Page 148 of Always Love You More

The alarm sounds again, and I flinch. “God, my fucking head.”

He twists, smacking the alarm clock, and I watch the new tattoo spanning his rib cage stretch with the movement, a snake that goes down the side of his body, coiled around a knife.

“Wanted to make sure you were home in time,” he says, explaining the alarm.

This isn’t the first time we’ve done this. I’ve spent more nights than I probably should sneaking out and sleeping over in his bed.

If I’m not here, he often sneaks into my room. We lock my bedroom door and make sure I’m home or he’s gone by morning. It’s worked so far, but it’s like we’re playing a dangerous game, just waiting to get caught. Although, at this point, it feels like it’s worth the risk. I can’t sleep now unless I’m next to him.

He pushes up from the bed. “I’ll go get you some Advil.”

A minute later, he’s back, and I sit up, stretching my arms over my head. He drops two pills into my open palm and hands me a tall glass of water.

I swallow the pills and drain the whole glass before handing it back to him.

Jameson moves around the room, getting ready, and I slide on my shoes.

“You still up for the movies?” he asks, passing me a flannel to pull on over his T-shirt I’m still wearing.

“Yeah,” I answer. “I’ve been waiting all week.”

I never used to go to the movies, but he’s gotten me hooked. What used to be his thing has becomeourthing.

He smiles. “Me, too.”

It’s rare that we both have a whole day off, and even after yesterday, there’s no way I’m wasting it.

“Did you ask Billy if he can go?”

Nodding, he answers, “Told him I’d pick him up.”

“Good,” I say. “He needs a day.”

I grab my purse, and we start for the door.

Walking out behind me, Jameson mutters, “We could all use a fucking day.”

Jameson drops me off down the street from my house, and I walk the rest of the way home, climbing in through my bedroom window.

He told me he’d swing around to pick up Billy before coming back for me, so I have a few minutes to take a quick shower and change.

I pull on a pair of low-rise sweatpants and a cropped zip-up hoodie, run some eyeliner, then mascara over my eyes, and call it a day.

My father is sitting at the kitchen table when I make it downstairs, Carson behind him, mixing up a protein shake.

“Morning,” I mutter, brushing past him.

“What happened to my laundry?” he asks, screwing the cap onto the bottle in his hand and shaking it vigorously. “It was all just thrown in the basket. Only half of it was folded.”

“I tripped on something on the floor. The basket fell.”

“And?”

“And,” I bite out, “I hurt my leg. Had to go lie down.”

His gaze moves to my legs. “Don’t look hurt.”

“Yeah, well, it’s better now.”