Page 41
I slowly make my way to the driver’s side door. The gravel crunches under my sandals and I wince as I see my own reflection in the window of the car. My hair is disheveled, my eyes are puffy with dark circles under them, my leggings are faded, and and there are holes in my loose T-shirt.
Fuck it. What do I have to lose?
CHAPTER TWELVE
Levi
I keep quiet, mostly just telling Hazel when and where to turn to get us to my house. My nostrils flare at the thought of her sleeping in this car. In this seat.
What was she thinking? What if it was someone else who had found her, and didn’t have her best interests in mind?
A wave of the familiar panic hits me, reminding me of the days I had nowhere to go, after my fight with my father. How many couches did I crash on until Ezra’s family told me enough was enough?
“Pull up to that gate.” I point, jaw flexing.
Hazel looks over at me; her face still streaked with tears. I try not to think too hard about why the sight of her messy and sad makes me want to find that Brody guy and teach him a lesson. Violence is not the answer, I tell myself. But right now, I wish it was.
“The code is five-four-nine-two,” I say, softening my voice. I’m probably scaring the poor girl and that’s the last thing she needs. She was sleeping in her car. I run my hand over my face, trying to compose myself.
She types the code on the pad and the gates retract. She watches them with wide eyes, taking in the topiary and the neatly trimmed hedges. The paved driveway is smooth as she pulls up to the mansion.
“There’s a garage down that way.” I point to the side of the house and she follows the path. She parks in front of the garage, across from the guest house.
My first thought is to kick Ezra out and offer to let her stay there instead. He’s too busy screwing her best friend, anyway. But the sight of her so frazzled tells me she needs some company.
I enter the garage through a side door and open the main one, revealing an open spot between the Range Rover and the convertible. I wave at her to pull in and she does.
When she doesn’t get out of the car, I walk up to the trunk and open it, revealing a suitcase messily zipped up halfway, a pair of old golf clubs, and some torn cleats next to them.
I close my eyes and sigh. Then I reach out and grab her suitcase.
Hazel exits the car and grabs a backpack from the back seat as well. She looks at me, unsure of what to do next. I give her my best reassuring smile and lead her inside the house.
“Before you come in,” I stop, one hand on the doorknob, another holding her suitcase. “You’re not allergic to cats, are you?”
Her mouth drops open as she huffs out a small laugh. Her brown eyes are still puffy from crying, and her voice is raw when she says, “No, I love cats.”
“Good,” I say, opening the door. “I have two, although one of them hates me.”
“Really?”
“Well, he hates everyone. Except maybe Ezra.”
“What’s his name?”
“Gus.”
She follows me down the hallway to the main floor’s guest bedroom. A ball of fur runs past our feet and Hazel yelps.
“Ah, there he is.”
She chuckles, and the sound is like music to my ears. “Bye, Gus.”
“He’ll be around, don’t worry. Then there’s Petunia. She’s my—” I stop short, unsure how much I should share with this complete stranger that I just brought into my home.
“She’s your…?” she prods, looking at me for a reply. She doesn’t demand it, but she’s curious. I can’t fault her for that.
“She’s my emotional support cat,” I say, biting the inside of my cheek.
