by Patty Blount
I keep my eyes closed. It helps.
“Ian? What’s wrong?” Grace is right next to me, but I’m terrified to open my eyes.
“Dizzy. So fucking dizzy.”
I hear her tear paper towels off the roll on our cart. A few seconds later a cold wet towel gently covers my forehead. God, that feels good. Her hand moves to the back of my head. That feels even better. She lifts my head, slides something soft under it. It takes me a second to identify the paper towel roll.
“You’re pale again, like sheet white, just like the other day. Do you have a blood sugar problem or something?”
“Concussion.”
“Oh. I was wondering why you weren’t playing with the team. Where’s your phone? I’m calling your parents.”
“Hell, no.” My eyes pop open. Big mistake. The corridor is still rotating around Grace.
“Gimme the phone, Russell.” I feel a hand near the pocket of my jeans and come way too close to a complete system shutdown.
I shove her hands away. “Butt out, Collier. I’m fine.” When I open my eyes again, I’m relieved the world seems to be level again. I sit up slowly, knocking the wet towel into my lap. I put my back against a locker and rub my queasy stomach. “You got any food in that bag?” I jerk my chin at the backpack she always carries.
Silver eyes laser-focused on me, she unzips a pocket, pulls out a couple of plastic-wrapped sandwiches. “Ham or turkey?”
I shrug. “Whatever you don’t want, I’ll eat.”
She immediately holds out the ham sandwich, and I wonder why she bothered to make the sandwich if she doesn’t like ham. Then I decide I don’t care and just take the sandwich, desperate to settle my nausea. I unwrap it, take a bite. She joins me slowly like she did the other day. “Look, about before. I’m, uh, well, I apologize for making you cry.”
Her head snaps up. “I don’t cry. Not anymore.”
I make a face. “Whatever. I’m still sorry. Also, thank you. That’s twice you’ve taken care of me. You should be a nurse.”
She huffs out a breath. At first I think she’s mad, but it’s a laugh. I think I see teeth. “No, I want to be a journalist.”
“Cool.” I nod and then sigh. “I have no clue what I want to do. Really pisses off my dad.”
“What do you like?”
I shrug. “Besides lacrosse? Building stuff. I have a lot of models at home. Thought it might be cool to build real stuff, you know? But—” I trail off with a shrug and run the damp towel over my face.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I’m not smart enough to be an engineer. My scholarship hopes are pinned on lacrosse. “My dad wants me to work with him.”
“Doing?”
“He has a tile business.”
“And you don’t want to lay floors for a living.”
“No, that’s not what he does. He plans. He sketches out entire designs according to spec, then makes the tile. Somebody else lays them.”
“Still not seeing the problem here.” She takes the towel out of my hands, pushes my head down, and lays it across the back of my neck.
“Forget it. It’s a long, boring story.” I take another bite of the sandwich. “Good. This is really good. Thanks.”
“No problem.”
She shifts on the floor next to me, frowns at her own sandwich, and finally blurts out, “I should thank you too.”
“Yes, you should.” I like being thanked. “Wait, for what?”
“You know. For yesterday.” She still won’t meet my eyes.
“Don’t waste any tears on them. What they said to you yesterday? Not cool.” When her shoulders hunch up, I decide not to repeat the insults. Instead, I pull out my phone and show her the picture message I got from Jeremy, the one of the Lindsay sandwich. “If it acts like a slut, it must be a—”
“Don’t.” She tosses my phone back and covers her ears. “Don’t say that word.”
The word the entire school’s been calling her. “Right. Sorry.” I finish the rest of her sandwich. Wordlessly she hands me the bottle of water she opened for my cold compress and sits in silence, shaking her head.
“What?”
“That picture. It’s pretty disgusting. And it’s not Lindsay.”
“Yeah, it is. I was there.” I gulp down half the bottle.
She looks at me sharply. “Did you take it?”
“No. But I was there. I saw it. She was into it.”
Grace shakes her head and waves her hand at my phone. “No, I know it’s really Lindsay. I’m saying that’s not who she is. She’s nice. She’s not—” She bites her lip, so I finish the sentence for her.
“Easy?”
I thought the same thing. But then she let everybody put hands on her. That’s why I left. “You were there last night. At Miranda’s house. I saw you.” The hand holding her sandwich freezes on the way to her mouth. But she doesn’t confirm or deny. “Why?”
She takes another tiny bite, chews it for ages, and flips her hair over her shoulder. “I don’t know. Glutton for punishment, I guess.”
That is such bull, but I don’t call her on it. She used to be friends with those girls. If things were different, if certain things hadn’t happened, she would have been in that basement last night. A picture of her stretched out on that sofa, Jeremy leering at her, forms in my mind. Who would she have made out with? How many? The sandwich twists in my gut, and I crush what’s left into a ball, pitch it into the bin on our utility cart.
“Um, I need to thank you for something else,” she says as if the words taste bad. “For helping me that night.”
Right. That night. I suck in a deep breath and blow it out slowly. I can’t talk about this with her. But jeez, how can I just stop talking to her now? She fed me, put a cold compress on me, and even tucked a paper towel pillow under my head. While I decide what the proper protocol is for telling the girl who provided first aid that you can’t talk to her because your pal says she’s a lying bitch who tried to end his college scholarship dreams, Grace suddenly turns to face me directly.
“Why did you?”
I blink, still a bit fuzzy from that dizzy spell. “What?”
“Why’d you help me? That night?”
My eyes bulge. “Was I supposed to just leave you there?”
“Everybody else did,” she retorts.
“Yeah. Well, it was dark. It was cold. You were obviously—” I bite my tongue, not sure what to say. She was unconscious and half-naked and…and—
I really want to punch Zac.
“Obviously what?”
“Not capable of driving.” Yeah. That’s safe.
She plays with her hands—right one rubs left, left one rubs right. “I was bleeding.”
I nod. “First time.”
Grace jerks back, and the color just drains from her face. A pulse beats erratically at her temple, and I can actually hear her gulp. She moves away from me, watches me from the corner of her eyes. I don’t get it, but my words don’t just upset her. They scare her.
Chapter 11
Grace
Ian’s giving me this weird stare, and it’s creeping me out. “What?” I challenge him, but he doesn’t flinch. Finally he blinks and opens his mouth to say something but reconsiders. “What?” I demand again.
“Okay, look. Today’s Tuesday. We have to get through the rest of the week. I can’t talk about Zac with you, so let’s both agree…no Zac talk for the rest of the week. Deal?”
“Can’t or won’t?” she challenges me.
“Either. Both. Doesn’t matter. Let’s just take him off the table.”
Nobody talks about Zac? I can live with that. I know Ian doesn’t believe me. That comment about fighting Zac off proves it. But he’s compromising. I guess I can too. He holds out a hand, and I grasp it, shake once. This is the first time I’ve touched anybody except my mom since that night, and it’s not scary. In fact, it’s kind of nice.
“Still dizzy?”
“No, I’m good. We
should get back to work before Bob puts us on his report.” He slowly rolls to his feet, holds out a hand to me. I take it, stand up, and nod my thanks.
There’s an awkward moment when we stand there, holding hands but not really, wondering what we should do next. My cell buzzes. I pull it out of my pocket, glance at the screen, and curse.
“What happened?” Ian frowns.
“My mom can’t pick me up today. Have to walk home.”
“Sucks. Can you drive?”
“Yeah, but I don’t have my own car.”
“Same. My dad’s been picking me up. I, uh, dented the car last week. Grounded.”
He hides his eyes, and I figure there’s a lot more to that story he doesn’t want to talk about, so I don’t nag. “Yeah. My car was trashed, so my mom said no car until college.” I roll my eyes. “Makes it hard to find a job.”
“Trashed?”
“Yeah. Somebody took the battery, carved up the paint.”
“Damn. So what kind of job are you looking for?”
“Whatever I can get to make money. My brother’s birthday is at the end of the month.”
“You got a brother? Cool. I have two sisters,” he admits it like it’s a crime.
“Two half brothers. My dad and his new wife. My parents split when I was like…nine.”
“That bites,” he says. Sucks, bites—what’s up with all this vampire language? I angle my head, imagine him with fangs or a cape with a really high collar. With the dark hair and intense eyes, he could totally pull it off.
“What?” he demands. “Mayo on my face?” He swipes a knuckle over his lips, and I suddenly remember that’s the first thing about Ian Russell that made me look at him twice. He has nice lips. I mean, really nice lips. They curve up just a little bit, like maybe he’s always just a little bit happy. Even when he was sprawled on the floor, gripping his spinning head, he looked a little bit happy.
I’d kill to feel just a little bit happy.
“Nothing,” I shake my head and smirk. “Just imagining you as a vampire.”
He groans and clutches his head. “No! Not you too!” Then he levels me with a look of exaggerated pity. “Okay. So which one is it? My sisters can’t decide who’s hotter, Damon or Stefan.”
I shrug.
“Not the Salvatores? Really? Hmm. There’s no way you’re into sparkles, so how about Sheriff Northman? Uh, Spike? Wait, wait, I got it—Barnabas Collins?”
I shake my head, but the last one pulls a reluctant laugh from me.
He snaps on his rubber gloves and sprays yet another locker but doesn’t take his eyes off me. “Do that again.”
“What?”
“Smile,” he says, totally serious. “Looks good on you.”
I stand there, wide-eyed. Was that an actual compliment? Time hangs in the air, and it’s here, right here. A little bit of happy. I smile again, and he grins back, then tosses me the cleanser. “Quit slackin’.”
I laugh, and he bumps me with his hip. I spray the next six lockers. He grabs the cart, pushes it closer, and starts scrubbing the first locker. I like that we’re working together instead of just next to each other. I know he’s Zac’s friend, but he’s not Zac.
“Ugh! What the hell?” Ian removes his arm from the locker, the paper towel sticky and shredding apart.
I peer inside the locker, spot a lump of what looks like it used to be a Rice Krispies Treat fused to the back of the shelf. I grab the putty knife off the cart. “Here, try this.”
“Oh, disgusting.” Ian wrinkles his face and starts prying.
“I used to love these.”
He covers his mouth. “Stop! No, no, no! I can’t even look at it.”
“Wimp.” Laughing, I elbow him out of my way, pry the hardened marshmallow and cereal off the locker, then scrape off the smaller chunks.
“Wimp, my ass.” He bends, picks up a few of the pieces, and when his lips curl into an evil grin, I gasp.
“You wouldn’t.”
“I would.” He holds up a chunk of petrified cereal and slowly steps toward me. I back up but can’t pry my gaze away from the humor dancing in his eyes.
“We should drop this off at Mr. Tebitt’s classroom. Could keep the biology lab happy for days.”
His grin widens. “We could, but it wouldn’t be as much fun as…this.” He grabs a fistful of my shirt and drops the chunk down the front.
I hiss like a cat, do a deranged dance to find and get that shit as far away from me as possible. “Jesus! You idiot!” But I’m laughing as I scream and hiss and dance. “I am so taking you down.” I finally locate the offending little crumb at the waistband of my pants and flick it at his face.
He ducks.
Damn it.
I look at the can of cleanser, slowly bring it up, and take aim.
“No—” He raises his hands, and I smile wide. “No, no, no, let’s be reasonable. You do that, and I’m gonna smell like a Creamsicle on steroids and won’t get laid until college.”
I spray him dead in the heart.
He drops his hands and cocks his head to the side as the circle of foam seeps into his shirt. “Oh, that’s cold, Collier. Ice cold.” He wrinkles his nose and coughs once, then twice. “Shit’s strong.” He gasps and falls back against the locker, coughing hard. I drop the spray can, lunge for him before he falls.
“Ian! Oh my God, Ian, I’m sorry. Are you okay? Ian. Ian!”
He slides down to the floor, eyelids fluttering. I reach for my phone, but it’s not in my pocket. Did I toss it in my bag? Where the hell’s my bag? Ian has a phone. Where is it? I pat his pockets, but I can’t find it. Panic swells when I notice Ian’s not moving. I tap his face.
“Better when you patted my thighs.”
It takes me a second, and then I’m cursing and smacking him for playing me. But he catches my flailing hands.
“Never gave much thought to acting, but damn, I got mad skills.”
“You son—”
“Oh, come on. I got you good. Admit it.”
“As if.”
“Admit it, and I’ll let you go.”
“Oh, you’ll let me go so I don’t hurt you.”
He tugs me closer. “How are you gonna hurt me when I’ve got your hands trapped?”
I go completely still. Ian Russell is holding my hands. Ian Russell is holding my hands. And there’s no pressure in my chest, and I haven’t warped back in time to the moment when I knew I couldn’t stop Zac from taking what he wanted from me. Jesus, a boy is touching me, and it’s kind of okay. And for maybe the first time in forty days, I laugh.
“What’s so funny?” He looks at me sideways.
“Glad you asked.” I grin. Since he’s on the floor and I’m not, all it takes is a simple shift of my weight, and a second later I’ve broken out of his hold and have him pinned.
“Impressive. Ow. Very impressive. Ow. I’ll applaud once you let me go.”
“Stop crying.”
“I will when you let me go.”
I should probably let him go.
But I don’t.
My heart’s racing from the power trip of taking Ian down, or maybe it’s just because I’m so close to him and thought this was over for me. His muscles go lax. He stops struggling, and I don’t let go. I want to freeze this moment and keep it—keep him—forever. Slowly he leans in closer and closer, and I still don’t let go. His eyes drop to my mouth, and his tongue darts out to lick his lips. I think he wants to kiss me, and damn it, I want him to—I want him to so badly I almost cry, so I don’t let go. Closer, closer, and his eyes shut, and his head tilts. And I don’t let go. His lips touch mine, and he kisses me like it matters—like I matter—and oh my God, it’s amazing. He’s amazing, and I don’t let go. And then the steel door on the floor below us screeches open, and Ian goes tense, his eyes darting to the stairs at the far end of the hall. And it hits me.
Ian doesn’t want anyone to see him with the school slut.
So I break our No Zac agreemen
t. “You wanna know why I didn’t fight off Zac? Because I was unconscious.”
Ian’s eyes snap to mine and then away, but it’s too late. I already saw the disgust in them.
This is when I let him go.
• • •
Humiliation burns the back of my eyes, and I force my face into a mask to hide it. I shove away from Ian, grab my bag, and hurry to the girls’ bathroom before whoever opened the door shows their faces. I splash water on my burning face and pace in front of the row of sinks. I am so monumentally stupid! What was I thinking, kissing Ian Russell? He’ll post it to Facebook and tell the entire team—the school—that I’m exactly what Zac says I am. Lindsay and Miranda will carve insults into my skin this time instead of my car.
Muffled voices and loud laughter leak through the wall shared with the boys’ bathroom next door. I can tell one is Ian’s, but the other voice is unclear. What if it’s Zac? There’s a surge of panic, but I swallow it, catching sight of myself in the row of mirrors. My lips tingle, but they look the same. Everything about me looks the same—a crusty coating to hide the scars and grudges that churn inside me.
I hear another laugh and recognize that cackle. That’s Jeremy Linz, one of Zac’s little worms. He’s the kind of guy who just blindly follows his lord and master without question. I’m not sure Jeremy is capable of original thinking. I used to wonder why Zac is even friends with him, but I get it now.
Zac doesn’t want friends. He wants disciples, and Ian is one of them. My hands curl into fists, and I pound a door to an empty stall. The door bounces, echoing in the empty room, so I do it again. I nearly do it a third time but then remember kicking a locker is how I got stuck spending a week with Ian Russell in the first place. I could end up scrubbing toilets! Even a petrified Rice Krispies Treat beats scrubbing out toilets. I grip one of the sinks and stare at myself. What the hell is Ian’s game? Did Zac put him up to this? Kiss the slut, tell the whole school—oh, God.
The whole school.
What if Ian has pictures? I never saw his phone, but what if he set it up in a locker? He could post them, and things will get worse than they are right now. The harassment, the hate, the taunts, and the threats—it’ll just keep coming. Mom already deleted my Facebook account and with it, all the connections I’ve ever formed. Not that they matter when so many of them joined in when the threats started.