Jessie Humphries - Killing Ruby Rose

“Why are you looking at me like that?” She pulled her hand away from my cheek.

“Like what?”

She blew out an exasperated breath and pinched her eyes shut. “Like you don’t understand the stress I’m under or what’s at stake for me.”

I rolled my eyes. So typical—always thinking of Jane.

“I have a lot of important people relying on me, and I can’t let them down now,” she continued. “The governor wants to see me, and…” That’s when I stopped listening. I was tired of wishing she’d consider me one of those important people.

“It’s fine,” I said quietly. I wasn’t trying to guilt-trip her. I just knew I couldn’t win this one. White flag raised.

“I promise I’ll be back in time for dinner. We’ll talk,” she said, starting to get up. There was that teasing word again—“talk.” I wouldn’t hold my breath. “What do you want me to bring home? Chinese? Italian? A nice prime rib?”

“I don’t care,” I said, watching her speed walk out of the room. “It’s your world,” I muttered to myself, knowing she couldn’t hear me. It was more likely she’d forget to call, and I would end up making myself mac and cheese.

“I’ll surprise you, then,” she hollered from the staircase. She must’ve been taking two at a time, even in heels. And I thought I’d inherited my agility from Dad.

After the garage door shut, I wondered if it would’ve been a blessing to her if I’d died last night. She wouldn’t have to bother anymore with any of this mothering mumbo jumbo. She wouldn’t have to come home ever. My death would probably give her a boost in the polls, and best of all, she wouldn’t have to share the five million dollars of life insurance money my dad had left for me in trust.

So why did I still want her love and attention? If only Dad were here. He knew exactly how to buffer the tension between Mom and me. He’d make me some of his famous French toast with extra powdered sugar on top. He’d throw the wet suits and boards in the back of his truck and drive me down to our surf spot. He’d take me to the SWAT obstacle course and gun range to sweat and shoot my worries away.

I remembered now what it had felt like to hold my dad’s gun for the first time when I was twelve. It was exciting—exhilarating, even. But last night that gun had felt so dangerous and wrong. The minute I got back home, I’d put it back in his safe where it belonged.

Which begged the question: How did Dad’s gun even get there last night? Had someone stolen it from the crime scene? Taken it off his dead body for profit? Sold it to a pawnshop where Mr. D. S. had then tracked it down? My brain overflowed with ridiculous theories. Dad’s entire SWAT team was with him the night he died. At least that’s what I’d gathered from the few details I’d heard. So how could anyone have been able to take the gun—unless that someone belonged to SWAT? Could one of them have betrayed him? If it was possible for Martinez—his former partner—to betray him so deeply, then a wider SWAT betrayal was just as believable. Perhaps that’s why his partner, Mathews, hadn’t dared show his face around here since.

Crack. A sharp noise on the window made me jump. I looked over to see if it had shattered, but it was intact. Hugging the towel to my body, I got out of bed to make sure it was locked. Then I saw him—Liam.

He grinned up at me like I’d offered him an early birthday present: me, wearing virtually nothing. I jumped back, both relieved that he wasn’t an ax murderer and totally pissed at him for scaring me and invading my privacy.

I ran to my closet to grab a robe, and in the space of a few feet my mind changed. I wasn’t that mad. Maybe a little surprised, maybe a bit flattered, and maybe a bit curious about what it would be like to be in the same room as him wearing only a towel.

Two robes hung in my closet: a thick, purple frumpy thing I used at Christmas and the Victoria’s Secret robe I used in the privacy of my own room. I couldn’t very well go down there looking like Barney the dinosaur.

I wrapped the hot-pink robe around me and headed downstairs to talk to him like a civilized human being.

“Oy, you,” I yelled out the front door. “There’s this thing called a doorbell.”

He came running around the hedge. “I was going for the whole Romeo-and-Juliet thing.” He shoved his hands in his jeans and flashed that sparkly smile. Why did he look so happy to see me?

When was I ever going to understand this dude? Aside from Mr. D. S., he was the only person in the whole world who knew exactly what I was: a killer. And yet he wanted to play Shakespeare with me.

“You do know that Romeo and Juliet both ended up dead,” I said, trying to sound unaffected by his charm, while inside I couldn’t help feeling flattered—or maybe twitterpated. The black Hurley V-neck shirt he wore clung to his chest, revealing the muscular curves I’d daydreamed about ever since that shirtless morning at the beach. “And also, Romeo didn’t chuck rocks and nearly break Juliet’s window.”

“Uh, yeah, sorry about that.” He scratched his neck and wrinkled his nose. “Turns out throwing a rock twenty feet in the air delicately is sort of hard.”

He stood on the welcome mat, looking like he felt totally unwelcome. Avoiding his eyes, I stared down at his feet. Under his impressively clean throwback Jordans, the mat read: “Life Is a Bed of Roses.” Dad had given it to Mom a few years back. I used to think it was absurd. But after he died I started seeing it differently. Sure, we had our share of thorns, but we all loved each other.

“Have you heard from Alana?” Liam broke our uncomfortable pause.

“Not yet,” I replied, unhappy to be reminded that my best friend had finally realized I was the worst . “Have you heard anything on the news about”—I paused for a second, ashamed to say what had happened out loud—“you know, the warehouse?”

“Nope.”

I squinted at the sun, waiting for him to tuck tail and bolt.

“Well, aren’t you going to invite me in?” Liam asked.

I looked down at my robe, feeling a little underdressed. It hadn’t occurred to me that he’d want to come in. “Well, are you or aren’t you?” he asked again, moving closer.

“I guess, but…” I didn’t know how to finish that sentence. If you promise not to turn me in to the cops…or seduce me .

“Nice robe,” he said as he pushed through the door and gusted in. I tightened the sash again. “We really ought to talk. You know, about that math problem,” he said louder.

“My mom’s not here,” I said, relieving him of his need to speak in code. “We’re alone.”

His smile was wider than I’d ever seen it. Like twelve hours ago he hadn’t been abducted and almost sold to an international drug lord who liked boys. This kid had the short-term memory of a goldfish.

“Good.” He reached for my hand and pulled me to his chest, and I let him reel me in like I was the goldfish. “I forgot to thank you for saving my life,” he said.

Er, wrong. I hadn’t saved his life. I put it in danger just by knowing him—and caring about him—but I didn’t say that. All I could think about were his eyelashes and his lips.

“You’re welcome?” It came out more like a question.

“Look, I know this may sound weird or psychotic or something, but what you did last night was…freaking amazing.” His eyes were lit up in a way that made no sense to me.

“What are you even talking about?” I asked.

“Ruby, those were bad guys. I mean really bad guys. They were going to kill us. Or worse.” He grimaced. Finally, a look that made sense. “You not only saved us, but probably tons of other people they’d have messed with, too. I only wish I’d been the one to pull the trigger.”