Chapter 6 Wrong Kind of Quiet

Lucian

“You can hold on tighter, you know.”

I said it over my shoulder, but my voice just got lost in the wind.

Zara Carter didn’t move an inch closer to me.

Most women who get on my bike act the same way. They want an excuse to touch me. They wrap their arms around my waist like they’re trying to squeeze the air out of my lungs. They lean their chests against my back and try to talk into my ear while I’m doing eighty on the highway.

Zara wasn’t playing. It was like she was trying to stay on the bike without actually touching the man riding it.

I pulled up to the front gates of the estate. I hated this place. I hated the smell of the cut grass. I killed the engine. The silence that followed was heavy.

“We’re here,” I said.

I kicked the stand down. Zara moved with more grace than she should have, considering she was wearing heels. She hopped off and stood on the gravel. She didn't stumble. She didn't complain about the wind or her hair. She just stood there and looked at me.

“Thank you,” she said. “For the ride.”

“You came through for me,” I said. I stayed on the bike. I didn't want to get off.

“I did.”

“So we’re even then,” I said. She started to turn toward the house, but then she stopped. “Don’t do that again.”

I blinked. I wasn't expecting that. “Don’t do what? Ride my bike at night?”

“Don’t call me from a police station,” she said. Her voice wasn’t mean. It wasn’t even angry. It was just flat. “I don’t have the nerves for it. It’s a long drive and the police were very rude.”

“The police are always rude,” I said. I almost laughed, but I caught it. I don’t laugh much. “That’s their job.”

“Well, it’s not mine,” she said. “If you get arrested again, call a lawyer. Or call a friend.”

She walked away. The heels clicked on the stone path. I watched her go. She didn’t look back. She didn’t sway her hips. She just walked like a person who had things to do.

I stayed where I was. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a cigarette. I lit it and took a long drag. The smoke tasted better than the air here. I looked up at the house. My mother used to love the garden here, but after she died, the flowers always looked dead to me. Even when they were in bloom.

My father, Alistair, thinks he can buy everything. He thought he could buy me a life I didn't want. He wanted me to wear suits and sit in boardrooms and talk about interest rates. I told him no.

I thought about what Alistair said at breakfast the other day. He told me that Zara brought joy back into the house. He looked like he believed it. But if she’s so full of joy, why does she look so tired when nobody is watching? Why does she hold onto my jacket like it’s covered in poison?

I threw the cigarette butt onto the gravel and crushed it with my boot. I hated that I was thinking about her. I came back here to deal with my father, not to wonder about the woman he’s sleeping with. But there was a crack in what I knew. I didn't trust her... not even a little bit.

I pushed the bike toward the side garage. I didn't want to start the engine again and wake the whole world up. I walked toward the side door.

As I walked down the hallway toward the stairs, I saw a sliver of light. It was coming from under the door of Alistair’s study. He was still up.

I stopped. I shouldn't have, but I did. I heard footsteps coming from the other direction. It was Mrs. Albright, the head housekeeper. She’s been here since I was a kid. She was carrying a small silver tray with a glass of water and some pills. She looked at me and nodded, but she didn't say anything. She knew I wasn't in the mood for small talk.

She knocked on the study door.

“Come in,” my father’s voice said. It sounded old.

The door opened. From where I was standing in the shadows of the hall, I could see inside. Alistair was sitting at his big oak desk. He had papers everywhere. He looked up when the door opened.

He didn't look at Mrs. Albright. He didn't look at the tray.

His eyes went straight past her. He looked into the hallway. He looked right toward where I was standing, but I was back far enough that he couldn't see me. He wasn't looking for me, though. He was looking for someone else. There was a look on his face I hadn't seen in a long time. He looked like he was waiting for a ghost.

Or maybe he was just waiting for her.