Secret Obsession: Chapter 47

I need to tell Miles about his car. And what the detective said about the dead guy’s brother, how he was asking questions of the other girl. Searching for him. Although the brother doesn’t know he’s dead… I think. I have that photo of a case freezer ingrained in my head, but I’m not sure where the body is.

Still in Crown Point?

Easily findable?

The brother is going to raise too many questions. If he keeps coming after us, he’ll bring every police detective down on our heads, too.

I shudder. I can’t let that fate fall on us. Miles murdered him—but somehow, I don’t actually care about that. I’ve forgiven it. Forgotten about it.

How fucked up is that?

How can I sleep with him every night, knowing he plunged that blade he’s always carrying, the one he carved an X into my skin with, into that guy’s neck for drugging me?

Because he makes me feel safe.

Because he’s in my head, scrambling my insides.

Because I’m starting to believe the crazy shit he says to me. About me. For me.

The sex scent follows us to a restaurant, the spot on my sweater drying enough to go unnoticed. A shrewd-eyed hostess leads us to a table by the windows. We’re caught in the awkward time between lunch and dinner, and the place is mostly empty.

“Do you have an agenda?” I ask him. “For today.”

“Yes, of course.” He sits beside me.

Not across from me, like a normal person. I chose the seat closer to the window, and he slid right in next to me. His hand landed on my thigh a moment later, burning through the thin material.

We order lemonades and burgers.

“You saw your family last night?” His thumb is moving slowly across my inner thigh. Not traveling, just marking a crescent path. Sending little tingles all over me.

“No.” I shift. “They weren’t home.”

He pauses and looks at me closer. “Did you know you were going to an empty house?”

“No.”

“Willow.”

I shake my head and clear my throat. “Violet and Aspen were good company. It’s okay.”

He hums. “They left for a weekend and just… didn’t tell you? That’s not okay.”

“Families can be weird,” I mutter. “Do your parents tell you where they go all the time?”

Miles snorts. He unlocks his phone, going to a conversation thread. A group chat between him, Knox, and his parents. He scrolls up for what feels like way too long and hands me the phone.

I scan it.

His mom sending a picture of them out to dinner. Knox telling them about his most recent paper grade. A question about their home games. Conversation.

Love.

I lose track of how many I love yous they send each other. Over the course of weeks, it seems like they talk at least once a day.

And for some reason, that realization makes a lump form in my throat.

I’ve never met their parents. Never even came close.

Why would I? Knox wasn’t in our relationship for the long haul, as much as he wanted me to think otherwise. And he balked at any indication that he should meet my family, too. I thought that was normal.

“Oh,” I manage. “I see.”

“You don’t.” Miles frowns and takes the phone back, pressing another button. He holds the phone out and puts his face next to mine, and the next thing I know, the video call is connecting.

His mother’s face fills the screen. She looks like him. Bright-blue eyes, dirty-blonde hair, a heart-shaped face and wide smile. She’s got sunglasses perched on top of her head.

“Hey, honey,” she greets him. “I was just gardening.”

“Mom, I wanted you to meet Willow.”

Her smile gets even bigger. “Oh, Willow! Miles has told me a lot about you.”

I swallow around that lump. “He has?”

“He said you’re a singer with a beautiful voice.”

“Well…”

Her eyes glitter. “There’s more, but he’d probably hang up on me if I went into detail.”

“Mom.” Miles laughs. “Willow’s going to come home with me next weekend for dinner, okay? We’ve got a game on Friday, so we can come down on Saturday.”

“Great! Your father and I were just complaining about how quiet the house has been lately. Is there anything particular you’d like to eat, Willow?”

This is a normal and weird conversation. My head swims. How would my parents react to meeting Miles? I haven’t told them anything about him, and he’s told her practically everything about me.

Well, maybe. That’s probably just an exaggeration.

But he told her I sing.

When did he do that? Why did he do that?

Miles’ lips touch my temple, and I try to fight my shiver. I stare at the little box on his screen that’s all us. Our faces are close enough to touch. That’s what she’s seeing, and she’s not admonishing him for it. For calling her without warning. I mean, he just randomly called, and she answered.

“Anything but sushi,” he advises his mother when I don’t respond. “And maybe nothing too spicy. She likes mild spice, but anything more than that, and she’ll drink a gallon of milk.”

I shift. “That was one time.”

“I know.”

My sophomore, his freshman year. Three years ago. We were out in a group—I don’t even remember what he ordered, and he remembers my reaction to my meal?

Have I been completely oblivious?

“How cute. Okay, no sushi and no spice. How about Italian? It’s been a while since I’ve made a lasagna. Willow, you’re okay with ground beef?”

I clear my throat. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Call me Lucy, dear. I’ll see you both on Saturday, then.”

“Love you, Mom,” Miles says.

“Love you, too, baby.”

The call disconnects from her end, and he tosses the phone on the table. The waitress appears with our drinks and relays that our food will be out soon.

“Why’d you do that?” I ask.

“Because not all families look the same. You don’t just get me in this deal, wild girl. You can have more love than you know what to do with.”

“What if they meet me in person and hate me?” I shake my head and open my phone, going to the group conversation between my parents, Indie, and me. I secretly think all families must have that, but unlike Miles’, ours has been all but abandoned.

The last text was from me, over a month ago.

I hand him my phone, and he scans the messages. They’re all… well, not cold, but they’re not really brimming with emotion either.

“Efficient,” he decides, closing out of that and going to my text thread with Mom.

That one is even worse. The last text is from when I was home for Christmas. They were invited to some work party, and she asked if I would be okay home on my own. The day after the holiday.

I didn’t respond to the text.

Miles grunts.

“So… how did you get Violet and Aspen to help you with this date idea?” Better to change the subject, right? Than deal with hard things?

He shifts to face me fully and lifts his hand to cup my cheek. “They know I’m what’s best for you.”

Oh, super.

The waitress returns, saving me from forming a decent response, and places our burgers in front of us. Suddenly ravenous, I ignore Miles and dig in.

An hour later, he’s got my hand in his and we’re walking back toward the arena. Except now, there are a hell of a lot more people around.

I frown, glancing from them to Miles, but he only winks at me and pulls me onward. Into the line of people entering the arena. We go through a metal detector, and someone scans a barcode on his phone. Then another.

We’re through, and I poke him.

“What is this?”

“Willow!”

I jerk toward the sound of Aspen’s voice. She and Steele are followed by Violet and Greyson, and they’re all wearing Colorado Titans jerseys, with the same number on the sleeves. Aspen holds out a bag for us, and Miles takes it. He reveals two more matching jerseys, flipping them around so I can see the back.

Rhodes.

“Jacob’s playing?”

They nod, smiling.

Truthfully, I had lost track of where he went after he graduated. I knew he was recruited by the NHL—Knox frequently mentioned it, and especially how he wanted to end up on the same team as him. While Knox plays center, Jacob plays defense. On the defensive, he and Steele were a force to be reckoned with.

I duck into a bathroom stall and change into the jersey, grateful to be out of the stained pink sweater. Once my hair is fixed—goodbye, sex hair—and makeup touched up, I rejoin them outside. Miles takes my sweater and shoves it into the bag with his shirt. His fingers lace with mine.

“We’re going to our seats,” Violet says. “We’ll see you… after.”

“After?” I question.

Violet doesn’t meet my gaze. In fact, all of them look a little shifty. Except Miles. He’s just watching me.

“What do you mean?”

“Come on, let’s go see Rhodes. Wish him luck.”

He squeezes my hand and leads me away from our friends. He pulls a pass on a lanyard from God-knows-where, showing it to a man in a suit by an elevator. The man nods once, hitting the button to call up the elevator. When the doors slide open, Miles and I step in alone.

We go down a floor. My stomach is flip-flopping for some reason, and I try not to think about how sweaty my palms are getting. I don’t know why I’m nervous. Maybe just because I realize something is off, especially in the way Violet acted.

She’s a shit actor.

We’re back on the lower level, opposite where we entered earlier. We’re at the corner of the rink, with a view of the visiting team—the Titans—warming up. I catch Jacob’s number on his back, Rhodes printed above it, as he skates past.

“Whiteshaw?” someone calls.

A woman in a cherry-red pantsuit. She’s got a badge on a lanyard around her neck, although I can’t quite make out what it says.

“Yes. And this is Willow.”

She shakes his hand, then mine. “Pleasure. This way, please.”

I glance at Miles, then the woman, but she’s already striding away. Miles ushers me along.

“We expected you an hour ago for sound check,” she says over her shoulder. “But we’re all set up. Here’s your room. I’ll have my assistant come in and wire you up.”

Door.

Taped to it is a piece of paper with my name on it.

Small room. Couch, table and chairs, a mini fridge with waters. A vanity with a mirror surrounded by lights, an array of makeup. Flowers.

Sound check?

My mouth is dry.

The door closes. Then opens again, seemingly before I can take a breath. Another woman, all in black with a headset on, comes in. She clips a battery pack to the waistband of my leggings, threads it up under my jersey, and fits a piece in my ear.

“We’ll come get you in a few minutes. The arrangement was sent over by Ms. Masen yesterday, and it’ll play in your in-ear monitors.” The woman smiles, and it’s probably meant to be reassuring.

But I can’t fucking breathe.

The door closes again, and I yank my hand out of Miles’ grip.

“What is this?” I croak.

“Breathe,” he advises.

“Just fucking tell me why they strapped me up like I’m about to—” I shake my head, my voice failing.

Like I’m about to what? Ms. Masen sent an arrangement. That’s Nora, the sweet woman who has been helping me with singing for months. The one I was with when Miles discovered where I was working. And that I sing.

“What did you do?” I ask in a calmer voice.

“You’re going to sing the national anthem,” he says. “And you’re going to kill it.”

I stare at him. “I’m going to kill you.”

This sort of thing takes prep. Practice. Rehearsal. Sound check. And while they were preparing for this, I was—I was eating a burger. Drinking lemonade.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” My mind is going in endless circles, thinking of a way I can get out of this. “There’s an arena full of people out there.”

“I know.”

“Oh, great, maybe you should go out there and—”

“You’re going to be great.” He leans against the wall. “But I suggest you do your warm-ups before that lady comes back.”

I glower at him and turn away sharply. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and down half of it, although I already have the urge to piss my pants.

That’s nerves.

But if I can’t get out of this, then I need to do my best.

Right?

I face the wall and run through my vocal warm-ups quietly. Trills and octave runs and whatever else I can think of, although my brain is static. I can barely remember my last lesson with Nora. If I knew I was going to be singing in front of more people, I would’ve remembered it better. Or done my homework more seriously.

“Ms. Reed?” The door swings open, and the assistant is back. “We’re ready for you now.”

I swallow.

Miles grabs my shoulder and pushes me ahead of him. He has to, otherwise I wouldn’t fucking move. I don’t know how I’m supposed to go out and sing one of the hardest songs, without practice….

“This is why you didn’t fuck my throat,” I groan, smacking my palm to my forehead. “You’re such an asshole.”

He chuckles.

The woman’s mouth quirks, and I press my lips together.

And then I get my first look at the rink.

It’s all dark, and music blasts out across the arena. Colored lights swing around the ice, the stands, and finally, a spotlight comes on the door beside the home team’s bench.

An announcer booms, “Please welcome…”

I block it out and focus on the woman in front of me. She’s saying shit that I don’t know, don’t understand, and a carpet is being rolled out on the ice. Someone brings out a set of microphone stands. Children file past me, and I watch them with confusion. They line up, and their teacher, or some adult, kneels in front of them.

They sing God Bless America. It’s cute, but my palms sweat more. The crowd seems to enjoy it. They give their wild support, which makes sense. They’re children in need of encouragement, not… me.

And then they’re done. Filing off the ice.

Someone says my name, and it’s echoing over the arena.

Miles propels me forward.

I lick my lips and step out onto the carpet. The spotlight is blinding, and I fight the urge to squint. There are people behind me, and the starting players are on the ice. They’re lined up. Six visitors on the far line, down by their goal. Five on the one closer to me. And the goalie, even with where I stand.

I meet his eyes, then shift my attention to the microphone on the stand. I wet my lips again and step up closer, until my lips are almost touching the mic.

This is a do-or-die situation—and I am not about to mortify myself on live television. I touch the in-ear monitor again, checking that it’s still there. It’s blocking out the sound of the crowd, if there is any. Maybe they’re all silent, waiting for me to begin.

There’s a clicking in my ears. A metronome. And a voice that says, “National anthem in three… two… one.”