adds to his appeal somehow.
“Hey, Boss,” Lowe says, snagging Christian’s attention. He glances up at us, his gaze flicking over me, like he’s trying to assure himself I’m okay.
They bump fists in a verybroway. “Thanks for watching over her, man. Anything suspicious?”
“Nope, all clear.” Lowe taps me on the shoulder and flashes me a smile. “See you back at the house. And remember, it’s all in in here,” he says, tapping his temple.
I laugh at his reference to our earlier chat about the power of the mind. “Got it, thanks.”
Christian flashes me a look as he opens the passenger-side door for me. “What was that about?”
Sliding into the deep bucket seat, I shrug. “Nothing. We were chatting last night, and he was giving me some advice. He’s a pretty insightful guy, actually.”
Christian’s mouth opens, like he wants to ask me what Lowe was giving me advice about, but in the end, he doesn’t. “Hungry?” he asks.
I’m starving, actually. Dinner last night at the hospital was a mushy mix of chicken, beans, and rice, and I didn’t have breakfast before being discharged this morning.
“I could eat,” I say.
His gaze finds me again. “Let’s get out of here. I know a good breakfast joint.”
A few minutes later, we pull up to an old shack right on the beach that I know well—Pacific Coast Diner. I used to come here with my friends almost every day after school. Their fries areamazing.But by far the best thing about them is that they’re nut-free, so I don’t have to worry about them killing me.
It’s early on a weekday, so when we walk in, we’re seated right away. The hostess leads us over to an inside table that overlooks the water. The sky is a bright sapphire blue, cloudless and endless, while the ocean below us is a deep cobalt blue. It’s crazy how such a fucked up place like Malibu can also be so beautiful…
“How are you feeling?” Christian asks. I glance over at him, and notice he’s not even looking at the menu. He’s looking at me. And he’s so damn hot sitting there in his hoodie—casual, self-assured. Like he doesn’t have a care in the world. There’s something appealing about that level of confidence. I wish I felt it.
“I still have a bit of a headache,” I say. “But I’ll live. Thankfully.”
“That shouldn’t have happened.” His face is unreadable. “But the members are suspicious of you.”
I lift a brow. “And whose fault is that?”
He shrugs. “I wasn’t going to lie to everyone about who you are.”
I lift my chin and look at him from under my lashes—more playful than skeptical, but if I’m being honest, it’s a little of both. “So you do have some small drop of decency, after all?”
Not towards me, obviously, but if I’m looking at this objectively, then being transparent with the Burning Crown members is the decent thing to do—and it’s something I wouldn’t expect from him.
Not that I believe him entirely, though. I always get the sense there’s something just below the surface with Christian—something I can’t quite see.
That’s my brother’s influence.
Everyone has an agenda, Eve. Even when they’re telling you they don’t.
And that’s the truth. We’re all in this for our own reasons, including me. And those reasons aren’t always apparent. I hate to be so cynical, but that’s the reality I grew up in—surrounded by powerful men and their secret agendas.
The waitress walks up and places two ice waters in front of us. He smiles at her while he orders, and for a split second, I catch a glimpse of that charm he’s so famous for. But if I’m being honest, watching him focus his attention on someone else doesn’t feel good.
I glance at the waitress’s nametag—Andrea. Early twenties. Pretty. And enamoured with Christian. Can I blame her though? We’re all human at the end of the day, and this boy is painfully good-looking.
When Christian is done, Andrea turns to me, pencil poised on the pad in her hand, ready to take my order. I open my mouth to speak, but Christian cuts in, “She has a severe nut allergy. Can you make sure to tell the cook?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
“Great. She’ll have the waffles, scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, sourdough toast, and fresh fruit.” I blink at him. What in the 1950’s just happened? “Oh, and bring some coffee and whatever pastries you have.”
