Page 163 of A Dead Girl's Guide to Living
I could still feel her warmth from the night before—how she’d felt beneath me, head tipped back, her hands fisted in the sheets like she didn’t know where else to put them. I could still hearthe small, desperate sounds she’d made, feel the tremor in her thighs when she was right there, at the cusp of pleasure.
She had been so shy, so careful, as if unsure she was allowed to make a sound or even touch me back. But when I kissed her deeper and her hands found my breasts, I’d nearly blacked out from the ache of her soft palms on my skin. God, I had wanted more, but last night had been for her.
All for her.
When I coaxed her hips upward, when my hand found all the right places, she became all motion and heat—her nails biting into my skin, her breath catching with each thrust of my fingers inside her.
And after—God, after—when she looked at me in the dim light that crept through the curtain, her cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes glassy—I knew I’d remember that image forever.
She had been so worried about me seeing her scar, as if it were a flaw instead of the most beautiful, defiant mark I had ever seen. I had touched it gently, tracing the pale pink line with my fingertips, and to me it wasn’t a flaw at all. It was proof. Proof that Ellis Langley was more than prickly comebacks and guarded silences.
It was proof that she had gone through hell—mind, body, and soul—and she was still here. Still smiling. Still letting herself be touched.
And now she sat beside me, feet on the dash, hair tangled in the wind, smiling at the blur of the world rushing past.
She was actively living.
Jesus, I felt some deep things for Ellis.
Before I could sit in that thought too long, Liv leaned forward, her head between the seats.
“Maybe we’ll hit traffic,” she said, almost hopeful, tapping my headrest.
“Maybe,” I murmured, my head spinning as Ellis laughed softly. That low, warm sound snapped the tension in my chest, and I could breathe again.
I hoped we did hit traffic, I found myself thinking. I didn’t want this journey to be over.
With the roofdown and the wind in our hair, it was the smell that hit me first—that salty tang clinging to the air, sharp and briny, such a contrast to the endless dust and dry heat we’d been inhaling for weeks. When I caught a faint shimmer of blue on the horizon, I let out a squeak, and Ellis sat up, her broad smile breaking across her face.
The ocean.
“We made it!” she cheered, clapping her hands.
The blue widened as we drove, the horizon opening into promise. Santa Monica. The end of the line. The end of one hell of a trip.
Tears pricked behind my sunglasses. I thought of Margaret, how I had kept my word and gotten her here. She’d had one last big adventure before moving on to her final one.
This was really happening.
Ellis’s cheeks were flushed as she clutched her travel dossier to her chest. I wasn’t sure why. Was she showing it proof that we’d made it? Who knew. I let her have whatever moment she needed.
As we hit Ocean Avenue, the streets clogged with tourists. Families crossing with dripping ice creams. Kids dragging stuffed animals twice their size. I could see the pier ahead, arching into the water, lit up with life.
A carnival at the end of the world.
“God,” Ellis whispered, leaning back against her seat.
I shook my head, my eyes fixed on the pier as the weight of it all settled over me. The end. The trail we’d followed for weeks was spitting us out into sunlight and saltwater—and for Liv, this moment was more than a landmark.
I glanced back at her in the rearview, studying her face.
This also meant we were that much closer to goodbye.
Finding a parking spot was probably the hardest thing we’d done the entire trip, and that was saying something.
By the time we pulled into one, we still had a walk ahead of us to reach the final sign, the final landmark photo. Ellis had begun filming content along the drive, documenting the end, aiming her camera at me a few times with documentary-style questions that made me snort as I tried to focus.
When we finally clambered out of the Mustang, the car gave a tired groan, as if it knew it had carried us across the country and was ready for a rest. We raised the roof and double-checked the locks. This wasn’t the desert anymore, and we couldn’t take risks.
