“You want one?”
I shake my head only for him to laugh that stupid laugh.
“I knew I had you pegged right.” He clenches both cigarettes between his teeth.
“Pegged?” I can’t resist glancing at my blue sweater, skirt, and sandals. For the first time, I consider the impression I must make on someone like him. Designer clothes. Unruly blond curls, ending just past my shoulders. Sandals in winter.
With an insufferably arrogant shrug, he flicks his lighter. After igniting the other cigarette, he withdraws them both. “With one look, I knew you were a goody goody.”
“And I think you’re on drugs,” I counter childishly. “I know what sweating like that means, so don’t lie.”
I’ve been around Hale long enough to notice Daze’s twitching hands and the sweat beading on his forehead. Addicts speak a nonverbal language, fluent in desperation.
Another reason to fear him.
Another warning I confusingly want to ignore.
“Are you?” I wonder boldly.
“Am I what?”
“On drugs.”
I’m never like this. Callous. Rude. Probing. He’s kryptonite to my polished, coddled persona—maybe that’s it. Why I’ve stayed. Frances Heywood doesn’t exist in this room. I’m bitchy littleBlondie,left with no filter to hide behind.
And no escape from Hale. Memories of him fight their way out. I sense him in this room of all places. He’d love this. Somewhere dirty and dangerous, far from our father’s control.
This man reminds me of him in the worst way. That could be the real reason why I’ve tolerated him this long.
It’s a more fitting punishment than drowning.
“I’m sure you know every damn thing, Frey,” Daze says. He clips my name between his teeth, sharpening the vowel.
“Tell me what that tattoo means.” I nod to his chest, and it’s as if an invisible curtain drapes his expression, instantly closing him off.
And I know for sure—he’s avoiding the topic on purpose.
“Tell me—”
“I will,” he says carefully. “But first, you tell me why you were at the bridge.”
“I… I was walking,” I stammer.
“Walking.” He drags on his cigarettes and exhales, holding both between two fingers. The scent of smoke itches my nostrils, and I stifle a cough. “Like any bitchy little goody goody, you’re a terrible liar.”
I seethe at that assessment, but the “bitchy” part isn’t what I take offense to. He makes “goody” sound synonymous with “irrelevant.” As if all I am can be summed up in that one characterization.
Invisible.
“I’d believe you more if you said you were on your way to Bible study—”
“I changed my mind,” I demand, cutting him off. “Give me a cigarette.”
That startles him, and I take a savage glee in rattling his preconceived notions of me. Until I cough, that is. Still, I keep my palm outstretched.
“Say please.” He wiggles his fingers, making the cigarettes dance. “Or come and get it.”
It’s obvious from his smirk what he thinks I’ll do. Beg.