Hit by Delilah S. Dawson Read Free Book Online Page B

Wyatt.”
    I exhale and let my head fall against the back of the passenger seat, my mouth twitching into a smile that lasts mere seconds. It shouldn’t matter. It’s not going to make things any easier. Today I killed his dad. One day soon, I have to kill his brother. If I live through it, he’s going to hate me even more than he already does. But all I feel is relief that I don’t have to kill this guy, now or later. And I can’t tell him that. And still I’m fighting the smile, and he’s looking at me like he wants to smile too, but can tell that, deep down, he shouldn’t.
    We are possibly the two most messed-up people on earth.
    â€œWhat?” he asks.
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    â€œWhat are you sorry for?” He swallows hard. “My dad?”
    He stands, paces, and slides down to sit on the floor against the far side of the truck. The air is charged, crisp and tinged with pink. I wait until he’s got his pants arranged, and then I turn to face him. Things were happening too fast for me to catalog details after I shot his dad and ran away to keep from puking all over him. He’s about my age and more of a Wyatt than a Max. He’s definitely cute, although he looks and smells like he hasn’t bathed today. Jesus, who would? With your dad lying dead on your doorstep and the police nowhere in sight as you call 911 again and again, praying someone will answer? Knowing that no one is investigating, dusting for fingerprints, promising to find the murderer? Still, he doesn’t look or smell awful. Just raw. Broken. He fills the truck in a way I don’t.
    His hair is wheat-gold and straight, falling over puddly brown eyes that are serious and sharp. He’s big, like an athlete, and tall, and I know firsthand that he weighs more than I expected. But what kind of guy is he, really? The clues I would normally get from his style are absent. Plaid pajama pants, bare feet. He’s wearing a faded black T-shirt, probably replacing the band shirt he was wearing before, because I bet he held his dad, hugged him, dragged him inside, got covered in blood. But he has something tattooed on the inside of his arm, near his elbow. There’s not enough light for me to make it out, but it’s black, probably words. He’s giving me the same once-over, and it’s intense.
    And somehow, without my noticing it, he got his knife back. It’s clenched in his right hand, against the cold metal of the truck floor. My own hand hasn’t left the gun hidden under the quilt. The moment would be agonizing enough without weapons added to the mix. As it is, I can barely breathe, and I don’t know whether to talk or run or cry. I want to connect with him, touch him, beg him for absolution, shoot him a dozen times for looking at me that way. Instead I just stare at him, waiting for something to happen.
    I wonder what I look like to a stranger. A normal girl. Thin, but I usually wear big sweaters or coats, the sort of clothes that hide my body for the sake of showing off my style. My dark hair is scraggly and asymmetrical on purpose, and I wear red lipstick like a dare. Ican tell that I’m not the type of girl his type of guy would go for, not a Snow White fit for his Prince Charming. But I bet the see-through white tank top helps. Right now, startled from sleep, I’m as absent of social signals and pretense as he is. Stripped bare.
    In the back of this truck, ripped from my normal life, I could be anyone. I ache for the armor of my belongings, to be more than just a scrubbed-clean, nearly naked murderer in a mail truck. Valor wanted an invisible soldier, of sorts, and I guess they got one. But I’m doing this on my own terms. And whatever Wyatt sees, his eyes don’t seem to accuse me. He looks more wounded and curious, just as tense as I am.
    His fingers drum against the truck’s floor. He’s waiting for me to say something.
    â€œWhy a