Splintered Read Online Free PDF Page A

old, playful, teasing Jeb. My pulse quickens at the sight of it. “Great,” he says. “How about tonight?”
I huff. “Right. Taelor would have a litter of kittens if you left
prom early to tinker with my car.”
He drops his forehead to the steering wheel. “Ugh. I forgot about
the dance. I still have to pick up my tux.” He glances at the clock
on my dash. “Jen said some guy asked you but you didn’t want to go.
Why not?”
I shrug. “I have this character flaw? Called dignity?” He snorts and picks up a bottle of raspberry-flavored water
wedged between the emergency brake and console and drinks what’s
left.
I open my compact and apply a smear of kohl eye shadow atop
what’s already there, and then elongate the outside corner like a cat’s
eye. Once I finish both eyes with a sweep along the bottom lashes,
my ice-blue irises stand out against the black like a fluorescent shirt
beneath the UV lights at Underland.
Jeb leans back in his seat. “Well done. You’ve managed to destroy
any resemblance to your mom.”
I freeze. “I’m not trying—”
“C’mon, Al. It’s me.” He stretches out a hand to bat the air freshener. The moth spins, reminding me of the website. The pinch in
my sternum tightens.
I drop my eye shadow into the bag and fish out some silver gloss
to spread over my lips, then stuff the bag back into the glove compartment.
Jeb’s hand rests next to my elbow on the console, his warmth
seeping over to me. “You’re scared if you look like her, you’ll be like
her. And end up here, too.”
I’m speechless. He’s always been able to read me. But this . . . it’s
like he’s crawled inside my head.
God forbid.
My throat dries, and I stare at the empty water bottle between us. “It’s not easy to live in someone’s shadow.” His face darkens. He would know. He’s got the scars to prove it, deeper than the
cigarette burns on his torso and arms. I still remember after they
first moved in: the blood-chilling screams next door at two in the
morning as he tried to protect his sister and mom from his drunken
dad. The best thing that ever happened to Jeb’s family was when Mr.
Holt wrapped his truck around a tree one night three years ago. His
blood alcohol level was at 0.3.
Thankfully, Jeb never touches the stuff. His dark moods don’t
mix well with alcohol. He found that out a few years back, after
nearly killing some guy in a fight. The court sent Jeb to a youth
detention center for a year, which is why he graduated at age
nineteen. He lost twelve months of his life but gained a future,
because at the center a psychologist helped him rein in his bitterness through his art and taught him that having structure and
balance was the best way to contain his rage.
“Just remember,” he says, weaving our fingers together. “With
you, it’s not hereditary. Your mom had an accident.”
Our palms touch with only my knit gloves between us, and I
press my forearm to his to align the ridges of his scars against my
skin.
You’re wrong, I want to say. I’m exactly like you. But I can’t. The fact
is, alcoholics have programs, steps to take so they can fit into society
and function. Crazies like Alison—all they have are padded cells and
blunted utensils. That’s their normal.
Our normal.
Looking down, I notice blood has seeped and dried on the bandage at my knee. I run a hand over it, worried about Alison. She flips
out at the sight of blood.
“Here.” Without my even saying a word, Jeb works the bandana
off his head. Leaning over, he ties the cloth around my knee to hide
the soiled bandage. When he’s done, instead of moving back to his
side of the car, he props an elbow on the console and runs a finger
along one of the blue falls in my hair. Either it’s vibes from our
unresolved issues or from our intimate conversation, but his expression is serious.
“Those dreadlocks are wicked tight.” His voice is low and velvety,
filling my stomach with knots. “You know, you really should go