by Tracy Wolff
“I thought you might like it.”
“I do. I really do.” I glance at him, suddenly shy, though I don’t know why. “Thank you.”
He doesn’t answer, but then I’m not expecting him to.
We stand out on the parapet for a good half an hour, not talking, not even looking at each other much, just watching the most brilliant show I’ve ever seen light up the sky. And I love every second of it.
It’s weird, but something about being out here, looking at the vast night sky overlooking the vast, snowy mountains…it puts things in perspective. Reminds me of how tiny I really am in the grand scheme of things, of how fleeting my problems and my grief are, no matter how painful and all-encompassing they feel right now.
Maybe that’s what Jaxon intended when he brought me out here.
When the shower ends, it comes with a burst of seven or eight comets in a row. I can’t help oohing and aahing as they burn their way across the sky. When it’s over, I expect to feel let down—like what happens at the end of a really good movie or fireworks show. That little pang of disappointment that something so wonderful is over forever.
But with the meteor shower, I feel…as close to peaceful as I have in a very long time.
“We should go in,” Jaxon says eventually. “It’s getting colder.”
“I’m okay. I just want another minute or two, if that’s all right.”
He inclines his head in an of course kind of gesture.
There’s so much I want to say to him, so many things he’s done for me in the very short time we’ve known each other. But whenever I try to come up with the words, they don’t sound right in my head. So eventually, I settle for “Thank you.”
He laughs, but it’s a sound completely devoid of humor. I don’t understand why until I look in his eyes and realize they are completely blank again. I don’t like it at all.
“Why do you laugh when I thank you?” I demand.
“Because you don’t ever have to thank me, Grace.”
“Why not? You did something really nice for me—”
“No I didn’t.”
“Um, yeah you did.” Under the blanket, I hold my arms out in the universal gesture of look-at-all-this. “Why don’t you just admit it? Take the compliment and move on.”
“Because I don’t deserve the compliment.” The words seems to burst straight out of him without his permission, and now that they’re hanging there, he looks a little sick. “I’m just doing my…”
“Your what? Your job?” I ask, my stomach clenching at the thought. “Did my uncle ask you to be nice to me or something?”
He laughs, but there’s still no amusement in the sound. No joy. Just a soul-deep cynicism that has my eyes watering all over again but for very different reasons. “I’m the last person Foster would ever ask to be friends with you.”
If I were more polite and less concerned about him, I’d be inclined to drop the subject entirely. But politeness has never been one of my virtues—I’ve got too much curiosity for that—so instead, I call him on his shit. “And why is that exactly?”
“It means I’m not a nice person. I don’t do nice things. Ever. So it’s ridiculous to compliment me on your perception of what I do.”
“Really?” I shoot him a skeptical look. “Because I hate to be the one to break it to you, but cheering up a sad girl is a nice thing to do. So is carrying her back to her dorm when she hurts her ankle and chasing off guys who think pranks that can kill people are funny. So is charming the cook into making an injured girl waffles. All nice things, Jaxon.”
For the first time, he looks uncomfortable, but he still won’t back down. “I didn’t do it for you.”
“Oh yeah? Then who did you do it for?”
He doesn’t have an answer. Of course he doesn’t.
“That’s what I thought.” I grin up at him, all cocky and obnoxious because, on this, I can be. “Looks to me like you’re just going to have to accept the fact that you did something sweet. You won’t burn at the stake, I promise.”
“They only burn witches.”
He sounds so serious that I can’t stop myself from laughing. “Well, I’m pretty sure we’re safe, then.”
“Don’t be too sure about that.”
I start to ask him what he means, but a violent shiver racks me at the same time—blanket or no blanket, it’s freaking cold out here—and Jaxon takes the decision into his own hands. “Come on. Time to get you inside.”
Hard to argue when my teeth are about a minute away from chattering. But when I glance up at the window we came out of, I can’t help wondering, “How exactly are we going to get back in? And by we, I mean me.” Dropping three feet out of a window is one thing. Boosting myself back up is another thing entirely.
But Jaxon just shakes his head. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you, Grace.”
Before I can figure out why those words sizzle through me like a lightning bolt, he’s grabbing onto the windowsill and swinging himself inside. The whole move takes about one point four seconds, and I have to admit, I’m impressed. Then again, nearly everything Jaxon does impresses me, whether he means it to or not. He impresses me.
More, he makes me feel not so alone at a time when I’ve never been lonelier.
He’s back in moments, poking his head and upper body out of the window. “Give me your hands.”
I lift my arms up without a second thought, and he grabs onto my forearms, right below the elbow, and pulls. Seconds later, I’m back through the window and standing an inch, maybe two, from Jaxon.
And for once, his eyes aren’t dead. They’re on fire.
And they’re focused directly. On. Me.
34
All’s Fair
in Love and
Earthquakes
I stare back at him, not sure what to expect…or what to do. There’s a part of me that thinks he’s going to back up and a part of me that really hopes he doesn’t. A part of me that wonders what it would feel like to kiss him and a part of me that thinks I should run for the hills, because Jaxon might not be an alien, but he’s not like any boy I’ve ever met, either. And I am more than honest enough to admit that, much as I may want him, there’s no way I can actually handle him.
In the end, he doesn’t kiss me. But he doesn’t back up, either. And neither do I. So we stand there for I don’t know how long, him looking down, me looking up, the air between us loaded, heavy, electric.
I’m in it now, captivated by everything Jaxon is and everything he isn’t, despite my misgivings. I wait for him to make a move, but he doesn’t. He just keeps looking at me with those midnight eyes of his, emotion he rarely shows seething right below the surface. It makes me ache for him. Makes me physically hurt as I remember the question he asked earlier, the one that started all this.
I finally have the words—or in this case, the word—to answer him. “Overwhelming,” I say just as he starts to slide the blanket from my shoulders.
He freezes, the blanket, and his hands, hovering somewhere around the middle of my back. “What are you talking about?”
“You asked me what it was like to just let go and purge my emotions the way I did. It feels overwhelming sometimes, even a little terrifying. But what you just did for me…made me feel safe in a way I haven’t in quite a while. So thank you. Seriously.”
“Grace…”
I take one step closer, until my breasts are just brushing against his chest. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I’ve never made a move on a guy in my life, and Jaxon isn’t just any guy. I’m flying blind, but that doesn’t matter now. Nothing does except touching him somehow.
I want him to feel the strength of my arms around him, the softness of my body against his. And I want to feel the warm power of him against my own.
Except he’s not warm at all, that hoodie of his obviously no
defense against the weather, despite what he said.
“Jaxon, you’re freezing!” I pull the blanket from his hands and throw it around his shoulders before wrapping it all the way around him. Then I rub my hands up and down his blanket-covered arms, trying to chafe some warmth back into him.
“I’m fine,” he says, trying to back away.
“You’re obviously not fine. I’ve never felt anyone as cold as you are right now.”
“I’m fine,” he insists again, and this time he does take a step back. Several steps, in fact.
Everything inside me stops. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to invade your personal space…” I break off, because I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know what I’ve done that is so wrong.
“Grace…” His voice trails off, too. And in that moment, he looks different than all the other times. He isn’t confident, isn’t amused, isn’t even stoically silent as he was when I was yelling at him in the art studio.
No, right now he just looks…vulnerable.
There’s a desire in his eyes, a craving that has nothing to do with wanting me and everything to do with needing me. Needing my comfort. Needing my touch.
I can no more deny him than I can jump off this tower and fly under my own power. So I follow his retreat, taking the steps that bring my body back into contact with the hardness of his. Then I cup his face in my hands, stroke my thumbs over his ridiculous cheekbones and my fingers over the jagged edges of his scar.
His breath catches—I hear it in his chest, feel it against me. And though my heart is beating faster than triple time, I don’t back away. I can’t. I’m dazzled, mesmerized, enthralled.
All I can think about is him.
All I can see is him.
All I can smell and hear and taste is him.
And nothing has ever felt so right.
“Can I ask you a question?” I move even closer to him, unable to stop myself. Unwilling to stop myself.
For a second, I think he’s going to take a step back, but he doesn’t. Instead, he opens up the blanket and wraps it around me, too, so that his arms are around my waist and we’re both sheltered within it. “Of course.”
“Who did that Klimt sketch remind you of when you bought it?”
“You.” The answer comes fast and honest. “I just didn’t know it yet.”
And just like that I melt. Just like that, this boy—this dark, damaged, devastating boy—touches a part of me I wasn’t even sure existed anymore. A part of me that wants to believe. Wants to hope. Wants to love.
I want to reach for him, want to grab on—want to hold on—but I can’t. I’m frozen, terrified of wanting too much. Needing too much, in a world where things can just disappear between one moment and the next.
“Grace.” He says my name softly, half whisper, half prayer, as he waits patiently for me to look at him.
But I can’t. Not now. Not yet. “Have you ever—” My voice breaks and I take a deep breath, blow it slowly out. Take another one, and blow that one out, too. Then try again. “Have you ever wanted something so much that you were afraid to take it?”
“Yes.” He nods.
“Like it’s right there, waiting for you to just reach out and grab it, but you’re so terrified of what will happen when you lose it that you never make the reach?”
“Yes,” he says again, his voice low and deep and comforting in a way that burrows inside me.
I tilt my head up until our eyes meet, and then I whisper, “What did you do?”
For long seconds, he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t do anything. He just stares back at me with a look in his eyes as scarred and broken as the rest of him. And says, “I decided to take it anyway.”
Then he leans down and presses his lips to mine.
It’s not a passionate kiss, not a hard kiss, definitely not a wild kiss. It’s just the brush of one mouth against another, as soft as a snowflake, as delicate as the permafrost that stretches in all directions.
But for me, at least, it’s just as powerful. Maybe more.
And then—suddenly—his hands are on my upper arms, holding me in place. His fingers squeezing tightly, pulling me against him as his mouth goes crazy on mine.
Lips, tongue, teeth, it’s a cacophony of sensations—a riot of pleasure, desperation, need all wrapped into one—as he takes me. As he takes and takes and takes…and gives back even more.
It’s a good thing he’s holding on to me because my head spins and my knees go weak at the first swipe of his tongue along mine—just like one of those heroines from a novel. I’ve been kissed before. But no kiss ever made me feel like this. I strain against him, try to slide my arms up around his neck, but his hands are vises on my biceps, holding me in place. Holding me still, so that all I can do is take what he gives me.
And he gives a lot, head tilting, mouth moving on mine. My head gets lighter, my knees get weaker, and I swear I feel the ground trembling beneath my feet. And still the kiss goes on.
The trembling gets worse, and it hits me a second before my knees buckle. It’s not just our kiss. The earth is actually shaking again.
“Earthquake!” I manage to squeak out, wrenching my mouth from his.
Jaxon doesn’t listen at first, just follows my lips with his like he wants to keep on kissing me forever. And I almost let it go, almost melt back into him—I’m a California girl, after all. If it were a bad one, things would already be falling off the walls.
But it must hit Jaxon at the same time I’m about to forget about it, because not only does he let me go, but he’s halfway across the room between one breath and the next.
I watch as he clenches his fists by his sides, as he takes a long, slow, deep breath…and then another and another as the earth continues to shake.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “It’s just a small quake, nowhere near as bad as the one this morning. It’ll be over in a second.”
“You have to go.”
“What?” I couldn’t have heard him right. He couldn’t have been kissing me like he wanted to devour me a few seconds ago and now be demanding that I leave in a voice as cold as the air outside. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” he snaps out, and it’s the only sign of emotion from him now that his face and eyes are blank again. “You. Need. To. Go!”
“Jaxon.” I can’t stop myself from reaching for him. “Please—”
All of a sudden, his bedroom window shatters, glass flying in all directions. It sounds like an explosion, and I let out a strangled scream as shards of glass hit me above my eyebrow and on my neck, my cheek, my shoulder.
“Go!” Jaxon shouts, and this time there’s no defying him. Not when he looks and sounds so out of control.
He advances on me then, fingers flexing and eyes burning like black coals in a face livid with rage.
I turn and run as fast as my weak knees will carry me, determined to get to the staircase, to freedom, before this strange, monstrous version of Jaxon overtakes me.
I don’t make it.
35
Baked Alaska
Is More than
Just a
Yummy Dessert
I wake up in my bedroom with bandages on my neck and face and shoulder—and absolutely no memory of how I got here.
Macy is sitting cross-legged on the end of my bed, my uncle is standing by the door, and a woman I assume is the school nurse is hovering over me. With her waist-length black hair, bloodred nails, and stern face, she looks nothing like any nurse I’ve ever seen, but she’s got a stethoscope around her neck and a roll of bandages in her hand.
“See, Finn, here she is. I told you the sedative wouldn’t knock her out for long.” She smiles at me and, though it is open and inviting, she still manages to look intimidating af. I think it’s the long, beak-like nose, but it could also be the medicine s
he said she gave me. I’m awake, but I still feel really fuzzy, like nothing is quite as it appears.
“How are you feeling, Grace?” she asks.
“I’m okay,” I answer, because nothing hurts. In fact, everything feels warm and floaty right now.
“Yeah?” She leans over me. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Three.”
“What day is it?”
“Tuesday.”
“Where are you?”
“In Alaska.”
“Good enough.” She turns to my uncle. “See, I told you she was going to be okay. She lost some blood, but—”
“Jaxon!” The warm, floaty feeling melts away as I struggle to sit up. I don’t know how I could have forgotten. “Is he okay? He was…” I stop when I realize I don’t have a clue what to say next. Because I don’t have a clue what actually happened up in that tower.
I remember Jaxon kissing me…and probably will for the rest of my life.
I remember the earthquake.
I remember running, though I don’t know why.
And I remember blood. I know there was blood, but I can’t figure out why.
“Don’t push so hard,” the nurse tells me with a pat to the back of my hand. “It’ll come if you don’t try to force it.”
It doesn’t feel like it will come. It feels like everything’s a blur, like my synapses just aren’t connecting the way they should.
Exactly what kind of sedative did this nurse give me anyway?
“Macy?” I turn to my cousin. “I—”
“Jaxon’s fine,” she assures me.
“He saved you,” my uncle tells me. “He got you to the nurse, Marise, before you could bleed out.”
“Bleed out?”
Marise is the one who answers. “When the window shattered, flying glass nicked an artery in your neck. You lost a lot of blood.”
“My artery?” My hand flies to my neck as terror sets in for the first time. That’s how my mother died. An arterial bleed-out before the ambulance could arrive.