Conceal

“I’ll go get her,” she says, and then she slides out of the booth. I follow suit, trailing behind her until we approach Maggie. Willow lifts her hand and touches her, and her friend stops kissing the guy.

“Hey,” Maggie drawls. It’s obvious from the glassy appearance of her eyes and the way she speaks that she’s drunk. Or at the very least tipsy.

“You ready?” Willow asks.

Maggie’s eyes widen. “Well . . . I was thinking about . . .” Now it’s Maggie’s face that turns red. The moment gets awkward.

I step forward. “I can make sure she gets home safely,” I offer.

Maggie’s head turns in my direction. “Really? You would do that?”

“Sure. It would be my pleasure.”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that. I can just take a—” Willow starts to say, but I shake my head and cut her off.

“I insist.”

“Are you going to be okay?” Willow asks Maggie, and Maggie nods. Willow turns back to me. “Okay, I’ll take you up on that offer.”

Together, we head toward the exit. Before we leave, I hold out my hand and help her put on her coat. Our hands touch briefly, and it feels like an electric current pulses between us. Once she’s wrapped up, she puts some distance between us, probably to diminish the lingering desire that’s coursed through us ever since that dance.

We step outside. If I didn’t know better, I’d think we were in the dead of winter. It’s so cold I’m sure if it rained it would snow.

“You really don’t have to take me home. I can take a cab.”

“Honestly, you’re doing me a favor. I don’t think I could fall asleep right now.”

“Me too, actually.”

I cock my head. “Do you want to grab a bite?”

“I can always eat.”

“Come on. I know a great diner right up the road that’s open twenty-four hours.”

“How come it doesn’t surprise me that you say that?”

“Probably because I love to eat.”

“I feel that. Me too.”

Together, we walk until we reach the small twenty-four-hour diner I always go to when I go to Chaos.

The small chime above the door rings through the air as I swing it open. I step back, and Willow walks past me. My brother might think I’m an idiot, maybe an asshole even, but I’m always a gentleman. Something my mom taught me when I was young. When Addison and Gray were traveling with Dad, and they left me home because I was so much younger, my mother taught me manners, one of them being letting a woman pass first. It’s funny, but I doubt Grayson would think I would.

Thoughts of my brother and his condescending nature put a sour taste in my mouth.

I walk behind Willow until we reach a table and sit. My mood must be present on my face because when she looks at me, her forehead furrows.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. I was just thinking.”

“What were you thinking about?”

“My family.”

She cocks her head. “What about your family? Or . . .” She raises her hands. “Forget I asked. It’s none of my business.”

And while I agree it’s not, it doesn’t sound like a bad idea. She doesn’t know them, so personal prejudice will not taint her opinion. Although I rarely open up to people, I allow myself to open up to her.

“My brother treats me like I am a degenerate. Like I’m a fuckup and can’t do anything right.” It falls from my mouth before I can stop it, and Willow’s mouth hangs open. She must think I’m crazy. Here, she won’t even tell me her last name, and I’m bleeding all my drama onto her at a table at four in the morning.

When Willow is about to speak, or I’m about to apologize for the verbal diarrhea that has spewed from my mouth, the waitress comes over.

“What can I get for you two?” she asks.

“Food,” I say. “Lots and lots of food. Enough food to shut me up and not make me bore you to death,” I say, half laughing and half telling the truth.

“Basically, bring us one of everything,” Willow jokes.

The waitress seems horrified.

I turn to her and smile. “Long night. Why don’t you bring us . . .” I look down at the menu lying on the table and read off a few suggestions. Willow nods when she wants it. By the time the waitress leaves, we have ordered hash browns, scrambled eggs, chicken and waffles, and a milkshake. Anyone who will look at our table once we get our food will assume we are horribly drunk. Maybe tipsy, but we’re not that drunk.

“So . . . your friends are nice . . .” she says, looking off and not making eye contact with me. I’ve known Willow long enough to know she’s trying to ask me something but doesn’t want to.

“Is that so?” I lean across the table, cocking my head. “Is there something or someone in particular you want to ask me about?” I do everything to hold back my laughter, but when her cheeks flush, I know I’ve hit the nail on the head.