The Rush (The Siren Series) - By Rachel Higginson Page 0,62

wave of his angry disillusionment punched me painfully in the stomach.

Ugh. Ryder. Why did I care so much?

“I was showing Ivy your drums,” I heard Ryder announce after he left me alone in the closet.

I stood there battling with myself whether I could leave the closet and face the others or if I would need to pretend sickness so I could get Chase to take me home. I wanted to believe I was brave enough to face everyone, but I wasn’t. I was weak, and selfish and….

“Hey, you Ok?” Chase asked from the doorway. His happy, all-American face was pinched with concern. He glanced quickly over his shoulder as if gauging if he should confront Ryder or not.

“Actually, I’m kind of hiding,” I admitted, realizing my decision as I said it out loud. “I’m sorry, this party is a little more than I can handle.” I looked up at Chase from under my lashes and prayed for undeserved compassion.

“Do you want to go home?” he asked, chivalrous as ever.

“Do you mind taking me?”

“Not at all,” he offered me a comforting smile. “Maybe you need to talk about it?”

“Maybe,” I relented. “Maybe in the car.”

He smiled down at me and I stepped into him, forcing him into a hug. I knew I wouldn’t talk about this and I knew this was the best I could give him. His comforting arms helped ease the raw pain Ryder had ripped open and I relished in the easiness that came with Chase. I wasn’t getting attached to Chase and that thought made it easier to inhale. I would be able to break up with him, even if the idea felt very similar to giving my favorite pet away. And though it would be difficult, it was doable. And that thought made it easier to exhale.

See? Blackheart.

I was right all along.

Chapter Seventeen

Thoughts of the night before attacked my emotions as I sat motionless in the passenger’s seat of my mother’s Escalade. We drove silently on the way to our Sunday visit with my little sister.

Usually I was dying to see Honor, make sure she was Ok, make sure the curse wasn’t destroying her life…. But last night replayed in my head like a destructive addiction.

How could I have been so stupid to let Ryder see my tattoo, first of all?

And then how could I have let his words affect me like that?

Blackheart. He knew better. Everyone knew better! Even people that didn’t want to see the truth, that preferred ignorance is bliss and all that, knew better.

I was a borderline sociopath.

There wasn’t an excuse in this world that covered my long list of sins. And that list would only lengthen unless I got the hell out of here.

“When we get there,” my mother’s melodic voice cut through the silence, “you need to be on your best behavior. I am not going to put up with any of your antics, Ivy. You owe me.”

I wanted to ask, for what? Instead I nodded meekly, “I know. I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“Better than your best behavior,” my mom pressed.

“Ok, yes. Better than my best.”

I thought that promise would be enough to pacify her, but she had too much experience in all of this. “I mean it, Ivy. You have no idea what you put me through last spring. You have no idea what you put Nix through! And God, Smith was so concerned about you; it was like you were his daughter. He immediately blamed me of course. Until I explained about the accident and what happened to that poor Sam Evans.” She said poor Sam Evans, but I would have had to be deaf not to hear the smile in her voice…. the excitement. “Still, Smith was so concerned about you, so worried. Honestly, it was a little sickening. I don’t know what happened to him. There was a time when he adored me. He bought me that Tiffany necklace. You know the four karats one? Just because! He bought me that gorgeous piece of art just because and now look at him! I swear it was those cancer drugs. They screwed with his mind. He’s not right. He shouldn’t have Honor. Who knows when he’ll turn on her? Then what? She’s my daughter and I’ll be damned before I let anything happen to her.”

My mother rambled on and on like that until we pulled through the gated driveway of Smith Porter’s gigantic West Omaha mansion. He was filthy rich, like more money than God loaded.