Page 2

“But you are underage. And what happens when you’re not? When you’re ‘of age’?

She tries to storm past me, but I plant myself in front of the door, blocking her from opening the door.

“You need to hear this,” I insist.

“What if you go home with a man who’s thirty and he thinks you’re twenty-seven? What happens then?”

She actually stops.

For the first time tonight, she steps back and thinks.

“I never thought of it that way,” she murmurs.

Of course, she didn’t. She never sees the consequences of lying about her age. She doesn’t think about how easily she could put a man on the sex offender registry—a man who, in that case, wouldn’t even be at fault for believing her.

“That’s your problem,” I say quietly.

“You don’t think of the consequences. You could ruin a man’s life just because you wanted to drink underage.” The room falls completely silent.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice small and sincere.

She’s young. There’s no way she can fully understand how often this kind of thing happens; how little people talk about it.

“I know,” I sigh.

“But do you get why we don’t want you going out?”

I glance at my phone. Time is slipping away fast.

“Yes,” she says.

I want to believe her. Maybe I do. Or maybe I just really need to leave, and I’m choosing to believe her because it makes walking away easier.

“I’ve got to go,” I tell her, stepping forward to kiss her forehead.

“We’ll talk when I’m home.”

Then I’m out of her room, down the stairs, through the front door, and into my car.

I sit in the driver’s seat before leaning over to the passenger side, opening the drawer, and reaching for a clear plastic sealed bag with five pink pills. I draw it open before placing a pill under my tongue; I swallow and then another.

It takes me ten minutes to reach the abandoned petrol station.

Emma is leaning against her car, ankles crossed, electric-blue hair knotted up in a messy bun. Streaks of mascara run under her eyes. Her tattoos are on show; I'm pretty sure she's mostly covered in ink now.

I kill the engine and step out, walking toward her.

“Where is it?” I ask.

“Wasting no time. Nice to see you too,” she mutters, giving my arm a shove before turning toward the station.

She pushes open the rusted door to what used to be a well-known petrol stop. Now it’s nothing but torn-down walls, broken glass, and the body of a man sprawled in the middle of the floor. Blood saturates the concrete. He’s lying in a pool of it.

I shouldn’t be excited.

I definitely shouldn’t be adjusting myself, trying to hide the fact that my cock is rock hard.

But all I can think about is Emma.