that option for a second. Should we go back? Every part of me is screaming at me to burn rubber back home and roll out the damage control, but there’s also a part of me that’s railing against that option. If I go running back there, panicked and freaking out, I’m giving Alex precisely what he wants. I’ll be reacting the way he’s undoubtedly expecting me to react, and I don’t want to give him that satisfaction. It’d mean he won, and Alex Moretti is never going to fucking win with me. I will sit here in the car, and I will make Max play in the rain if it means I get to be the stronger person.
“Sorry, Maxie. If your coach still thinks you guys can play, then I do, too. Out you go.”
Disappointed, he shoots me a betrayed grimace as he opens the car door and steps out into the wild weather. Before he slams the door closed behind him, in his most serious tone, he says, “If I die of pneumonia, it’ll be your fault. I will haunt you, Silver. And I’ll be really good at it, too. You’ll be so scared, you’ll probably choke on your own tongue and die.”
The threat’s kind of endearing, really. I’m not really worried about it, since it seems I’m being haunted by a real life, living monster now anyway, and he’s dead set on ruining my entire fucking life. Once Max is gone, I open up the message Alex sent, and I tap out a reply.
Me: If you think this is cute, you're sorely mistaken. Do NOT say anything weird to my dad. About ANYTHING.
Max’s coach must be a hard ass because he makes the kids play even when the rain is hammering on the roof of the van like a drum. I sit in the driver’s seat, unable to do anything but nervously sweat and dig my fingernail into the cord to my headphones until I’ve stripped the plastic from the copper wires inside and I’ve ruined them beyond repair.
Max groans and shivers all the way home, smearing mud and mangled blades of grass all over the place. My pulse rises at an alarmingly rapid rate when I pull into our driveway, bracing myself for the scene I’m about to stumble across in the garage, but…the door is up, the lights are on, and there’s no one there.
I was kind of hoping Alex would get bored, realize he’d made his point and leave, but his motorcycle’s still sitting in the drive, so looks like I’m shit out of luck there. That can mean only one thing: Alex Moretti has made it inside my house.
13
SILVER
“Cut the shit. You’re lying.” My heart bottoms out at the hard edge to my father’s voice. “There is absolutely no way—”
I nearly trip over my own feet as I hurry into the kitchen, my pulse thumping urgently in all of my extremities. I feel like I’m going to pass the fuck out. When I throw myself through the doorway, miracle upon miracles, Dad’s hand isn’t wrapped around Alex’s throat. I barely know what to do with myself as Alex, leaning up against the fridge, perfectly at home, like he’s been here a thousand times before, looks over at me and winks. The majority of his ink is hidden by his long-sleeved shirt, but the intricately woven design—looks like vines and thorns—sprawling up the right-hand side of his neck is still very visible, as are the backs of his hands. There’s just no hiding that ink. Not that Alex looks even remotely fazed by the fact that his artwork is on show.
“Silver!” Dad grins over his shoulder when he notices me standing behind him. “Sorry, honey, I only just got your message. Your friend Alex here has been telling me that he met Paul Ryder from Denver Blues at a concert last year. Remember, your mom and I went to see Denver Blues play last year, too? I would have lost my cool if I’d gotten to shake Paul’s hand. Silver isn’t such a huge fan. I don’t know what I did to deserve a daughter that doesn’t appreciate good music.”
At any other time, I’d never let a sly dig like that from Dad fly, but I barely even hear it today. I’m far too busy boring holes into the side of Alex’s head. “What are you doing here, Alex?” I try and keep my voice steady, but my anxiety is tussling with my anger, and