Entice (Hearts of Stone #2) (25 page)

Owen drives the rest of the way in silence. The worst silence I've ever experienced in my life. When we reach the parking lot behind the building of my loft, he pulls something out of his pocket. It looks like an outdated cellphone, a small blue device with a screen and a number pad. Except there's a small white tube sticking out of the side.
 

A breathalyzer.
 

My stomach tightens as Owen turns it on.

"Blow."
 

I stare at him.
 

"
Blow
," he says again, more forcefully.
 

Closing my lips over the tube, I let out a breath into the machine. It beeps a few times then a number appears on the display.

.07

"That's not too bad, right?" I ask, my voice small.

He lets out short a breath, though it does nothing to relax his posture. "You don't drive with alcohol in your system,
period
."

"I know that—"
 

"Is this something you do?" he asks. I frown—not so much at his words but at the way he can't seem to look at me. Hands closing tighter over the steering wheel, he presses further, "Have you ever done this before?"

"No! I thought I slept it off. Owen, I'd never get into the car knowing I was drunk. I don't even feel drunk, I just feel sick…."
 

I can't remember the last time I ate.

My words fall away awkwardly. I press my lips together, realizing every word I speak paints a worse picture of me.

"Emily, you need to get inside. Drink water and sleep it off for a few more hours. I need to borrow your car to get back to work. I'll bring it back tonight."

"What do I tell my boss?" I ask, almost to myself.

"
I don't care
."
 

I wince in surprise at the force of his tone. I've never seen him this way. He's incredibly intimidating, not just in uniform, but when his displeasure is a beam aimed in my direction.

Shutting his eyes, Owen pinches the bridge of his nose. "I didn't mean to yell. I'm just frustrated you would let this happen. You shouldn't have been on the road. You could've hurt someone, do you realize that?"

"It was a mistake, Owen." I take a breath, hating the way my eyes burn, hating how angry I am at everything. At myself. Hating how much mental effort it takes me to keep my words coherent. "I thought I was fine."

He considers me, his expression softening by a hair, and then nods in the direction of the loft. "Emily, go home."

"Are
we
okay?"

A beat passes. One long, heavy beat.
 

"We'll talk about this later. Just get inside, I've got to get back to work."

I hesitate, wanting so badly to lean in and kiss him on the cheek. Needing to feel some sort of familiarity, connection. But I think better of it. Something's shifted between us. I suddenly feel we are on shaky ground, ready to topple over.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

It's only my fourth week on the job and I have to call my boss and tell her I've had an incident on the road and will not be able to make it in today. Four weeks isn't enough time to establish yourself as a dependable employee.
 

Elizabeth's usually friendly voice stiffens as she accepts my vague description of the emergency that kept me out of work today. But really, I know she's rolling her eyes and wondering if she's hired someone who isn't dependable. A flake. A drama queen. Someone that will constantly complain of unfortunate events that might hinder her ability to follow through at work. Coming in late, missing days, leaving early. All of this is the silent implication in her brief pause before she tells me she hopes everything is all right.

I'm not sure the sickness in my stomach is the alcohol anymore. It's more from disgust in myself. I crawl into bed, almost paralyzed with embarrassment.
 

Owen brings back my car later in the evening. By then, I'm so painfully sober, the night air presses onto my face and stings every inch of my skin. Owen doesn't come in, he stays on the landing of the front steps, and quite frankly, his tone is clipped. It's obvious he's still upset with me. I get it, I do. I just don't know what to say to make him not be mad at me anymore. 'I'm sorry' just isn't cutting it.

 
He drops the keys in my hand, mumbles something about his sister waiting for him downstairs. She followed him here in order to give him a ride back. I ask if I can meet her and his response is so quick, it slaps me on the face.

"No. I told her you're sick. You'll meet her some other time."

He says goodnight but when he goes to turn away, I pull him back and kiss him. His lips don't part right away, but then they do. And as his hands move to my waist, his mood yields ever so slightly to his craving for me.
 

I ask him to come inside, to spend the night with me, but he says he's tired from a long day and just wants to go home, his disappointment in me still evident on his face.

"Hey," I say, "this won't happen again."

"Okay." His simple word plunges through me. It's shaded with doubt.

The next morning, my alarm is set to go off earlier than usual and I'm at work long before anyone else. I sit behind my desk, catching up on emails and making notes of all the things I need to take care of for the day.
 

My boss comes up to my door; she's an ice queen frosting over everything in her wake. I don't blame her. I blame myself. I'll have to work ten times as hard to prove to her that she didn't make a mistake by hiring me.
 

I'm willing to do whatever it takes.

Owen and I don't get to see each other over the next few days. It's his week to work the night shift and our schedules leave us missing each other by mere minutes. This doesn't help my efforts to make things right between us.

We talk on the phone when we can but with each passing day, I sense him gradually resisting the urge to warm up and let our silent, passive aggressive fighting finally be over. I start to just wish he'd truly believe me in his gut when I tell him it isn't going to happen again. His quiet reluctance just fills me with uncertainty about myself. And I hate it. I hate how important his opinion is to me. I hate how much I care.

I've been anticipating these consequences. Before I knew what could go wrong, I knew that something would. Once again, I'm unsure of everything in my life. Feeling as though I'll never be able to prove myself worthy again. Feeling as though maybe I'm just not worthy of all the good things life has given me, at all.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Shortly after nine o'clock on Friday night, I'm sitting on the floor of my living room, sorting through the boxes I've yet to unpack. The television is on low, just a discernible rumble throughout the empty loft.
 

When a soft knocking sound reaches me, I lift the box I'm holding and scan the floor, thinking I've dropped something. The second knock is purposeful and my eyes dart to the front door. I'm not expecting anyone.

When I pull open the door, I'm greeted by the sight of a slouchy, grumpy-faced Landon. He's wearing a dark jacket with the hood of a gray sweatshirt pulled up around his head, a backpack strapped to his shoulders.

It's chilly out tonight and I'm in a tank top. So, I motion for him to come inside before I even say anything. I shut the door behind me, dreading the questions I need to ask because I already suspect the answers.

"What are you doing here? Did you just rob a bank or something?"

"No. I just need a place to crash for tonight. Can I stay here?" His expression falls even further as he notices the instant hesitation forming on my face. "Never mind." He tries to push past me to open the door but my hand lands on his shoulder.

"No, wait—" I have about four questions that attempt to erupt out of me at once, causing me to falter in my speech. I pick the most important of them. "Does your dad know you're not home? Does your aunt?"

"They'll know when they can't find me."

I throw my head back and pinch my nose.
 

Landon says, "My aunt's out of town and I can't be home anymore. It's just constant yelling and fighting."

I bite my tongue, not wanting to ask who is doing all of the yelling and fighting because I'm sure it's Landon.
 

I'm resisting the overwhelming urge to tell him he's being a brat. But I remember what it's like to be that age. To think that problems were so heavy and permanent. To feel as though all you want is for someone to tell you it's okay to feel the way you do. Tell you it's okay to
not
feel okay.
 

Right now, I have two options. I can scold the kid and demand he goes home, or I could give him what he's looking for right now: a safe-haven.

I rub the space between my eyes. "You can take the couch. I'll go get you a blanket."

Relief floods his face as he rushes to take his shoes off at the entryway, setting them down beside mine. I leave the kid behind and start dialing Owen's number before I even close my bedroom door.

"Hello?" Owen's voice is pulled taut, so tense it pulls me with it.

I lower my voice to a whisper. "Landon's with me—"
 

"
Jesus Christ
, this kid's going to kill me…I'm on my way—"

"I can drive him back."

"No—I'll head over now."

"Owen…" I hesitate. "Maybe he can stay the night? I'll make sure he doesn't get into trouble."

"That's not necessary. You don't have to do that."

"No, I know. I just…he's on the run and came to
me
. He trusts me. I feel awful turning him into the authorities."

Owen laughs a little, albeit reluctantly.

I go on, "At least you know where he is. Maybe a little time apart will help you two cool off?"

He takes a measured breath. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. It'll be fine. Come in the morning."

Owen thanks me and we end the call. When I go back out into the living room, Landon is watching television, but the volume is still low. The remote is nearby but I sense he didn't feel comfortable touching it without asking permission first.

"I was about to put on a movie," I lie. "Want to join me?"

"No. Thank you. I just want to sleep."

I glance at his cellphone on the coffee table. The power is off.

He takes the pillow and blanket I hand him, mumbling his thanks. I motion for him to scoot over and sit on the other end of the couch, facing him.

He's looking at the television, avoiding my eyes.

"Landon, I know it's none of my business but…what's going on?"

He opens his mouth then closes it again. Then he shakes his head, running his hands through his hair.

It's clear he isn't going to answer me. "Okay. How about this? I'm just going to throw out a few theories and you stop me when I'm warm. California is lame and you want to go back to Arizona."

He shoots me a look, half amused, half annoyed.

"You and your dad don't get along because you both think you don't have anything in common—" I pause, noticing how he starts to drum his fingers on his arm, impatient. "Your school is too—"

"Just stop, please," he says. "You don't know what it's like."

"So, why don't you tell me?"

I can tell he's surprised by the genuine question. I wonder how often he's asked anything at all versus being
told
things. That's part of why kids end up so angsty. While growing up, they are constantly told what to do, what to feel. No one really listens to them because, really, what the hell should they know about anything?

 
He hesitates, takes in a sharp breath, and lets the words out quickly. "One day everything is fine, the next everything's taken away."

"By everything, you mean your mom?"

He doesn't respond.
 

I look down at my hands. "I'm sorry. It's not fair that you lost your mother so young."

Again, he doesn't respond right away, staring out into a spot below the television screen. I know he's listening but it's too much for him to give me his full attention. I'm still formulating what I should say next when his next words take me by surprise. "There's no part of her here. Nothing. It's like she never existed."

A beat passes, followed by a few more—until the silence grows so big I'm afraid to break it.

"You're wrong," I say.

He scoffs and though he doesn't
say
I don't know what the hell I'm talking about, I know that's what he's thinking.

"You're wrong," I say again. "Your mother's past is here. It's in Owen. He knew her at a time you didn't, long before you were born. Don't you ever wonder what she was like back then?" I hold the reluctant gaze he gives me. "I think you and Owen have more in common than you believe. You just have to take the time to get to know each other—" He looks away again and I hurry to finish. "You just have to try."

Silence blankets us again. I feel extremely awkward, unsure why I thought I had a right to speak on things I really know nothing about. I run my hands through my hair. "Are you hungry?"

His eyes say yes, but the words that leave his lips are, "I'm okay."

I get up and go to the refrigerator. "I've got some sushi I made earlier. Do you like sushi?"

He shrugs and I take it to mean he's never tried it before. "You make it yourself?"

"Not always, but I did for lunch. Why? Are you worried it won't taste good?"

"No." He gets up and joins me at the other side of the small countertop island. "Just seems complicated."

"It's actually pretty easy and…kind of relaxing. I can show you?"

He gives me a hesitant smile. "Sure."

Landon helps me pull out the ingredients and we set up a sushi making station on top of the coffee table. We sit on pillows on the floor and work on slathering the sticky rice on the seaweed rolls. We go slowly at first, until Landon catches on and his attention becomes divided between the task and the movie playing on the screen in front of us. I witness the kid warm gradually; the giant block of ice he was burrowed in slowly melts away to a kid who smiles more easily than he frowns. A few times, I'm doubled over laughing at his sly commentary.