Soul Screamers Collection. Rachel Vincent

were talking about, that’s not it.”

      “How do you know?” I blinked the moisture from my eyes, irritated with how emotional I was becoming. Wasn’t that another symptom of brain cancer?

      Nash sighed, but he sounded more worried than exasperated. “I have to tell you something. I’ll pick you up in ten minutes.”

       8

      SEVEN MINUTES LATER, I sat on the living-room couch, my keys in my pocket, my phone in my lap, my fingernails rasping anxiously across the satin upholstery. I was angled to face both the television—muted, but tuned to the local evening news—and the front window, hoping no one would realize Iwas expecting company. “No one,” meaning my aunt and uncle. Sophie was still out cold, and I was starting to wonder how many of those pills her mother had given her.

      Aunt Val was in the kitchen, banging pots, pans, and cabinet doors as she made spaghetti, her favorite comfort food. Normally she wouldn’t indulge in so many carbs in a single meal, but she was obviously having a rough day. A very rough day, if the scent of garlic bread was any indication.

      “Hey, Kay-Bear, how you holdin’ up?”

      I glanced up to find my uncle leaning against the plaster column separating the dining room from the living room. He hadn’t called me that in nearly a decade, and the fact that he was using my old nickname probably meant he thought I was… fragile.

      “I’m not crazy.” I met his clear green eyes, daring him to argue.

      He smiled, and the retulting smile lines somehow made him look even younger than usual. “I never said you were.”

      I huffed and shot a glare toward the kitchen, where Aunt Val was stirring noodles in a huge aluminum pot. “She thinks I am.” I knew better than that now, of course, but wasn’t about to let on that I’d heard their argument.

      Uncle Brendon shook his head and crossed the eggshell carpet toward me, arms folded over the faded tee he’d changed into after work. “She’s just worried about you. We both are.” He sank into the floral-print armchair opposite me. He always sat there, rather than on the solid white chair or sofa, hoping that if he spilled something, Aunt Val would never notice the stain on such a busy pattern.

      “Why aren’t you worried about Sophie?”

      “We are.” He paused, then seemed to consider his answer. “But Sophie’s … resilient. She’ll be fine once she’s had a chance to grieve.”

      “And I won’t?”

      My uncle raised one brow at me. “Val said you barely knew Meredith Cole.” And just like that, he’d sidestepped the real question—that of my future well-being.

      And we both knew it.

      Before I could answer—and I was in no hurry—an engine purred outside, and I glanced through the sheers to see an unfamiliar blue convertible pull into the driveway beside my car, glittering in the late-afternoon sun. Behind the wheel was a very familiar face, crowned by an equally familiar head of thick brown hair.

      I stood, stuffing my phone into my empty pocket.

      “Who’s that?” Uncle Brendon twisted to look out the window.

      “A friend. I gotta go.”

      He stood, but I was already halfway across the room. “Val’s making dinner!” he called after me.

      “I’m not hungry.” Actually, I was starving, but I had to get out of the house. I couldn’t possibly suck down spaghetti like it was a regular Monday night. Not knowing that my entire family had been lying to me for who knows how long.

      “Kaylee, get back here!” Uncle Brendon roared, following me through the front door onto the porch. I’d rarely heard him raise his voice, and had never heard him yell like that.

      I took off at a trot, slid into the passenger seat, then slammed the door and locked it.

      “Is that your uncle?” Nash asked, right hand hovering over the gearshift. “Maybe I should meet—”

      “Go!” I shouted, louder than I’d meant to. “I’ll introduce you later.” Assuming I lived that long.

      Nash slammed the car into Reverse and swerved backward out of the driveway, twisting in his seat to peer out the rear windshield. As we pulled away from the house, I took one last look at my uncle, who stared after us from the middle of the driveway, thick arms crossed over his chest. Behind him, Aunt Val stood on the porch holding a dishrag, her perfect mouth hanging open in surprise.

      When we turned the corner, I let myself melt into the car seat, only then noticing how posh it was. “Please tell me you didn’t pick me up in a stolen car.”

      Nash laughed and glanced away from the road to smile at me, and my pulse sped up when our gazes met, in spite of the circumstances. “It’s Carter’s. I’ve got it till midnight.”

      “Why would Scott Carter let you take his car?”

      He shrugged. “He’s a friend.”

      I just blinked at him. His questionable choice of companions aside, Emma was my best friend, and I would never let her take my car. And I didn’t drive a brand-new Mustang convertible.

      Nash grinned when I didn’t seem convinced, and his next glance lingered longer than it should have, then roamed south of my face. “He might be under the impression that you … um … need some serious comfort.”

      My heart leaped into my throat, and I had to speak around it. “And you think you’re up for the challenge?”

      Flirting should have felt weird, considering the day I’d had. But instead, it made me feel alive, especially with the possibility of my own death hanging over me like a black cloud, casting its malignant shadow over my life. Over everything but Nash, and the way I felt when he looked at me. Touched me.

      Nash shrugged again. “Carter offered to pick you up himself….”

      Of course he had. Because he was Nash’s best friend, and Sophie’s boyfriend. And my cousin had seriously bad taste in guys. As, apparently, did Nash. “Why do you hang out with him?”

      “We’re teammates.”

      Ahhh. And if blood was thicker than water, then football, evidently, would congeal in one’s veins.

      “And that makes you friends?” I twisted to peer briefly into the tiny backseat, which was empty and still smelled like leather. And like Sophie’s freesia-scented lotion.

      Nash shrugged and frowned, like he didn’t understand what I was getting at. Or like he wanted to change the subject. “We have stuff in common. He knows how to have a good time. And he goes after what he wants.”

      He could easily have been describing my father’s German shepherd. As could I, when I replied, “Yeah, but once he gets it, he’ll just want something else.”

      Nash’s hands tightened around the wheel, and he glanced at me with his eyes wide in comprehension, his forehead furrowed in disappointment. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

      I shrugged. “Your record kind of speaks for itself.” And why else had he put up with so much from me? Why would a guy like Nash Hudson stick around through freaky death premonitions and possible brain cancer, if he didn’t want something?

      Or even if he did, for that matter? He could have put in a lot less work for a lot more payoff somewhere else.

      “This isn’t like that, Kaylee,” he insisted, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what “that” was. “This is. We’re different.” He didn’t look at me when he said it, but I felt myself flush anyway.

      “What does that mean?”

      He sighed, and his hands