Sneaking a glance, I watched his long fingers drape over the T of the steering wheel and then looked up to his face, seeing his eyes narrowed on the road ahead and the unusually stern expression on his face.
His chest rose and fell, steady and controlled, and if there was one thing I knew about Will Grayson III, it was that when he was in control you should worry.
Like in the pool last night.
When he got serious, he got to me.
I looked back down at my lap, breathing hard and feeling a little sick because my body was raging with a lot of different things.
I liked it.
We crawled closer to my house, and he hadn’t said a word, but I didn’t care. I just soaked up the feeling for as long as I could. Feeling him next to me. Riding with him. The goosebumps on my legs, because I felt kind of pretty in the skirt now. Did he like it?
He turned onto my street, and I clutched the hem of my shirt, seeing my house ahead, but I didn’t want to leave him.
He drove too fast, though. Why was he driving so fast? He had to stop in a second.
But we passed my house, not stopping or even slowing, and I popped my head up, looking back at my place through his back window.
He maintained speed, not slowing as my house came and went, disappearing again.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, despite my heart leaping a little. “You have to take me home,” I said. “I can’t be late.”
I couldn’t muster any more than a soft voice, because I really didn’t want to go home. I just knew I had to.
Finally, he glanced over at me. “What are you afraid will happen? You’re good at saying no to me, right? You can stay with me for another hour.”
I arched a brow. What the hell was he going to try that would make me need to say no?
I checked the clock on the dash. It was only 9:19. As long as I was home by ten, Martin probably wouldn’t ask questions. Probably.
He would know the bus had arrived already, though.
Will drove us through the neighborhood and pulled onto Old Pointe Road, heading toward Adventure Cove.
I tensed. What was he up to? The place closed at eight, and there was nothing else out here.
He turned and pulled into the parking lot of the theme park, the whole place empty for the night. He stopped the truck, not really bothering to fit into any particular space, but he kept the engine running and turned down the radio.
I let my eyes trail around the deserted lot, the empty ticket booths and darkened rides looming beyond the entrance gates. One single overhead light shone on the parking lot.
I looked at him out of the corner of my eye as he leaned back in his seat, staring out the window as the weight of the silence made my heart skip a beat.
“Do you see the Ferris wheel?” he finally asked.
I followed his gaze, looking out my window and finding the Ferris wheel to the right, on the edge of the theme park.
“If you head past it,” he said, “about five-hundred yards east, you’ll come to Cold Point.”
Cold Point was a part of the cliffs that jutted out into the sea a little more than the rest of the coastline between here and Falcon’s Well. With the theme park in the way, it was nearly inaccessible now.
And for good reason, given its history.
“Do you know that story?” he asked me.
“Murder-suicide,” I muttered.
He was quiet, and then I heard his soft, “Maybe.”