Sloth (Sinful Secrets #1) (20 page)

“I don’t know,” I whisper.

“Yes you do.” His hand encases mine, just briefly, before releasing it. “Give me your keys and I’ll get it out of your car.”
It
being the brick.

I fish my keys out of my bag, refusing to meet his eyes as I hand them over.

“You got anything else in there? I’d like to leave your car here until later.”

“Why?” I ask suspiciously.

“You worried I’m being shady?” He smirks.

“Yes.”

“I’m not. At least not in a way that’ll bother you.”

I wonder what the hell that means as I hand him my keys. “Get the books out... and the canvases.” For some reason, I don’t like the idea of him looking at my art again. It feels too personal. Everything about this new arrangement does. Do I like it? Do I hate it? Do I have a choice? I can’t tell. That worries me.

Kellan disappears inside my car, emerging a minute later with the laundry basket, my favorite three paintings, and a small mountain of paperbacks. He packs the items carefully into the rear seats, and I watch the ripple of his back and shoulders in the rear-view.

I must be insane, planning to spend any time at his place. I must be looking for trouble. I must want... I don’t know. Bad things. Also, money. I roll my eyes at myself.

When he slides into the driver’s seat, his lips are pulled into a teasing smile that makes my neck flush, only emphasizing the trouble that I’m in. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of e-readers.”

I square my shoulders and give a haughty little sniff as he starts driving. “E-books are good for reading in class or bed, but in every other scenario a paperback is superior.”

His smile broadens. “Did I see Fifty Shades of Grey beside The Sound and the Fury?”

My lips twitch. I press them flat. “And if you did?”

“I’d say you’re a... ?” He lifts my shawl up and frowns at the symbol on my shirt. “Smurfin?”

“Smuffin,” I say primly, taking my shawl from his hand and smoothing it back down. He looks like he’s about to tease me—eyes mischievous, lips working themselves into a joke—and suddenly I feel a little too exposed. “Where are we going?” I ask before he gets a chance to say anything more.

“You’ll see.” He pulls onto one of the roads that cuts through central campus.

“I have a class in twenty minutes.”

He strokes his fingertips over my knee, casual, as if he’s been doing it for years. “I’ll get you a note.”

I work to breathe around the weight of his hand on my knee. “Why do I need a note?”

He slides his gaze to mine. “You don’t want an unexcused absence.”

Sighing, I move my knee out of his reach. Last night’s showdown with Milasy was pretty draining, so maybe it would be good to skip. I shake my head at myself. “I probably look like I’ve been through the wringer. Maybe that’s a good call.”

He steers through downtown, keeping his gaze on the road. “You look perfect, Cleo. It’s your eyes that give you away.”

I rub my fingers over them. “My eyes look puffy?”

“Your eyes look tired.”

I take a bite out of my croissant and try to work out why it bothers me—what he just said. I’m sure I
do
look tired. That shouldn’t be news to me. Then I remember what he said before that. He said I look perfect. Somehow, in the moment, I missed that. But now it’s slithering around my head, confusing me.

Or maybe I’m not confused. Maybe I just don’t like it.

I shouldn’t have said
he
looked perfect. He doesn’t need to know I think that much of his looks. Looks aren’t all that important anyway. It was just me being me, talking before thinking.

But why did he say it back to me? Was it intentional, or coincidence?

He pulls onto Main Street, and we pass the cute boutiques, wannabe coffee shops and so-so bars that make up Chattahoochee’s little downtown. I wonder if he was flirting.

I think “no,” mostly because there’s no reason to flirt. It’s been established that we aren’t exactly peanut butter and honey personality-wise, but at this point, it’s also pretty clear we want sexy times with each other.

Maybe I’m not even bothered that he said I look perfect. I think it’s the
way
he said it. Yes. Like he meant it. It’s the way he said my eyes look tired, too. As if he cares.

I can live with him, I guess. I can take the free housing he’s offering; not just free housing, but housing I’m actually being paid to occupy. I can swallow my pride and pocket his money.

But I don’t need lines crossed.

Because the truth is, I
do
think Kellan Walsh looks perfect—even as I know I shouldn’t dwell on that. Because I’m in kind of a weird place right now, and he’s got those eyes—that smile—that make me feel as if he really cares. Holding my hand... I shake my head. That has to stop.

From now on, I need to keep my mouth shut. Try to avoid talking to him. Try to avoid connecting.

“Cleo?”

I jump so high, I spill coffee on my shawl. I jerk my gaze to Kellan’s. “Yes?”

“I asked you if Milasy’s the only one who knows, who’s not your client.”

I glance around, trying to get my bearings, and find we’re on the south east side of town. We pass a police precinct, and my stomach twists uncomfortably.

“Yeah, she is. I think she is. Actually—” I huff—“she probably told Steph.” I rub my eyes, which really do feel puffy.

Kellan nods, and I chew the inside of my cheek. My gaze tugs to the mirror on my side of the car. I watch the police precinct shrink behind us. How weird that Kellan is a law-breaker. I can’t seem to reconcile that with his day-to-day existence: SGA president; frat boy. Why masquerade like that? Doesn’t it get tiring? I look over at him. With his beautiful, blank face pointed toward the road and one long-fingered hand draped around the wheel, he looks more politico than kingpin. I picture myself unbuttoning that dress shirt. I lick my lips and blow my breath out. “Have you ever had any trouble with the cops?”

He makes a right onto a bumpy county road that takes us out into the country. His mouth tightens fractionally. “They know the alias I use, but they don’t know it’s me. There’ve been a few close calls.”

“What’s your alias?”

He shakes his head.

“Aw, c’mon.”

He slides his eyes from the road to mine. “Tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“I’ll whisper it between your legs.”

My cheeks and neck burn. It takes effort to avoid squirming in my seat. He makes me so hot. So flustered. A thousand things line up to spill out of my mouth. I swallow hard and pick the most concrete one. “You still want me to help you deal?”

“I can handle Milasy, Cleo. Nothing will get out.” He turns onto a highway that runs south of town.

“So... same offer?” I’m kind of surprised. Surprised and relieved as hell. I guess he can tell, because he lifts one eyebrow.

“You are what I want. And you haven’t changed.”

I grab a fistful of my shawl and squeeze it in my right hand. Why does he want me? Sex. But it isn’t just for sex. It’s business, too. He doesn’t want me stealing any more of his clients. But I told him my supply has dried up. So... it can’t be that. Right?

I look out the window, struggling to keep my questions off my face. This is just another reason not to warm up to him, not even a little. I don’t trust him.

We’re surrounded by verdant, green peanut fields; I imagine myself small, a child, running through them. I look down the red-dirt plow lines streaked between tufts of crop, trying to feel hypnotized by the subtle shifting of the lines as our road curves.

“Is it because I’m a pain in your ass?” I murmur.

“What?”

I move my gaze from the peanut fields to the winding road ahead of us. It’s framed by tall pines. “Is that why you want me?” I ask. “Because... I’m not overly impressed with you—like everyone else is?”

I wonder at his face, but I refuse to look at it. I just sit there, acting self-contained: the kind of girl that kicks guys in the balls. I’m her, too, after all. She just tends to go away when he says certain things.

With my eyes on the thick trees, his voice comes as a shock. “I watched you for a while before I found you in the union that day.”

This... is a surprise. A troubling surprise.

He must notice my tension, because he hastens to add, “I wasn’t creeping on you. I was keeping track of the competition. To start with. But I liked you pretty quickly. I think it’s... the way you moved. From class to class. I noticed that you stop a lot. You stop to look at things. I think you’re forgetful,” he says, his lips quirking, “because you pause a lot and kneel down and open up your bag to get things—like that glossy shit girls put on their lips. And you’ll put it on right there. When you lean down, your hair falls in your eyes. You push it away, and it’s hilarious because I can see as you bat it away that you’re pissed off that it dared to get in your eyes in the first place.

“You’d throw your book bag back on, and sometimes you would run if you were late. One time I saw you smoke a cigarette. I don’t know why you did it that day, but I could tell you were enjoying yourself, because you let your head hang back. You were standing under a tree—that willow, by the south quad pond. You sat under it and pulled your knees up, and I could see what you were thinking almost. You’re what you seem to be, Cleo.”

Unlike him.

I watch his shoulders rise and fall. He’s going to say more. I realize I’m hungry for it. I wait, frozen, for another morsel—something to help me piece Kellan together. But he looks pensive. Like someone else just said all that, and now he’s noticed, he closes his lips.

I SAID TOO MUCH.
I know it right away, because she clasps her hands together like she’s praying, and she doesn’t move at all.

Finally, when I’ve sat in silence for a few moments, she looks down at her lap and asks, “Where are we going, Kellan?”

I shouldn’t have told her that I followed her. What the fuck was that about? Goddamn.

“I thought I’d show you a grow house. I have to go there anyway. And after that, we’ll go to my place.”

Her eyes shift over me, and then back to the road. “Okay.”

But she’s not sure. I can tell she isn’t. Regret stings me, sharp and unexpected. “You think I’m an asshole.”

Her gaze drags over me, and then flits away. “I think you’re the wolf.”

“I’m not the wolf.” I squeeze the wheel. “Okay, maybe I am, but you’re not a lamb, Cleo. You’re a... dog.”

Her eyes fly to mine, wide with her already familiar indignation. “I’m not a dog! No way. Did you really just say that?” She goes full-on girl and bats her lashes in prim fury. “That’s an insult. Dogs are... loyal and comical, and sleepy. They chew on things and pee in public. Trust me, I am nothing like a dog.”

I laugh, and turn left under a bent pecan tree, onto the dirt road that is Pecan Way. “Dogs are man’s best friend, Cleo.”

She shakes her head. “So I’m a sleepy, loyal, drooling, chewing, flea-ridden yard dog, and you’re a wolf. And how is this better than me being a lamb?”

“You’re almost just like me, Cleo. But you’re the good version. You’re the version people want to take home, and to bed.” I give her what I hope is a devastating smile, and Cleo smirks back.

“I’m going to let this drop, Walsh, but it’s not over. I’m not a dog. I can’t stand drool or silent farts. To be completely honest, I’m really more a cat person. They groom themselves and stay out of the way. Loyalty—whatever that is? Cats give as good as they get.”

As we bump over the red dirt road that streaks beneath a copse of pecan trees, I wonder why she thinks she should only give as good as she gets. After watching her from afar for so long—after trying so many labels on her, from scared to treacherous to clueless—I’m almost surprised to find that Cleo Whatley is a real person. She’s nothing like I thought.

I remember her mouth around my cock and grit my teeth. I want to make it up to her. To take back all the observations I shared. I’m fucking weird sometimes—I know this. I shouldn’t have said something so strange. Certainly not if I want her staying at my house.

I think again about the amount of money I agreed to pay her and have to rub my lips together to keep from laughing.

“You know that you have dimples when you frown, but not when you smile—right?”

“I’ve been told.”

“That’s kind of weird.”

We pass a crooked green mailbox. There’s an old farmhouse at the end of that driveway, with an even older farmer pulling weeds. I shrug. “I’m weird. Not scary weird.” I look her in the eye. “I followed you to get an idea of how much you were dealing, Cleo. That’s all.”

She snorts. “Hashtag: were there any signs?”

My mouth curves up without permission. “You’re different... than I thought.”

“I hope that’s a compliment.”

“Mostly.”

She scoffs.

We pass a few more mail boxes mounted on a giant piece of plywood, and I veer right at a “Y” in the road, following Pecan as it rolls onward, deeper into thick, oak-pine forest.

“How am I different than you thought?” she asks.

I can’t help smirking. “More difficult.”

“How?”

I shrug. “Just are.” I realize I’m being more forthcoming with her than I’ve been with any girl in years. It’s... inappropriate. A moment later, I’m relieved to see the pale blue mailbox to the right, followed a few feet later by a thin, dirt drive that curves into some trees.