False Memory
Page 17
“Spider?” I say, the word cracking in half as my voice betrays me.
“You do remember,” he says. It's a statement, not a question. A certainty, not a wondering. “I had it tested.”
“Tested?”
“Scraped it off the floor after killing it. Lily, that was a poisonous spider. A violin spider. They don't just randomly find their way into hospital rooms.”
“They're hitchhikers,” I mutter. “From Mexico. Come in on flowers all the time, in shipments.”
“You think your mom accidentally brought one into your room?” His eyebrows are sky high.
“God, no. Mom's super careful with them. We always check shipments just in case.” I can't look away, or he'll know. He'll know I know more about the spider than I'm letting on. Holding it in is so hard. The edges of every part of me are fraying from all the tension. The lies. The omissions and the secrecy. Jane's explanation.
Jane's... warning?
And then the bullets. So many bullets.
“Got it. But your parents are familiar with those.”
“Yes.”
And then I realize Romeo must know that. Must have picked a poisonous spider that could be traced to my parents, of all people. He's smart enough to plan out ways to hurt and kill me that are plausibly connected to the people who love me the most.
That is a level of evil I didn't realize even exists in the world.
The car turns down a road I don't know, lefts and rights making this feel like an old video game, like we're ghosts eating dots to acquire points to reach the next level.
Except we're in a car driven by a professional bodyguard whose sole mission is to keep me alive.
So not the same.
“Come here,” Duff orders.
“Why?”
“Lily. Come here.” His voice is sharp and soft. Clear and opaque. It's every sunset and meadow flower field, and every glint of sunlight off the barrel of a gun. It's shattered glass and cozy fireplace fires. It's roasted marshmallows and hospital antiseptic.
It's the dichotomy of my life.
It pulls me in.
I move across the seat, wondering why he wants me near, what his purpose is, as his scent fills my nose. “You're bleeding,” I say, the copper tang invading the lemon, the sweat, the salt, the coffee.
“So are you.” His fingertip goes to my cheek. When he strokes the skin, I fight the whimper inside me.
Blood covers the skin he shows me.
“A scratch. Where's yours?”
“Leg. Shoulder. I'm fine.”
“You're not fine,” I breathe, the air warm, his body warmer. We're inches apart.
This isn't happening, right? I'm imagining this?
Except there's no way I'm imagining how he's suddenly kissing me. His mouth is gentle yet searing. My hand rides up his chest, resting over his heart, flat and pleading, wanting him to dull the ache inside me that begins to lift, breath by breath, kiss by kiss, until his strong arms go around me, pulling me closer, making me feel safe.
Wanted.
Whole.
This is crazy, I tell myself as he parts my lips and his tongue meets mine, telling me secrets we can only share without speaking. Am I kissing him because I just nearly died and need to be close to someone? Am I just impulsively leaping out of some strange arousal system in my bloodstream that makes me want this?
Or is it because Duff is the only person on Earth who seems to understand me?
As his tongue touches mine again, lips drawn warm and wet, close and needing more, I stop worrying about the why and release myself to the sensation. My knees go weak, a warm tingling covering me with a rapidfire pleasure that pools in my belly, his kiss running through me like nothing else exists. My hands ride up his broad shoulders and I breathe in, wanting nothing more than this for the rest of my life.
He breaks the kiss, pressing his forehead against mine. I let my eyes flutter open and look at him, out of focus, his eyes closed, breath unsteady.
He pulls back a few inches, his gaze so penetrating that I can't think. Narrowing his eyes, he gives me a look of candor, of lust, of abnegation, of self-recrimination, as if he knows he shouldn't have done that but couldn't help himself.
And then he says, so softly that I almost don't hear him, but when I do, the world spins wildly out of control, taking my heart along for the ride:
“When were you going to tell me you’ve been faking the amnesia, Lily? Before or after I sleep with you?”
* * *
Read what happens next in False Hope, the second book in the False series by USA Today bestselling author Meli Raine.
About the Author
USA Today bestselling author Meli Raine rode her first motorcycle when she was five years old, but she played in the ocean long before that. She lives in New England with her family.