Hidden Truths (The Hidden Series Book 1)

by Kristin Coley

  I stumbled at his sudden move, but this was what I wanted, so I kept up. I glanced back to see the other guys laughing, as they resumed talking. We were several feet away by now, under the bleachers where no one could hear us.

  “What did you call me?” he said, his words low and vicious.

  “Jake,” I repeated, confused. I was positive that was his name, the same way I knew he would drive me into the woods and help me find a kidnapped boy. “That’s your name,” I said, confident. He shook me slightly, his grip still tight on my arm.

  “No, it isn’t,” he growled, and I realized he didn’t want me to call him that. I didn’t know why, but that wasn’t a priority to me right now.

  “I need your help,” I told him, getting to the point of why we were here. I heard the bell in the distance, but I already knew I wasn’t going to class. As soon as I could get him to agree, we were leaving.

  He looked at me as if I was insane. “Who do you think I am?” He snapped the question at me, crossing his arms over his chest, attempting to threaten me with his size, which very well might have worked, if I didn’t already know the answer to his question. The guys he had been hanging with were skinny teenagers. They hadn’t had a chance to fill out and they definitely didn't work out. This guy did. He towered over me, his muscles bulging under his shirt, his shoulders broad. I had no desire to cross him, but I also knew his secret now. I figured that made us even, since I only needed him for the afternoon.

  “An undercover cop named Jake,” I replied, my eyes not leaving his. His expression immediately closed, his mouth opening to deny my words.

  I raised my hand up and said, “I don’t care. I just need your help for a few hours. I know where Samuel Phillips is.” The words had an immediate effect on him. His protests disappeared, and a curious expression crossed his face. Something about the Phillips boy meant something to him.

  “Why are you asking me?” he asked sharply. “You should go to the cops.” I was shaking my head at his words.

  “I can’t go to the cops. They wouldn’t understand. But you can help me,” I told him, confident in my knowledge.

  “I don’t understand,” he muttered, giving a quick look at the guys he had been hanging with. I knew he didn’t want them to know what we were talking about. I could blow his entire cover.

  “Look, we’ll get in your car, go get the kid, and no one will be the wiser,” I said soothingly, reaching out to pat him on the arm. He glared at me, his expression declaring me an idiot, and I pulled my hand back before he bit it off. This was not going well.

  “I’m not a cop. I’m a guy you don’t want to cross. So I suggest you walk your pretty little ass away from here and pretend this never happened,” he said, threateningly. I closed my eyes briefly, feeling a slight buzz of pleasure at him calling me pretty. I really do want to walk away, but that’s not happening. He was the key to me bringing that boy home and nothing was stopping me—especially not an empty threat.

  I moved closer to him, the scent of his aftershave teasing me. I was in his space looking up at him when I said, “You’re going to help me.” My look made it clear this was non-negotiable, but he wasn’t backing away, instead shifting infinitesimally closer to me.

  “You and what army?” he replied back, his stance confident in the fact that I would need an army to force him to do anything. The slow smile that formed on my face at his words caused his eyes to narrow. He had handed me a weapon that would force him to come with me. Knowledge.

  “Connor told me you could help me,” I said, taking a chance. When he asked the question, I saw two men. One looked remarkably like the one in front of me, and I knew he was Jake’s older brother, John. The other man, Connor, gave me the impression he was a close friend. I hoped that using one of their names would be enough to convince him.

  My words rattled him. That became obvious with his next actions. He threw his arm around me, squeezing me painfully, as he pulled me to the parking lot behind the gym. Some of the guys he had been hanging with looked up at our movement and laughed. They must have thought we were going somewhere private. We were, but our reasons were far different from what they imagined.

  Chapter Four

  Grabbing my arm, he strode quickly to a newer model Camaro, yanking the passenger door open and practically shoving me inside. I tucked my feet in, just as he slammed the door shut. We were silent, as he exited the parking lot. He was going in the right direction, so I didn’t say anything, content to wait him out.

  “My name isn’t Jake,” he growled. I didn’t contradict him, since Jake obviously wasn’t his undercover name.

  “Who are you?” he finally asked, cutting me a quick glance.

  “Adaline Michaels,” I answered calmly. “Most call me Addie.”

  “How do you know where the Phillips kid is?” he continued, asking the one question I wanted to avoid.

  “See … my response to that question would label me as crazy, so we’ll skip it,” I replied lightly, already knowing he wouldn’t.

  “No. You’ve put me at risk. I'm not helping you if you don’t tell me.” His voice was tight, thrumming with anger.

  “You’re helping me now,” I said, motioning to the car. “I didn’t mean to put you at risk. I didn’t realize you were a cop at first. I just knew you’d help me.”

  “See, that’s the problem right there. You knew I’d help you? You didn’t know I was a cop? What the hell is this?” His questions were short and staccato, like gunfire. “You just happen to know where the Phillips kid is and that I’m an undercover drug cop, yet you can’t tell me how you know these things.” His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, as he clenched his jaw.

  After a few minutes of silence, he decided to switch tactics. I watched him visibly relax his hands and unclench his rock solid jaw. He took a deep breath before he said, “Look, obviously you’re caught in the wrong crowd, and you’re trying to do the right thing. But you are way out of your depth, and you need to tell me what you know and how you know it. Other lives are at risk here. What do you know about the Phillips kid?”

  “Oh,” I said, my heart beating rapidly, as I saw the answer. The kidnapped kid’s older brother had narked on his supplier. The police believed the supplier had kidnapped Samuel in retaliation, so he wouldn’t testify. This meant the cops were desperately searching for this kid to ensure their key witness testified. He was right. I was in over my head.

  “Oh? That doesn’t sound like an answer,” Jake grunted, hitting the main highway out of town. He was still going in the right direction, but I needed to convince him I wasn’t his enemy. I debated telling him the truth. It would be the first time I had ever told anyone, but I had the feeling he wouldn’t be receptive to it.

  “Can you just accept that I know things? Like where Samuel is. But I’m not part of the wrong crowd. I don’t hang out with drug dealers. I’m not going to tell anyone about you. All I want to do is help that kid.” The words left me in a rush. I knew I had messed up my explanation, but I couldn’t think of a plausible lie.

  “What? Like a psychic? Is that what you’re telling me?” He shot me a disbelieving look, before his gaze went back to the road.

  “Kinda? Not really,” I groaned, my head thumping back against the headrest. The seat was black leather, and I ran my hand over it. It was a gorgeous car—all black interior and exterior. It was sleek, not flashy, and I wondered if that was the point.

  “What do you want me to call you?” I asked abruptly, knowing he didn’t want me to use Jake, but I had never heard his name.

  “Are you serious? You know my real name, but not the one I’m going by?” His laugh was disbelieving and I started to get worried. He was admitting information to me and somehow I didn’t think that was normal for an undercover cop. A minute later, he pulled off the highway onto a dirt road and I felt a jolt of fear. But at the same time, I didn’t have the impression he planned on hurting me.

  Once we were out of sight of the road, he st
opped the car and jumped out. I followed more slowly. While I didn’t think he would hurt me, I did believe he might leave me out here. I cursed, as I realized my situation. I didn’t have a phone, and no one had any idea where I was, or who I was with, except for some juvenile delinquents by the gym. I didn’t think they would be eager to volunteer any information when I was the one gracing the cover of the local newspaper.

  “Tristan Davidson. That’s what I’m going by at your school. Now tell me the truth.” His arms were crossed, giving him an intimidating look. I was desperately trying to think up something he would believe, when he walked up to me. He didn’t stop until we were toe to toe, and I was leaning back against the car.

  “If you lie to me, and I’ll know if you are, I’ll handcuff you to that fucking tree over there and leave you here.” I blinked rapidly at his words. He was so close; they caused warm little puffs of air to brush against my cheeks. I was grateful he wasn’t a spitter.

  “Ask a question and I’ll tell you the answer,” I said with a shrug, trying for casual, as I gave in. My heart was thumping like mad, but I knew there was no lie I could tell him that he would believe. He either accepted the truth or considered me stark raving mad. Either way, there was a good chance I was getting handcuffed to a tree today.

  He huffed in exasperation, his eyes flickering to my lips when I licked them, before he stepped back. “I’ve been asking you,” he said, his voice raised. “How do you know about the Phillips kid?”

  “That’s what I’m telling you!” My voice was equally as loud and sharp. “Ask me a question and I’ll tell you the answer.”

  He was shaking his head, his anger directed at me. “You’re speaking in riddles. I don’t have time for this.”

  “I’m trying to make you understand. I don’t know how to explain to you how I know what I know.” Tears of frustration sprang to my eyes.

  He saw them and pointed at me. “Don’t think I’ll be swayed by tears. Go ahead and turn them off.”

  Something about his words tickled my funny bone, and I didn’t know if it was the stress of the day or where I found myself, but I started laughing. I couldn't control it or stop, as I slid down his car, landing on the ground with a plop. He was looking at me like I had lost my mind, which only caused me to laugh harder.

  I might have, I thought. I was so far out of my element right now. I wished I could go home and start this day over, never hearing the question that brought me here.

  After a few minutes, the laughter finally stopped, and we stared at each other. His eyes were sympathetic now. I wasn’t sure if it was because he truly believed I was crazy, or he realized I knew I was in over my head.

  “This morning, when I came down for breakfast, my mom was looking at the paper—the picture of Samuel Phillips. She asked the question, ‘Where could that boy be?’ I paused here, acknowledging the ripple effect that question had. “It was a rhetorical question. Except, I knew the answer,” I swallowed, my eyes on the woods. I didn’t want to see ridicule on his face. “When I got to school, I looked up the story. I knew where he was, but I couldn’t call the cops and explain how I knew. I’d sound like a crackpot. As it is, I can’t tell you precisely where he is, just that I have a pull telling me where to go.”

  I sensed movement, and out of the corner of my eye saw him sit down on the ground by me. “I knew I had to help him, but I had no way of getting to him. I don’t have a car,” I said, with a shrug, my fingers playing with a rock on the ground. “My friend Carly helped me by asking the question, “Who would drive you?” I smiled, our earlier conversation amusing now. “I saw your face and heard your name in my mind. Then a few minutes later, I saw you when I was headed to my next class.” I looked over at him now, noting his expression was carefully blank. “I didn’t know you were a cop. Not until you asked me, ‘Who do you think I am?’”

  At this point, I stopped talking and leaned my head back against his car. My heart was racing in anticipation of his rejection. My words dried up, as I looked away to avoid his disbelief.

  “How old are you?” he asked quietly. The question was so unexpected; I jerked my head around to look at him. Again, his face was neutral, and I didn’t know where he was going with this.

  “Seventeen,” I answered, searching for some type of clue as to his thoughts. “You’re twenty-two.” I threw that in, not really thinking my knowledge would sway him into accepting me.

  He blinked when I said his age, but otherwise his expression didn’t change. “You’re obviously very clever, intuitive even,” he responded slowly, carefully measuring his words. I got where he was going with it, his disbelief apparent. I waved my hand at him to stop.

  “Ask me something I shouldn’t know. Something no one else knows about you,” I demanded curtly, aggravated now. We were wasting time. Samuel Phillips was still out there. He opened his mouth, denial written all over his face. “Ask me,” I demanded again, staring him straight in the eyes. “You want the truth, then you need to face the truth.”

  He shut his mouth, looking at me more closely now. I didn’t think he could study me any harder, but I got the impression he was trying to pull the answer from my head.

  “Fine. What was my second grade teacher’s name?” he asked, eyes narrowed on me.

  “Mr. Thompson or Ms. Wilson?” I answered, two names coming to mind. The twist of his lips told me I hit the nail on the head. Not that I doubted it, but he obviously thought he would trip me up. I had to wonder about my ‘gift’. I wasn’t sure where the knowledge came from. Maybe I was pulling it from his mind and how he interpreted the question defined my answer. It seemed the most likely scenario.

  “What’s my great grandfather’s name on my mother’s side?” he shot out next.

  I started giggling. “Ernest Humpingdinger? Are you kidding me?” I gasped out the next part, “That’s terrible.”

  “Favorite color?”

  “Blue.”

  “You could have guessed that.”

  “Then why did you ask me?”

  “Where did we go on vacation when I was eight?”

  “Disneyland.”

  “How old was I when I kissed a girl the first time?”

  “Eleven. Started young,” I quipped, raising my eyebrows. I still hadn’t kissed a boy.

  “Who was it?”

  “Heather McIntyre.”

  “Where?”

  “Summer camp, by the lake.”

  “What did I lose last summer at the beach?”

  I snorted I was laughing so hard. “Your board shorts.”

  He shook his head in frustration.

  “You know, while this is entertaining for me, it’s not getting us any closer to Samuel Phillips.” I told him seriously. We both knew this wasn’t a game, but he was so focused on doubting me that he had missed the point.

  “How?” he finally asked, and I knew he was asking how I knew the answers.

  “I don’t know that,” I replied, and I didn’t. He was the first person to ever ask me that question and I didn’t have an answer.

  He sighed and sat back, studying me again. I waited impatiently. I was skipping school for this. I was worried about the kid, and now I knew way more than I wanted to about one Jake Kincaid.

  “Why do you have dirt on your neck?” he asked, distracting me.

  “Um, I do?” I asked dumbly. He reached over, rubbing his hand over my neck. His touch sparked something in me, something I instinctively wanted to deny.

  “We had to do an obstacle course during gym,” I responded dazedly, reaching up to where his hand was. When our hands brushed, we both dropped them. “I thought I’d gotten all of the dirt off.”

  “It was just a smudge,” he said quietly, looking away from me. We sat there for a few minutes, silence settling over us, along with a fragile trust.

  “Let’s go then,” he finally said. “Prove to me you know where Samuel Phillips is.”

  “About time,” I said, jumping up. He took us back to the highw
ay, and we drove in silence, with him following my occasional direction.

  “You drive well,” I said, breaking our silence.

  “Thank you?” he said with a curious inflection. A few minutes later, his curiosity got the better of him and he asked, “Why did you comment on my driving?”

  I didn’t stop and think about what I was about to say, to my utter mortification. “I think the way a man drives is a good indicator of how good he is at sex.”

  After a prolonged silence, he carefully said, “I’m sorry I asked.”

  I was embarrassed, so of course I made it worse by trying to explain myself. “It’s just you see reckless drivers, weaving in and out of traffic, speeding, tailgating and such. So they probably do the same thing with sex. No patience, you know?” I said desperately, looking over at him.

  “No, I don’t,” he replied, shaking his head.

  “But you’re a good driver. You follow the speed limit. You drive defensively, paying attention to other driver’s cues. I’m sure you’re the same way with sex,” I told him, my mouth running and making everything worse.

  His mouth opened and closed before he finally said, “I’m going to regret asking this, but how did you come by this theory? Experience?” There’s a slight smirk on his full lips and I flushed beet red, because I had zero experience.

  I shook my head, “No, it’s just a thought I had.” I was beyond humiliated by now, but he was smiling.

  “So, does the way a man drives have any bearing on his sexual ability?” he asked, looking at me. I realized what he meant, as soon as I saw the article linking sexual prowess to hand eye coordination in my mind.

  “Yes, it does.” I told him confidently.

  “Glad you think I’m a good driver then,” he replied calmly, his expression bland.

  I closed my eyes. My face was so red by that point it could qualify as a stop sign. I kept my mouth shut after that, except to give directions. Finally, we reached the point where we couldn't drive any longer, and we would have to hike.