When You Come Back to Me (Lost Boys #2) - Emma Scott Page 0,5

and Uncle were handling me as if I were a ticking bomb, ready to go off.

I could work with that.

Luggage stowed, I slid into the backseat of the town car, Mags on my right and Reginald sitting up with the driver.

“I need to make a little pit stop before we head to the homestead.”

“Oh?” Aunt Mags surreptitiously glanced at the delicate gold watch on her wrist.

Reginald craned his head around, frowning. “Where to?”

“Union Square, in the City. A little back-to-school shopping.” I tugged at the collar of my pineapple shirt. “You don’t mind, do you?”

They exchanged glances and then both smiled thinly at me. “Of course not.”

Four hours and $14,000 later, I had enough fine coats, shoes, designer jeans, sweaters, and silk scarves to get me through the school year.

“It’s quite pleasant in Santa Cruz until October,” Uncle Reginald said, eyeing the cashier at Gucci as she zipped an ankle-length wool coat into a garment bag. “You might want to think about clothes for warm weather.”

“I have thought about it, dear uncle,” I said with a pointy smile as I handed the gal my heavy black AMEX card. “But where I live now, it’s always winter.”

He and Mags exchanged more looks, and pity flashed over their faces.

Too late for that, I thought. The time to care about what they did to me was before Alaska. Not after.

I left the store dressed in designer jeans, a black silk button down shirt, and a black pea coat that I wrapped around me like armor. Aunt Mags eyed the trunk of the town car, bulging with the rest of my purchases, and smiled brightly.

“Time to head home? It’s about an hour and a half drive to Santa Cruz—”

“I’m not quite done preparing for my triumphant return to the land of the living,” I said, running a hand through my ash blond hair. “Why don’t you two grab a coffee somewhere while I pop into the salon?”

Without waiting for an answer, I headed to the DryBar salon across the street from the Square. Either it was a slow day, or the stylist thought I was hot (most likely the latter). I got in right away.

Damon stood behind me in the chair and ran his hands up through my thick hair that was cut short on the sides but longer on top. “Gorgeousness,” he said. “Don’t you dare make me cut this off.”

I met his eye in the mirror and gave him my flirty if-all-goes-well-we-might-fuck look. “Never. How about some color?”

“Perrrrfect. What did you have in mind?”

“I’m open to suggestions.”

“With your coloring, I think something silvery would make those eyes of yours stand out like wow.”

“Do it.”

Several hours later, I emerged into the setting sun with silver hair that made my pale skin and green eyes even more stark.

Purely by coincidence, Damon’s dinner break happened to be the same instant he was done with my hair. At my request, he took me to the smoke shop a few doors down and bought four cartons of Djarum Black clove cigarettes and a silver flask with my credit card, then a bottle of my favorite vodka from the liquor shop next door.

In a small alley behind the Square, we laughed as the vodka spilled over my fingers while pouring it into my brand-new flask. Damon went in for a kiss. Or what I guessed was a kiss—his tongue was apparently trying to get to my asshole via my mouth. He rubbed against me, instantly horny and out of breath.

“You are so fucking hot,” he breathed into my neck. “How old are you? Nineteen? Twenty?”

I smiled sweetly. “Seventeen.”

Damon reared back, his eyes wide. “The hell…? Are you trying to get me arrested?”

I held up the bag of smokes and booze. “Thanks for your help. And for the hair. Looks fab. Five big ones on Yelp.”

“Asshole,” Damon sniffed and strode away.

I met my aunt and uncle at a Starbucks. They were both obviously out of patience with me and yet too chickenshit to do anything about it.

“My, your hair looks…nice,” Mags said.

“Very modern,” Reginald added.

“Thanks.” I took a shot from my flask, capped it, and put it back in my coat. “Shall we?”

Reginald shot to his feet. “Yes, indeed. Let’s go home.”

Home.

I wasn’t familiar with the concept. As a kid, home had been a cold, loveless museum—everything was very beautiful, very expensive, and you only saw someone who lived there when you touched something you weren’t supposed to.

Then Alaska happened and obliterated any idea or concept I’d had of