Page 218 of Bad Attitude
First thing we’re doing is going shopping for phones. Together. Like a goddamn phone-shoppingdate.
It’s only a five minute ride to Declan’s apartment, but I still have to force myself to go slow. There are cops all over the place, and this would be the worst possible time to get pulled over.
I breathe a sigh of relief to see his truck parked outside his apartment. Then give it a scowl when his Fireblade is already loaded on the back of it. Heisplanning on leaving.
And go where? Without telling me?
I don’t bother ringing his buzzer but enter the door code, walking in through the lobby, skipping the world’s slowest elevator and using the stairs instead. It doesn’t take long to reach his floor, where my impulsiveness fades, and my steps slow.
Last time I was here, I interrupted him with… whoever the hell that was. The woman ‘from his past’—another lie, probably. Maybe she was FBI?
No, not likely. Not dressed like that.
Something to ask him. He did promise he’d be honest.
His door is closed, but there’s movementwithin. Like furniture shifting.
I take a breath, raise my hand to knock, then freeze.
Do I know what I’m doing?
What the hellamI doing?
Winging it.
That’s not an answer.
The right thing.
Okay, that’s a better answer, even if I don’t know why it is, or what that means.
Fuck it, let’s find out.
I rap three times on his door, bite at my lip, and try to calm my racing heart.
His footsteps sound from inside the apartment, then the door opens.
He’s in jeans. Nothing else, like the man doesn’t own shoes or a shirt. Damn, that’s distracting.
“Raven!” His eyes widen, pale blue and startled, then a smile starts to form. “Uh…” Delight changes to confusion to consternation, the smile fading. “You came.” Hurt flickers across his eyes, and he searches my face. “I didn’t think you would.”
So… this is going to be awkward.
“Do you want to do this in the hallway, or… can I come in?”
He says nothing but takes a pace back, opening the door wider. Invitation enough, I suppose.
I walk in. Three boxes sit on the floor, two full, one half-packed. All of them small, like he’s hardly taking anything.
Nowhere to go. Nowhere to live. I did that to him.
“Packing?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“Leaving?”
“This apartment, yeah.”
