Page 26 of Fatal Collision
I suppress an eyeroll. Summer loves her romcoms.
“The Life List, it is.”
Well,fuck.
When the credits roll on the screen, I wipe my cheeks dry. Summer is asleep beside me, locks of her blonde hair obscuring her cheek. It’s good that she’s sleeping because I will never admit to crying during a romcom. Not even if you point a gun at my head?—
“You’re crazy, you know that, right?”
“All the best women are, Kane. You’ll soon learn that.”
Fucking Kane… invading mythoughts again.
I carefully slide the laptop aside and climb out of bed as Summer mutters something in her sleep.
“You’ll owe me two orgasms after this. And I will collect.”
Why can’t I get Kane Ravencourt out of my head?
I rub my face before my attention catches on my mobile phone on the nightstand, and I pick it up to check the time as I leave the room to get a drink. Chris is out tonight, and my dad is God knows where, probably drunk as usual.
After flipping the light in the kitchen, I open the fridge, and a weight of lead settles in the pit of my stomach when I see the empty shelves. There are a couple of bottles of condiments, a loaf of bread, and an off-brand cheese. That’s all.
“Great,” I mutter, shutting the fridge. Of course there’s no food in the house. Why would there be? No one ever shops but me.
Heading over to the sink, I set my phone on the counter and pour myself a glass of water. I should sleep. It’s late, and I have to get up early. But my mind keeps racing, thinking about the other night… the power dynamic between us.
I’ve only seen Kane around town a few times. We don’t visit Bleakmoor Heights unless we have to, and they don’t come to Bleakmoor Falls unless they’re up to something shady. Why would they? They can’t risk the poverty staining their chinos,am I right?
Besides, it’s dangerous for them to come here. Gangrivalry and violent crimes are common, and when you walk around these parts dressed in clothes worth more than the average paycheck, you easily become a target.
My phone vibrates with a message from Rain, and we text back and forth for a few minutes while she tells me about the latest trouble she has gotten into.
The distraction is just what I need as I take a seat at the table. Rain sends me a picture of Malice passed out on the couch, a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth.
Rain:
If the house burns down, I’m blaming him.
Smiling, I click out of the chat and open Instagram. But don’t ask me what compels me to type ‘Kane Ravencourt’ in the search bar. Perhaps curiosity killed the cat, after all.
I click on his page and ignore the spark of heat between my legs when I study his profile picture. His page feels impersonal and carefully crafted like everything about him.
Photograph after photograph shows him posing with friends and leggy women who look like they fell out of the pages of a lingerie magazine.
My stomach twists with unease as I scroll past those before pausing at an image of Kane with his twin, who looks exactly like him, except his hair is shorter.
Squashed in the middle of the two hulking men is a girl with flowing brown hair and Kane’s eyes. Theymust all be siblings? The family resemblance is uncanny.
I scroll past a few more images, staring a moment too long at a photograph of Kane leaning back against his sleek sports car with his hands in his pockets. He gazes off into the distance, unaware that he’s being photographed, and I can’t help wondering who’s behind the camera. A friend, maybe? Or a girl?
Another text message from Rain comes through, and I go to respond, except I accidentally like Kane’s picture instead.
My heart jumps to my throat, and I quickly unlike it, but it’s too late. Seconds later, Kane follows my account.
“Shit,” I mutter. This is the last thing I need.
Kane:
