I groan. “Locke…"
He turns slightly away from me, takes a couple of steps into the kitchen, but I can still hear my Dad’s tone.
"She's not okay."
Pause.
"She's bruised and cut up.”
Pause.
“Her face, her arm, her lower back. And I suspect that she’s still in pain from the bar fight last night, so really, the girl is a walking f*****g disaster zone.”
“Hey!” I say again, indignant. “I am not!”
Longer pause.
“Yep. Got it, Prez. Here she is.”
He hands me the phone, and I stare at it suspiciously, as if I expect my Dad to leap through the damn thing at me.
“Hello?”
Dad's voice comes through immediately. "Sweetheart?"
“Hi Dad."
"You okay?"
"I'm fine."
"That's not what Locke said.”
I shoot the handsome traitor a glare that should melt steel, but he doesn't look remotely guilty or
