Keeping Secret (Secret McQueen) - By Sierra Dean Page 0,35
his shoulders were trembling from the effort. I let out a huff of breath and my lips made a pfffft sound. “Can we agree to try not to get at each other’s throats for this trip? We’re in love. We’re getting married. Can we pretend everything is perfect for Callum’s sake?”
“You’re saying it’s not perfect?” This time his smirk betrayed him.
“Smartass.”
“I think we’re already where my parents were after a decade of marriage. Half an inch from strangling each other to death at any given moment.”
“Well, if we don’t do each other in, something tells me Callum will be more than willing to do it for us.”
Lucas’s charming smirk vanished, and with its departure came the familiar sinking feeling in my gut. I’d been teasing, but he appeared to be worried. Deeply and truly worried. He reached across the seat and took my hand, giving it a squeeze of false comfort. He might have meant to be comforting, but I knew he didn’t feel certain of our safety. It was written all over his face.
I squeezed back. “Everything is going to be fine.”
“I don’t know.” He had turned to stare out the window, and now I was looking at the back of his head. “I just don’t know.”
As it turned out, St. Francisville was a two-hour drive north of New Orleans, and the most interesting sight on the way was the dim, ominous outline of the Maurepas swamplands. The farther north we crawled, the more the silence thickened between Lucas and me, to the point where I was looking forwards to hearing whatever shitty, crackling song would come on the radio next because it was just one more three-minute interruption to the uneasy quiet.
The sign welcoming us to St. Francisville felt like a pin in the inflated balloon of our tension. The car ahead of us that held Morgan, Jackson and the member of Callum’s pack serving as our guide drove past the beautiful stately homes of the small town. The street was lined by big, old houses with wraparound porches and potted plants that were in bloom even in the early spring climate.
In the grand tradition of all American small towns, the main street was called Main Street, and we followed it all the way through the heart of the town and right back out again. I whipped my head around and watched our destination shrink out of sight into the gloom of the night.
“Uhhhh.”
“Patience.”
“And sweetness, my two greatest traits.”
“Eyes up front,” Lucas directed, gently rotating my chin towards the front seat again. “Look.”
The car ahead of us took a left turn and pulled off the main highway onto an unlit road. Dominick hit the signal and followed onto the gravel.
The wheels crunched the small rocks with the crackle of a bag of chips. Waving sycamore boughs dripping with moss brushed the roof of the car and hung in green curtains down the visible length of the road. A road that seemed to go forever and onward into nothing.
After about five minutes of driving through the Louisiana equivalent of a car wash, the road turned to proper pavement and fanned out into a huge circular driveway. In the center of the driveway was a fountain featuring a low rocky outcropping with a wolf standing on top posed in a howl stance.
The lead car pulled off to the side and we followed suit, taking an open spot in a parking lot already brimming full with a variety of mismatched automobiles ranging from a battered pickup with a Confederate flag sticker in the back window to a silver Lexus convertible.
The three Harley motorcycles next to the fountain piqued my interest, but I said nothing. What the hell were all these cars doing out here, and where was my uncle’s house?
Morgan and Jackson got out of the backseat, and Dominick let himself out before coming around to open Lucas’s door. Once Lucas was out, he rounded the back of the car and released me, offering me a hand to give me a more graceful exit from the backseat.
I don’t know how much grace mattered considering my T-shirt had a prancing cartoon pony on it and my hoodie had fucking ears.
The other driver was a petite young woman with auburn hair who was about two inches shorter than me and looked ten times nicer. She was smiling so much I thought her teeth might crack. Considering how actively Morgan was ignoring the wee driver, I suspected our resident alpha bitch wasn’t a big