That dick. Nothing’s ever his fault. You’d think a lifetime of persecution would teach him that yes, every once in a while, he’s the reason for the bad shit that happens around him. But no, right now he’s too blinded by anger and too deep up his own ass to give a crap and realize that maybe I’ve got stuff going on that doesn’t involve him.
The truck creeps up behind me, the window rolled down. “Get in, Daley.”
I flip him off. I keep holding my middle finger up as I walk.
“Daley,” he says. “Come on. I’m sorry. Please get in. I didn’t know.”
“Asshole.”
“Daley.”
“What do you want?” I stop walking and throw my hands up. “Can you just leave me alone?”
The truck stops. “No, I can’t, because I’m your bodyguard still, and because I care about you. So please, get in the truck.”
I take a few deep breaths and rip the door open. I hop into the passenger seat and sit there, staring at the dashboard. He’s not going to leave me alone, no matter what, and eventually he’ll drag me into the car kicking and screaming. I might as well keep my dignity.
We start driving again. He’s heading back to my house. We don’t talk for a minute, and I manage to calm down fractionally.
“There are some good names on this list.”
“Fuck you,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“I mean it. Good guys. You could nab yourself a top-tier husband from this paper.”
“You’re such a prick.”
He grins at me. “You know I don’t want you to marry any of these fuckers, right?”
“I’m not sure you really give a crap what happens to me so long as you clear your name.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it? You haven’t spoken to me in years, then suddenly you reappear in my life like you never left it.”
“Daley—”
“Seriously, Rian, what’s happening here? Are we on some mission to find the truth? Or is this some sick game where you fuck with my emotions?”
He slams on the brakes. The truck comes to a screaming halt in the middle of the street. He leans across the center console, grabs my hair, and crushes my mouth in a kiss.
I blink rapidly, then ease into that kiss like sinking into a steaming hot bath.
I taste his tongue and lips. He’s not gentle and not calm. It’s a claim, a message. And it feels good, so fucking good. It reminds me that things might be at their lowest, but there’s still pleasure in this world.
“I’m not playing a game,” he says quietly as he pulls away, puts the truck into gear, and keeps driving.
Chapter 19
Rian
Quinn and Sean are lying about something.
I don’t know what they’re hiding, but they weren’t subtle about it. Sean seemed supremely uncomfortable with the whole interaction and Quinn went from calm to trying to gorilla-smash my skull to bits in about three seconds. In my experience, big emotional swings like that mean there’s something more going on, and now I need to figure out what they’re trying to bury.
This is how things go in the clans. The past is meant to stay the past, and nobody wants their old secrets dug up. Silence means crimes go unpunished and everyone remains complicit, if only because the culture within the family is so steeped in keep your mouth shut and mind your own business that nobody’s willing to break ranks and talk. Even if people know the truth about what happened to Megan, they’ll never say.
Silence makes sure the guilty remain free.
But I’m tired of silence.
Which I know makes me a coward in some ways. If I were truly brave, I’d tell the whole fucking world that I had nothing to do with Megan’s death. Every time someone called me a killer to my face, I’d make them eat their fucking words and never once admit to taking her life, through silence or otherwise.
At this point, though, it would only be counterproductive.
I have to keep playing my role. The second I start pushing back is the second people stop talking to me, even though they barely tell me a damn thing as it is. I’m useful as a scapegoat, and I can play up the contrite, redeemed sinner aspect a little bit, but if I start trying to deny it ever happened, people will think I’m a petty liar. I still have some access, and if I want to keep chasing these leads and hunting down the truth, I need to keep on taking this abuse.
But I won’t always. This isn’t forever. I have to keep reminding myself that one day this will all be over and I can finally move on with my life.
Eight long years.
Eight years of living in a world that thinks I’m a killer. Eight years where the only reason I’m not in jail is all thanks to the clan stepping in and squashing any police involvement in my case. Eight years of hell.