Page 49 of Boy of Ruin
But it is nice not being alone. It seems the voices in my head are quieter when I’ve got another voice to hold onto. I think that’s why Maverick didn’t give me shit about her coming.
“Who fucking knows,” I mutter, glancing over at her. She’s glaring at me, her green eyes narrowed.
“What’s going on, Luce? Why did Mayhem pin you down this morning? Why’d you let him?” She asks it in a way that makes me think she’s trying to put me down.
Watch yourself.
“You shouldn’t let him do that to you. Sid left you.” O doesn’t know why, of course. She just knows she’s…gone.
I shift lanes, pass a slow-moving car on the highway, on the right side, then yank the wheel back to the left lane.
A startled breath leaves O’s big fucking mouth, and she holds on tight to the door handle. I don’t say anything, just keep driving north to Virginia.
Maverick is with Cain doing some fucking surveillance for the 6, bringing in that hacker we had to leave, or he’d be with me. Ezra and Brooklin are probably getting fucked up somewhere, and I realize I haven’t asked Mav how he feels about them spending so much time together.
I haven’t asked Brooklin, either, how it was. With him. Did he hurt her? Is he…rough? Is he going to hurt my fucking wife?
Lie to Me by 12 Stones is blaring through the speakers, and the wind streaming in through the cracked windows is loud as fuck, but none of that is enough to get Ophelia to shut the hell up as she keeps talking from the passenger side.
Why did I bring her?
Oh, that’s right. Because I fucking called her when I was high out of my goddamn mind and she came to my house.
I could’ve told her to stay at her house when she picked up some clothes from there and we dropped her car off. Should have. But I thought having her with me would prevent me from doing something fucking stupid with Julie. The more time that goes by that my wife doesn’t call me, doesn’t look for me, the less upset I am.
The more pissed the fuck off I get instead.
“What’s going on with you and Mayhem, anyway? And are you getting a…divorce?”
I almost run off the goddamn road at that question, my jaw ticking, pulse flying. I run my hand over my nose, which seems to have developed a steady stream of mucus lately with all the fucking blow I’ve been doing.
Tightening both hands on the wheel of my car, I try to keep my tone even when I say, “No.” I’m not getting a fucking divorce. Those things don’t exist with the 6. Sometimes, I think my dad had my mom killed. I think that single car wreck was all bullshit. I think someone ran her off of the road because he got involved with fucking Pammie.
Too late to ask him that now.
Too late for too many fucking things now.
A flash of how it felt, driving that knife into his head, hearing his inhuman screams—a sound I’ve heard many times before with all the bullshit I’ve done for the 6, but not from my father—it all echoes in my head. I want to punch myself to get it out of my mind. I want to drive off the fucking road. Cross the median, hit a tractor trailer head on.
“Then why are you—”
“Can you please stop talking?” I cut O off, digging my hand into the pocket of my shorts and grabbing my lighter. I clench it tight, not wanting to smoke in the car because I’ve tried to stop doing that. For Sid.
I can feel O glaring at me, feel her anger, too. I don’t care. I’ve never given a fuck about anyone’s anger except my wife’s. Nothing has changed.
Again, I glance at the traffic across the median.
So tempting.
O’s voice is laced with anger when she starts with, “You want to use me for—”
“How the fuck am I using you?” I snap back, knowing I’m doing just that. “I haven’t even kissed you. You haven’t fucking sucked my dick, O. Please explain how the fuck you think I’m using you? I thought we were friends—”
Her hand comes to said dick, cutting off my words.
She palms me, and I’m not hard yet but if she keeps running her hand up and down me, my basketball shorts not leaving much to the imagination where the feel of her touch is concerned, I’m going to get there.
I keep my eyes on the road. Fumble my fucking lighter, dropping it down into the crease between the seats. Fuck.
