She's Bad News

Chapter 24

Sunday.

My heart skipped a beat at the thought of Sunday and what I would be walking into.

But another thought chased some of the panic away. It was only Tuesday.

Before I could think it through, I was dressed in a pair of torn jeans, a plain black t-shirt, and a hoodie. Silently, I crept down the stairs and out of the house, keeping my footsteps light even on the driveway because my heart was pounding too hard for me to relax. When I was a block away, I broke into a jog as the rain started to come down harder and lightning split the sky. By then time I was at Flynn’s house, I’d been practically sprinting so I was out of breath and unsure of my next move.

Soaked to the bone and shaking from my run, I realized one thing.

I’m an idiot.

I was being selfish, wanting to hold him to me for the next few days so I could at least have something to push me through the rest of my life.

But what about Flynn? His life hadn’t been so easy either and here I was, ready to use him because he made me feel better? He wasn’t a fucking CD, he was a person.

“Fuck,” I muttered, trying to run a hand through my hair but my fingers got tangled in the wet mass it had become.

I turned around and started walking down his driveway, back to my house where at least I knew where I stood. Donald hated me, I’d pushed Sandra away and though my brothers loved me, they’d be fine when I left.

Flynn had been part of that kiss too and if he’d felt a fraction of what I had, he wouldn’t forget it easily.

I couldn’t do that to him, string him along only to disappear. He meant more than that. So much more.

“Cory.”

I jumped at the sound of his voice, spinning around to see him walking towards me, his expression hesitant. “What are you doing here?”

“I-I’m sorry,” I muttered, taking a step back.

“Is everything okay?”

My heart clenched at his words and I spun on my heel, ready to run away from him. He was so fucking great. Hadn’t he been mad at me? He’d driven away pretty quickly earlier and now here I was on his driveway like some crazy stalker and instead of shooing me off his property, he was concerned for my welfare.

“Wait,” he said, his hand gripping my wrist lightly, his touch immediately halting my movements and making my brain stutter to a stop. That elusive peace I’d been looking for earlier, the one I’d at one time been able to find in the nature CDs I hoarded, settled around my heart from one simple touch of his fingers. “Come inside for a bit,” he said softly, giving my wrist a gentle tug until I was facing him and when he jerked his head towards the house, I found my feet following him until we were inside and the door was shut behind us.

He took off his shoes and waited while I followed suit before he shifted his grip on my wrist until our hands were laced together. With another tug and a look I couldn’t read, he pulled me towards the stairs. I followed him into his room, my eyes scanning the bare walls and plain double bed, thinking that it looked like a hotel room. Impersonal, temporary.

“Where’s your dad?” I whispered, feeling out of place.

“He sleeps in the basement.” His lips tightened and his gaze shifted to the side when he said, “He passed out when he finished all the beer in the house.”

I squeezed his hand, not knowing what else to do. How many times had my mother done essentially the same thing except she preferred wine or vodka to beer?