Page 46 of Tears of Ink

For a moment, I’m wordless. “What makes you think I ran?”

“It’s what you do.”

“You’ve known me two weeks.” He’s so not wrong. It is what I do. But because it was forced into me as a necessity. I can’t trust anyone. There is no such thing as trust. Only lies and deceit.

“You ran from Gerard. Did you even speak to him to tell him you knew the truth?”

“No,” I snap. My hands let go of my knees and I pull my hand away from his touch and push out of the kitchen chair. “I think I should go to bed.”

I march for the kitchen door. Damn, I never did get my snack.

“Wait.” He gets up from his seat, stretching slightly. He’s something else to look at in that suit; tall and powerful but without being dominating and too huge. Bulging muscles just do nothing for me. Stereotypical artistic types have always attracted me, sleek and defined. He’s some place in between, even with his lawyer suit on.

He staggers a little as he walks towards me. The whisky bottle is empty, and I only helped with a few shorts. Someone will have a headache tomorrow… who am I kidding? I will have a headache, too. I drank neat spirits on a stomach lined only with a dinner roll. “I’ll walk you.” His deep rumble of a command doesn’t sound that drunk.

“It’s fine.”

His fingers grip my elbow. “Not a chance. Peter will be out looking for you after hearing what you said to Gran.”

My eyes widen in alarm, but he winks. “Joking. But it wouldn’t be very gentlemanly to let you wander around in the dark by yourself.”

“Are you always a gentleman?”

My eyes meet his. I’m rooted to the spot.

“I try.”

He can read me like a fricking book, and it’s unnerving. I try to push the thought to the back of my mind as I take in the sight of this man who’s been drinking by himself. The lawyer who takes on cases for free, the man who wants to help local kids. The man who couldn’t follow his artistic dream—I still need get that full story.

On a whim, I stretch out my hand. “I’m Faith, and I’m your new best friend.”

He hesitates for a moment and a small break in his expression pulls at my heart. “Eli, a gentleman at your service.”

“Guide me home, Eli.” I chuckle a little. The drink makes my legs a little weak.

He looks up and down the corridors. “It's that way, I think,” he decides after a moment.

I snort and tug on the crisp sleeve of his shirt. “I think I’ve got some paracetamol packed somewhere.”

“Thank God. My head hurts already.”

“Knew it would,” I tease as we meander down the corridor, my new friend and me.

C H A P T E R F O U R T E E N

I wake to my phone vibrating a message. With a deep groan, I roll over and bash my hand on the bedside table. My tongue has the most awful taste, like a cat curled up and went to sleep in there.

Eli Jones: What happened to my head?

I snicker and roll back over, holding my phone above my head as I type.

Faith Hitchin: You lost it in an attack of loser syndrome. You should recover by midday.

I smile—this is dangerous. Smiling leads to obsessive thoughts until I get what I want, and last night I promised I’d be his friend. Friends don’t fuck and walk away.

Eli Jones: Oh good. So, my memory is a little hazy. I walked you back to your room. Guess we dodged Peter the Lurker?

Faith Hitchin: Peter the Lurker was nowhere to be seen.