“You can’t obtain a diploma unless you go to school.”
“Mom has a diploma,” I say, ignoring my hurt when I think of her. She’s ill. I know that, so I forgive her. I’ll probably never trust her again, but anything to do with me is the last thing she cares about. “She graduated with honors. She also has a degree of some sort. Has she ever used it? Nope. She’s a society wife. School fucking sucks, so why bother if all I’ll do is…whatever.” I rub my temples and turn away from him. “I never thought about my future. I was too busy…escaping reality.”
“Now’s the perfect time to think about it.”
I do, but it isn’t what I’m supposed to consider. “I want to stay with you.”
He goes silent again. Oh my God, so fucking shocking. I roll my eyes.
“When was the last time you drove?”
His question is the last thing I expected. “About two months ago. There’s a lot that’s been going on.”
He snorts.
“Sit,” he orders and I growl.
Back to this again?
“Once I dress, I have a surprise for you.”
A little thrill shoots through me at his words, so I follow his command without another word. Ten minutes later, he walks into the kitchen, dressed in cargo shorts and running shoes.
I smirk at him. “You don’t like shirts do you?”
“Not particularly.”
He nods toward the door. I jump to my feet, following behind him. Briefly, I pause at the back door, where I left my flip-flops last night after I was allowed a brief walk on the beach.
Gulf Coast heat wallops me the moment I walk outside. I regret not putting my hair into a ponytail. During the day, it’s my usual style. I’m Texas strong, born and bred in Houston, so, like a good Southern girl, I fan myself dramatically, lift my hair to cover one shoulder and adjust. The slightest breeze slides across my neck and one side of my face.
Sloane smiles. “Hot?”
My ears pick up the hint of a drawl. He knows how to make the most impact with a single word. The amount of wickedness in his question should be fucking illegal. “Burning up,” I respond in a tone similar to the one he used, wondering when my panties will melt right off.
If it wasn’t for the earrings, the messy hair, the tats, and the leather bracelets, he’d look like just another hot guy. But Sloane owns the world and he knows it.
He digs into his pocket and pulls out a set of keys. “Rented for today, so let’s make the most of it.”
I bounce up and down, then run to where he stands near the front bumper. Before I can hug him, the Escalade we arrived in guns around the side of the house and swerves to a stop. Kiln jumps out and heads for me.
“What the fuck is your problem?” Sloane fumes, placing his body in front of me.
“Get her inside now,” Kiln orders. “Photogs on the beach, heading this way.”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
It might be me who chants that, but I think it’s Sloane. Photographers. I know what that means, so I don’t have to be told what to do. Instead, I turn on my heel and run towards the house. When I reach the cool interior, I slam the door shut and get to my room, huddling in a corner, afraid to even go to my window to close the blind.
Sloane
The one time I’ve figured out a way to cheer Georgie up and a motherfucker has to ruin it. I’m so fucking angry I don’t wait for Kiln to lock the door. I rush down the steps that leads to the private beach.
It looks clear, but I know it isn’t. I’ve been in this fucking game long enough to know when I’m being watched. My every movement is probably being snapped as I stalk around the curve.
Nothing.
On one side, the waves are sliding onto the sand and on the other side the rise of trees are rolling into a valley. Something glints and flashes a short distance away. Leaves rustle too much for this still, humid atmosphere.
“Motherfucker.”
One moment, I’m studying the terrain and the next I’m there, finding the lair of two assholes, fiddling with long lenses like demons are chasing them. Not rabid newbies, then. Pros who know I’m happy to fuck them up.
That they’ve disturbed my day with Georgie—disturbed the safety I’ve given her—enrages me. I simultaneously grab a camera and a throat, not giving a fuck if they belong to one owner or not.
A shutter clicks, so I toss the first camera, squeeze the neck my fingers have latched on to and yank away the second camera.
“Sloane, fuck!”
Kiln. Asshole is going to ruin my fucking fun. Before he does, I slam my fist against both photogs’ faces, connecting in a 1-2 strike that rivals a boxer. Kiln wraps his arms around me and shoves me away.
“Get the fuck out of here.”
Money-grubbing fucker. Ignoring him, I offer the interlopers a nasty look. “How the fuck did you find me?”
Not that they will answer me. One of their noses is bleeding like hell while the mouth of the other one is coated with blood and saliva.