his voice flat. “You’ve lived very well under my thumb.”
“Are you using me?” I asked right then, my vulnerability slipping. “Are you going to fuck me over, Locke?”
He raised a brow. “Is that what you believe I’ll do?”
“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” I expressed, feeling exhausted. “You lied to me so well about Conor, you could be lying to me about everything else.”
“If you think that’s what I am – a liar – then you can leave, Charlotte. You can go and I’ll never bother you again.”
“Just admit it.”
“Admit what?”
“That you did it. That you lied about him. That you left him in there to fend for himself, that you led me to believe he would be okay! Just admit it!”
But Locke didn’t say a word. He lips pressed shut as he watched me shake now.
I wasn’t getting through to him. I’d sort of hoped he’d lash out at my rage, maybe acknowledge his lies in the heat of the moment.
I should have known Locke was too in control of himself to do that.
Being here was futile. I took a step back, aware I was going to fly off on him if I just stood around. I had so many toxic things I wanted to say, but I knew I would never forgive myself if I said them.
Instead, I muttered heatedly, “Everyone was right. You don’t give a shit about anyone but yourself, Locke.”
He didn’t even look at me as I delivered my final words. His eyes were downcast, staring thoughtfully at a spot on the desk. I turned away and stormed out. I didn’t even bother slamming the door for effect. He wouldn’t care.
I returned to the car instead, watched my fingers shake as I clutched the steering wheel and waited for the heat in me to die down.
I waited a very long time.
When I returned to the house, I was shocked to find the garage door open and Conor standing inside it. His arms were crossed over his – oh my god, he’d found work overalls to wear. My chest seized at the sight of them on him. Filthy fucking overalls, grey and tight across his chest, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. I could have had a heart attack right there in the car. He was staring in concentration in front of him, a hand rubbing at his mouth as he stared down at…
I raised a brow.
There was a sad looking car parked inside the garage. I didn’t know the make or model. Cars weren’t my thing. But holy shit, it looked sad as hell.
I parked the car in the driveway and stepped out. I felt my heart climb my throat as I slowly approached him. I didn’t know where we stood. This morning was tense and he looked wounded and angered, and they weren’t emotions I liked seeing on him.
“What’s this?” I asked timidly, my voice tiny. I stopped next to him, feeling unsure. My eyes scanned the sad looking car. Its grey paintjob from centuries ago was chipped and ugly. There was so much dust on the windows, I could hardly see inside the car, and what I could see was gross and worn.
“Jem delivered this just now,” he replied quietly.
I glanced around us and to the street, searching. “What, now?”
“He left just fifteen minutes before you came. Said he’d be back any minute with breakfast.”
“Are you meant to salvage this piece of crap?”
His lips quirked to one side, a half-smile that made my insides tighten. “Yeah, dove. I guess so.”
“Is it even salvageable?”
“It is. I can turn it into something nice. It won’t make a whole lot, but it’s a classic Camaro. It’ll make something.”
I nodded, pretending to be a whole lot interested in this stuff. Before he went to prison, he had spent countless time yammering away about cars, going over the restoration process to me in agonizing detail. I never soaked a word of it in because I was too busy staring at him. I’d been enthralled by his passion for it. The way he came alive. The way his fingers shook with the urge to race back out to the shed he’d had and get working.
I nodded again, to myself this time, aware of Jem’s intentions. He would have seen how edgy Conor was over dinner all that time ago. He was trying to bring him back to us by making him remember what he loved the most about freedom. I felt so thankful right then to have Jem