Page 32

I still don’t say anything. Lucas has his moments where he’s a decent guy, but he’s still associated with that asshole. I should saythose assholes. I saw the way Wyatt looked at me too.
I realized there was a difference between me and other kids when I went to school. The rest of the time, I could pretend I was just like everyone else, but not there. Not with their fancy lunch boxes and clothes and seemingly always knowing the right thing to say. My young mind thought it was because they all had moms and I didn’t. That might have been some of it, but as I grew older, I realized it was much more than that.
We were fucking poor.
The door opens, and I swing my gaze toward it as a body comes into view. Lucas gives me a small smile. “Funny thing about this house. No locks on the glass doors.”
“I would’ve thought my silence said enough.”
Lucas sits at the edge of the bed, and I move my feet, curling them up toward me as I bring myself to a sitting position.
He just stares at me, and I grow tired. “I’m about to start homework, so if you wouldn’t mind—”
“Fucking off?” he asks.
I smile tightly. “You got it.”
“The thing is, I don’t want to fuck off, Dakota.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out. “You look like you need a friend, and well, I’m here.” He cringes. “Jesus. Is this the Dr. Phil show? Is he even on TV anymore?”
I give him a dead stare.
“I’m just saying,” he says almost in exasperation. “None of us knew how bad it was. If we had, we would’ve—”
“We would’ve what?” I snap. “I’m not your responsibility. I’m not anyone’s responsibility. I don’t need to be taken care of, and I certainly don’t want to be treated like a porcelain doll.”
“I think you just scared us down there, that’s all.”
“Scared you?” I laugh. It’s caustic and bitter, and I know it makes me sound about as desperate as I feel, which I hate. “Just leave, Lucas.”
He moves, but he doesn’t leave. He pulls himself back to the wall, leaning against it with his feet outstretched over the foot of the bed. Crossing his arms over his chest, he just lazes there, staring ahead. “I remember when I first saw you,” he says eventually. “You were dressed like a boy. I swear if it weren’t for your messy pigtails, I might have actually thought you were one.”
He grins, and I happen to peek in time to enjoy it. It’s boyish and throws Lucas into a whole different time of life. One where there’s no weight on his shoulders or worries over his head. I hadn’t realized how much he was holding in until I saw his innocence.
“We weren’t allowed to talk to you, of course, but when I asked about you, Stone told me who you were. We were at some Clary field days or something. It had something to do with treasure, I remember that. You had your hand wrapped around your daddy’s so tightly. Your eyes were big and round, staring at all the people, like you’d never seen that many in your life. Like you never even knew that many existed.” Lucas swallows and looks at me. “So, no, Dakota, I’m not going to leave. Because you need to know that people exist. That not everyone out there thinks you and your dad are crazy. We don’t all despise you. We don’t all think you’re scum or want to torment you because you grew up differently. Hell, if you stick around long enough. You might even realize that weallgrew up differently.”
I suck in a breath at the raw honesty of his words. I don’t remember seeing him, but I remember the Gold Festival Clary used to put on. It was one of the only times I was allowed to go into town with Dad, so I can surmise that what he’s saying is true. I remember feeling lost in a sea of people. Honestly, crowds still get me sometimes. I bite the inside of my cheek as a happier memory churns just under the surface. “My dad was always really bad at doing my hair.”
Lucas grins, and it’s absolutely stunning in a way because he’s not trying. Stone walks around like he knows he’s gorgeous. Wyatt, too, has that whole cowboy thing going for him, but Lucas? He’s a sleeper. But when you really see him, you fall down the rabbit hole of his good looks, wanting to sink deeper and deeper.
We just sit there for quite some time, neither of us saying anything. We’re both wrapped in different worlds, an eye to the past. A few times, I peek at him to wonder what’s plaguing him. When I was little and saw people, I used to make up their life stories. With Lucas, it seems wrong to do that. I don’t want to mess with whatever his true story is because I bet it’s far different than anything I could even imagine.
Eventually, I pull out my Lit textbook to do some reading. Lucas leaves for a couple of minutes and comes back with his own books. We sit there quietly, each doing our own schoolwork until he receives a text. I’m so engrossed in the story, reading past where I’m supposed to have read that the buzzing of Lucas’s phone makes me jump. “Sorry,” he says. He pulls it out and glowers down at the screen. “For fuck’s sake.”
He pushes his textbooks off him and stands, heading for the door. He leaves without looking back, and I can’t not follow him with that type of exit. I close my textbook and jump to my feet. Using the remote, I raise the blinds. The sun hits me, and I have to shield my eyes like a vampire. I lost track of time while we were studying, but I bet Lucas and I were in this room for hours. Probably the most amount of time I spent with anyone outside of Dad and Dickie.
How sad is that?
I move down the hall to find Wyatt and Lucas standing on either side of the front door. They’re staring at the floor, but that’s not what’s caught their attention. It’s what’s happening outside the front door that has. Through the sheer curtains, I see a row of TV vans lining the driveway along with dozens and dozens of cameramen.
Wyatt reaches out and pulls me next to him and Lucas, using the front door to shield us. Outside, though, the reporters talk over each other until the cold voice of Lance Jacobs drones over all of them. My body chills.
“Calm down, calm down,” he says, chuckling. “I know everyone wants to hear treasure news but just breathe.”
I roll my eyes. My father and I would watch the news with his face plastered all over it when anything regarding the treasure came up. My father would sit in his ripped armchair and seethe, his fingers curling into the dusty, dirty, outdated material while Lance Jacobs smiled into a camera with a suit on. Even at a young age, I could tell the difference between them. I could see the way my father reacted to him, and since my world revolved around him, the hate grew in me, too.
“What news do you have for us about the treasure? Did you find it?” an eager reporter asks.
“Not fucking likely,” I grumble under my breath, unable to help myself. The idea is preposterous to me. First, he’d have to actually search to find the treasure, and the only reason Lance makes his way up here is for photo and media opportunities just like this.