Out of my mind, I swiped her up and carried her, as she kicked and screamed, to the sidewalk, where I could properly ask her what the hell she was thinking.
“Mommy lets me play in the street.” She was lying, of course, and not a minute later, her mom pulled up, totally oblivious to the drawn hearts and rainbows she drove over.
I didn’t bother to say a word, but later that night, the guilt gnawed at me. So much so, I skipped school the next day, to confess what happened and quit my job, feeling like a total failure. A year later, I learned the little girl was killed. Hit by a car in front of her house while she played. According to the article, she was left home alone after school.
Knees tucked up into my chest, I sit on the bed, staring off at the wall across from me. I don’t even know what it means that Laura was on the balcony earlier today. If she’s so mentally unstable that she’d try to jump, or chase her dead grandson over the railing. All I know is I can’t get the visual of her lying on the pavement with her skull cracked open out of my head. I should be asleep right now, but the scenario just keeps playing on a loop, and experience tells me it won’t stop until I check to make sure she’s all right.
Cold hardwood floors hit my bare feet, and I pad quietly toward my locked door. Cracking it open, I peek to find the hallway empty and quiet, and continue on down one flight of stairs, and past the foyer, where I skid to a halt. “Shit.”
Sampson lifts his head as I approach, but doesn’t bother to move from where he’s made the Blackthorne crest his bed for the night. Instead, his big blockhead pans slowly after me, as I tiptoe past.
The sight of him rattles my nerves even more, and I gotta believe the dog can sense it, the way he keeps a wary watch, while I scamper toward the elevator. Just a quick check will, hopefully, allow me to close my eyes and get some sleep, though. Start over tomorrow.
The elevator doors open, and I’m hit with the sound of screaming for the second time in one day. I race toward Laura’s bedroom, But skid to a halt a second time when I find Lucian camped out on the floor beside her door.
One leg propped up, he rests his elbow atop his knee, a drink dangling from his hand. He only spares me a momentary glance, eyes brimming with exhaustion and apathy.
“I’ll … sorry. I’ll leave you alone.” I spin around to leave, but pause and turn back toward him. “Is she okay?”
Without bothering to look at me, he gives a subtle nod and tips back his drink.
“Do you need anything?”
Lips pressed to a hard line, he shakes his head.
My heart is pounding in my chest, mostly from the unexpected encounter, but also because the man just makes me nervous as all hell.
Again, I turn away, but stall halfway. “I’m … sorry about my comment this afternoon. About your outfit? Diarrhea of the mouth sometimes.” I catch a flicker of distaste dance across his face, until he lifts his glass again for another sip.
The clink of the ice announces the last of it.
“If you don’t mind … I just want to wait until she settles. Just to make sure she’s okay.”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t bother to look at me, at all, and I get a sense he’s annoyed by my presence. In fact, there’re probably very few things, like that glass of liquor, that doesn’t seem to irritate the man.
Unfortunately for him, I know I won’t sleep with the sounds of her screams echoing through my head all night. So I don’t really give a damn if he’s annoyed.
Taking a seat on the floor at the opposite side of the door, I pull my legs up, wrap my arms around them. From this side, I don’t see any of his scars, only the sharp profile of an attractive, but intimidating, man. One who doesn’t bother to acknowledge me.
For what feels like an eternity, we sit quietly, the sounds of moaning and sobbing bleeding through the door. Nell’s voice is flat and commanding, hardly compassionate toward the woman, as if she’s too tired to deal with her.
Lucian sighs and rolls his shoulders back, and I wonder