Page 37 of Drown Like Heaven
I actuallywashallucinating him.
“Never mind.”
“How about this: a question for a question,” he suggested. But I didn’t like the sound of his suggestion at all. Mason didn’t ask normal questions, and his proximity made it hard to think straight. I needed to be able to think straight to keep my head above water with him.
“Only if I retain the right not to answer your questions if I don’t want to.”
He let out a long exhale, clearly not pleased with my answer. He’d have to get used to not getting everything he wanted.
I shifted on the rock, putting another inch of space between us, but Mason’s hand snapped out and grabbed my thigh, pulling me closer again. Keeping me attached to him.
A tiny thrill shot through my blood.
“Fine. You can ask the first question.” He didn’t take his hand off my thigh.
“How did you get the scars on your back?”
“You asked that last time,” he reminded me.
“And your answer was terrible.”
From something bad. Probably shouldn’t ask people about their scars.
I didn’t feel that bad for asking, even if he thought I should’ve. All his questions were invasive, sharp, and aimed straight at the parts of me I tried to hide.
“I was born with them. Better?” His fingers tightened a bit on my thigh, squeezing me. A flutter of heat danced in my stomach.
Did he want to move his fingers higher? Would I let him? Would itmatter?
“So, what? Your shoulders fused to the placenta in the womb or something? I don’t see how that would happen.”
“That’s another question.” He gave me space to respond, but I didn’t. Sure, it wastechnicallyanother question, but it felt like a follow-up, not somethingnew. “What’s your last name?”
“Masters. What’s yours?”
“Ashborn. Do you have siblings?”
“No,” I lied. “Do you?”
“No.”
I turned my head and our eyes connected. Neither of us were being honest, and we both knew that. We just didn’t knowwhatthings the other was lying about. Strangely, I liked it that way.
I couldn’t hide my soul from him, but I could control my words, turn my tongue.
You’re a lot more like me than you want to admit.
He slid his palm a half-inch higher on my thigh, warm even through my jeans.
My breathing got faster.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-one. You?”
“Older than that. Is your birthday soon?”
“In December. When is yours?”
