orts, subsiding to a drizzle as he marched her over to her shoes. The last thing she needed was more in there, so rather than sit, she bent forward and reached for her boot. Bad choice, because tonight’s festivities left her less than steady. She started to topple.
A strong hand closed on her arm, just above her elbow, and righted her as if she weighed nothing. “Get them on. I’ve got you.”
The heat from his palm made her realize how cold she was. Numb and clumsy and freezing cold. She tugged her boots on, moving as fast as she could because shivers threatened.
“Anything else you need to collect before we go, Lauralie?”
“No, and I told you not to call me that.” Even in her current state, she winced at the bitchy tone in her voice.
“It’s your name, right?” he responded, seemingly unperturbed. He kept his hold on her as they walked down the beach to the parking lot.
“You sure know a lot about me. My name. My age.”
“Halloran tipped me off before he sent me over to reel you in.”
“And you are?”
“Ethan Booker.”
“Ethan Booker of the Montenido Bookers?” But she didn’t need him to confirm her guess. Now that she had the frame of reference it wasn’t hard to superimpose this badge-wearing badass over her pre-teen memory of an athletic high-school hottie striding out of the surf with a board under his arm and a bunch of girls waiting by his towel. Golden-boy came from a wealthy, high-profile family. And wealthy by Montenido standards meant mega-fucking-rich.
“Ethan Booker of the Montenido Sheriff’s Department,” he shot back. There was just enough sharpness in the reply to tell her she might have struck a nerve—like maybe he didn’t like money and privilege being the first thing people associated with him.
Defensive instincts had her pressing on the point, to see just how sore it was. “Please. Your family’s loaded. Why slum it in the sheriff’s department?”
“How else would I get to meet underaged girls who are about to be grounded until they’re thirty?”
Grounded? What kind of Gilmore Girls world did he think she lived in? She cleared her tight throat. “Are you going to a-arrest me?”
“We’re going to consider tonight a warning. Don’t tempt me to change my mind.”
Relief reduced her to silence. She couldn’t even manage a thank you, for fear he’d hear a telltale quiver in her voice. He led her around to the passenger side of the cruiser, opened the door, and stood there while she got in. “Seat belt,” he prompted, and then shut the door. Something about the way he handled her made her feel taken care of. Not a normal feeling for her, and more than a little unsettling. She straightened, crossed her arms, and pulled on her I-can-take-care-of-myself cloak.
He got behind the wheel, and flicked the interior light to the brightest setting. Then he turned to her. “Buckle—Fuck, I’m going to kill that prick.”
His eyes were glued to her throat. She flipped the visor down to see her reflection in the vanity mirror, and sucked in a shocked breath. The sexy Jessica Simpson-style waves she’d tried to emulate hung around her face in tangles. The shadow, liner, and mascara she’d painstakingly applied earlier tonight ringed her eyes like dirty smudges. And the cherry on the cake of all this classy? A big, red bruise blooming on the side of her neck. A souvenir from Duke. She couldn’t even feel the stupid thing, but it looked pathetic. She looked pathetic. Used. Cheap.
Her euphoria from just before midnight came back to mock her. There was nothing magical or beautiful about the girl staring back at her in the mirror. A sour taste percolated in the back of her throat as another thought struck.
She looked exactly like her mother.
The impulse to hide had her hunching her shoulders and twisting toward the window, but Booker caught her chin. “Lauralie, look at me.”
A cold, hard ball of humiliation lodged in her throat. Her chest tightened. She pulled her gaze up, and fell into dark, concerned eyes.
“Did he hurt you?”
The tattered edges of her imaginary cloak of self-sufficiency slipped out of her grasp. She burst into tears.
He immediately released her, and scrubbed his hand over his face. “Shit. All right. Everybody relax. I’m not touching you. Nobody’s going to touch you. I’m just going to ask you some questions, and I want you to answer honestly. Are you okay?”
Okay? Try fucked up, embarrassed, and angry—mostly with herself. Her teeth chattered, and she couldn’t stop shaking, but as far as how he meant? Basically yes. “I-I’m f-f-fine.”
“Then why are you crying?”
The careful tone of his question made her cry harder. People weren’t careful with her. She wasn’t even careful with herself, and the reasons were hard to explain in a way that made sense—especially to someone like Booker, who’d never longed to change who he was or where he came from. She racked her brain for a reply that wouldn’t sound so crazy. A night like tonight gave a girl plenty of reasons to cry, but she settled for one of her more immediate worries. “If Denise finds out about tonight, she’s not going to ground me. She’s going to kick my ass out. All she wants is a reason to justify booting me. ”
“Denise Peterson is your mother?”