a sweep of thick black lashes, and his gaze is clear. “No reason at all,” he agrees in a soft voice. “Come on, honey.”
He turns us to go when George Saint lashes out a final time, his ugly barbs finding their mark on my skin. “Put on your airs, girlie. But I know you’re nothing. A by-blow, unwanted and left behind. Only picked up by the Bakers because they felt sorry for you.”
Macon halts, his long body humming like a struck tuning fork. I, on the other hand, am numb. It serves me well when I place a hand on Macon’s back and urge him forward, silently pleading with him to ignore the hateful man who gave him life. And he does. His arm is firm around my waist, holding me up, as he guides me away.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Delilah
There is an incessant ringing in my ears as I walk along with Macon, a pained smile plastered on my face. I suppose he’s wearing some semblance of a pleasant expression as well, but I can’t make my body work enough to check. The entirety of the nasty encounter with Macon’s father probably took all of two minutes. And yet it was enough to feel as though I’m coated in a sticky grime from inside out. A greasy lump of emotion slides down my throat, and I swallow convulsively.
Blindly, I let Macon lead me, the crowd ebbing and swelling around us. And then we are at the car, North stepping up to open the back door for me. But Macon touches his arm, leaning in so that no one else can hear. “I need the keys.”
Whatever North sees in Macon’s eyes is enough to sharpen his gaze. He gives Macon a quick nod. “In the ignition.” Shutting the back door, he then opens the front passenger door for me. His eyes hold concern, and I give him a tight smile as I get in.
Inside the big Mercedes SUV is blessedly cool, the air running in a steady hum, Sia playing softly on the radio. Shaking slightly, I lean back against the plush leather as Macon rounds the car. With an impatient grunt, he tosses his cane in the back and then slides into the driver’s seat with deft ease, even though he has a broken leg, and the walking boot isn’t small.
“Should you be driving?” I can’t help asking. My voice is like gravel, my throat hurting as if I’ve been screaming. He shoots me a quelling look, something wild in his eyes as if he’s holding on by a thread, and I lift a hand in placation. “Right. Carry on.”
Another grunt, and we’re off, smoothly pulling out onto the road. Neither of us says a word as he maneuvers through traffic without hesitation. Horrible accident or no, it becomes clear that Macon is an excellent driver. Memories of sitting through driver’s ed class with him when we were sixteen flit through my head. He’d been the teacher’s pet then, something that annoyed me as usual. The more so when he beat my class record time for parallel parking by one measly little second.
I glance his way now and find him staring grimly at the road. Sweat peppers his temple, and his jaw begins to twitch, but he keeps on driving with determination as if he just needs to get to his destination and everything will be okay.
Oddly, he’s not heading back to Malibu but south toward Hollywood. I don’t question it but relax as much as I can and watch the passing scenery with disinterest. He turns the car into Griffith Park and heads for the loop trail. At the first empty overlook, he pulls over and turns off the car. In the silence, the engine quietly ticks.
Macon draws in a breath, then leaves the car, shutting the door behind him. I scramble out of my seat and follow. The air is sweet with the scent of eucalyptus and wildflowers and hot in the afternoon sunlight. Macon paces for a moment, then leans his forearms on the roof of the SUV. His shoulders hunch as he struggles for a breath.
With a violent curse, he slams his open hand on the roof. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Each curse punctuated by a hit to the car.
Silently, I watch him, afraid to get too close, afraid to move too far away. His eyes squeeze tight for a long moment, and then they open wide, his gaze landing on me. “Are you all right?” His voice cuts