“Why the fuck are you in my house?” I ask. “Did Mom let you in?”
“Your locks are shockingly easy to pick,” he says. “Living in this neighborhood, you really should invest in some better ones.”
“Again, why are you here?”
“Just visiting,” he says, lounging back and lying his arm along the back of the couch like this is his fucking house. “I said I wouldn’t show up at school. You didn’t say I couldn’t come here.”
“Get out of my house,” I snap.
“And while I was dropping off more food, I realized there’s no good place to sit while I wait for you,” he says, looking so fucking proud of himself I want to knock his teeth out.
“You know my mom’s just going to sell it the second she runs out of drug money.”
He shrugs, still looking amused.
I glare back at him. My heart is banging around my chest like a bouncy ball, because apparently sometimes I get to be totally cool when he’s around, and sometimes I’m on the edge of a nervous breakdown. And the fun part is, I never know which I’ll get. Just when I think I’m immune to his effect, this shit happens.
“Get the fuck out of my house, Royal,” I say quietly.
“Okay,” he says, lumbering up from the couch. God, his body is so fucking massive. In my tiny living room, his head nearly touches the ceiling, and between him and the big, new, fancy sectional, there’s barely room to breathe.
“Wait,” I say, my eyes narrowing. “What do you mean, you were dropping offmorefood?”
“Preston said he’d paid all your bills,” Royal says. “I’ll be damned if someone else is going to take care of you while I sit on my ass and don’t lift a finger to help. So, food and furniture it is.”
I just gape at him for a second, trying to comprehend what he’s saying. I thought Preston sent that food. I hate knowing it was Royal, that he did something nice for us.
“Since when do you talk to Preston?” I grit out.
He shrugs. “It came up.”
“When?” I demand.
“When I pulled you out of the car,” he says with a shrug, like it’s nothing.
We just stare at each other for a long minute.
“You pulled me out of what car?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at him.
“Preston’s truck,” he says. “When you left it running. I kicked in the garage door, broke the truck’s window, and pulled you out. How’d you think you got out?”
I swallow hard, blood rushing in my ears. It’s not true. Preston pulled me out. He told me he did.
Didn’t he?
Or did he just accept my thanks?
And if Royal is lying, how would he know those details? I try to remember the days after that. Preston did go out a few times. He must have had his truck window replaced. And the garage door—someone would’ve come to fix that, probably while I was upstairs in my daze of numbness. All that time, he never told me. He let me think he’d pulled me out. He didn’t tell me Royal had touched me while I was unconscious. That he’d probably been alone with me. He could have taken me—
I stumble back against the TV stand, gripping it to keep myself upright.
Royal’s lying. He has to be.
He would have taken me. He hates Preston, and for whatever reason, he can’t seem to leave me alone. He still thinks I belong to him. He’d never have handed me over to Preston. Not when he had me at his mercy, completely helpless.
I know what Royal does when I’m helpless.
Suddenly, I’m cold all over. Preston must have caught him. That’s the only explanation. He heard him breaking into the garage and came down. They didn’t fight—I would have seen marks on Preston that night. He must have stopped him, probably held a gun on him and demanded he give me back.