“You are . . .” He touched his forehead against mine, like he was trying to find the perfect word to describe me. Our eyes locked. My grip tightened on his elbows.
“I'm what?”
“Different. And in a wet shirt again.” He backed away from me. Our fingers interlocked as we walked through the sand to his backdoor. I hesitated when he tried to lead me inside. “What?”
“I’m sure your mom already thinks I’m weird. No pants, see?” I said, pointing at my bare legs.
He grinned. “Oh, I noticed.” The look was almost wicked and definitely sexy. I needed to slap myself for letting my mind constantly wander to his good looks. “I’m glad you’re concerned about my mother’s opinion, but they’re still out of town.”
I shouldn’t be doing this, I thought as he led me through the kitchen and up the stairs. I didn’t turn around, though. Because I was weak. My heartbeat dragged loudly, like it was warning me that my attraction to him was a horrible idea.
Wyatt's bedroom was like the rest of the house, neutral and plush except for the bright orange comforter on his bed. “I bet your mom cleans it for you,” I said. He closed the door. A towel hung over his headboard, and he crossed the room, pulled it off, and tossed it at me.
“I clean my own room.” He lay on the bed and watched me dry off. The light streaming through the wood blinds caught his eyes. I kept my attention on a pair of gym shorts balled up in the corner so he wouldn’t see that his stare was affecting me.
Yeah, coming up here was definitely a dumb idea.
I couldn’t take the heat of his eyes any longer. It was too dangerous. “Can you stop?” I snapped.
Golden Boy was becoming bold. He didn’t look away. “You’re beautiful.”
My feet dragged me over to him. I eased down on the bed until our faces were inches apart. “Don’t you think I’m strange?”
“A little,” he said, inhaling deeply.
Mom’s withered face flashed in my mind. “A little?” My voice trembled, and he cupped my chin.
“Okay, a lot. But there’s no point in asking about it. If I asked you about your sleepwalking, would you answer me?”
He was right. All-knowing eyes tortured me for another few seconds, then he slid off the bed. “Here.” He handed me a t-shirt and pants from his dresser. “Soon you’ll have more of my stuff than your own.”
“I dreamt about my mom,” I said. “She sat beside me. We—we talked and it just felt so real.” I hugged his clothes to my chest. My eyes dropped to my bare leg, still golden from the salt and water. I hadn’t planned on sharing my dream. Telling him so much wasn’t allowed, at least by my rules. Heat continued to pour from his stare, making me feel naked despite the wet clothes I wore.
“You dream about her a lot?”
I shrugged, not daring to look up. He was quiet as he crossed the bedroom. My throat was suddenly tight and dry, my skin ached, and I almost wished for the salt water that always made everything better. “In the beginning, I blamed her, my dad.”
Kyle.
I made myself face him, positive the fake, painful smile straining my face would break at any moment. “But sometimes, it gets to me. And I wonder if I could have done something. If things would have gone differently if I’d just been . . . I don’t know, there. Then it’s not everyone else’s fault anymore.”
His fingertips brushed away imaginary tears, ones that wouldn’t fall because of what I was. Soft lips hovered right by my hair. “Don’t,” he whispered. No other words. He didn’t ask me more about my mom or my dreams or the sleepwalking claims. Not that it mattered. That one word and the way he touched my face made it okay. Being with him made the issues in my life—the new and the old—seem less daunting.
When had this happened? When had I stopped caring so much about what part of town he lived in? When did I quit caring that I had no idea what we were anymore?
Whatever we’d become, I didn’t want it to end.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Sophie was floating again.
I regretted bringing Wyatt around her and Andy. Her brief, seven-day fling with Jason Nelson was over, and she was handling the sting of breakup the only way she knew how. I should have been glad my friends were speaking. I wasn't, because I was so embarrassed. She slurred. She giggled. And finally, her head flopped to her chest. Wyatt was quiet, like he was just waiting for her to start foaming at the mouth so he could call an ambulance.
I felt pretty screwed up for thinking like that about my best friend.
Andy’s choice of restaurant also contributed to my foul mood. He picked the Sunshine Café, and lucky for him, Nicola was our gag-worthy waiter again.
“There’s a party a few houses down from Andy’s tonight,” Sophie said, carving her initials in her cherry pie with a spoon. The filling oozed onto her plate.
I chugged my glass of water to stifle a rude remark. Swallowing hard, I shrugged. “And?”
“You and William should come.”
Was she kidding? Wyatt shifted beside me then dumped another packet of creamer into his coffee. Great. He would never want to come around my friends again because Sophie offended him.
“Wyatt, Sophie. His name is Wyatt,” I said.
She slouched, rolled her eyes, and took up playing with her food again.
Andy cast a pleading stare between Wyatt and me. “I’m so sorry, guys,” he mouthed.
Nicola slunk to our table, a wide smile spread across her face. “Can I get you guys anything else?” I sulked at her emphasis on the word ‘guys’. Andy had to be jealous of the attention she showed Wyatt. I mean, even I was admittedly piqued about it.
“More water?” I asked.
“You playing volleyball next year?”
“Did I play last year?”
She ignored me and instead focused her saccharine smile back on Wyatt and Andy. “You guys sure you don’t need anything?” Wyatt opened another packet of creamer then balled up the wrapper and tossed it on the table. He didn’t look at her. Andy ordered dessert and just before Nicola left, she gave Sophie a pitying look.
Golden Boy tilted his head to one side then the other, trying to look at Sophie’s face. “Is she breathing?”
“Yeah,” Andy said. “We’re used to this.”
Golden Boy blinked, but he didn’t say anything. No cocky remarks. No excessive flirting. He was definitely freaked out and pissed. By the time a group of kids from school—Nicola’s friends—came into the restaurant, I was ready to go home. Wyatt’s mood darkened when I offered to pay for my own meal.
“I can pay, Charlotte.”
I grunted, pushing the ten dollar bill across the table anyway. “Thanks, Wyatt. But I think I can manage an eight dollar salad.” He threw up his hands and stalked from the table.
“Char, seriously, I’m so sorry,” Andy said. He poked Sophie a few times. She giggled.
Wyatt was the primary source of my irritation, not my friends. He obviously wasn’t impressed with Sophie. He was rude tonight, and his sulking was utterly out-of-character from the boy that always occupied my thoughts.
But Sophie’s life didn’t suck that much.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said.
Someone at my classmates’ table made a comment about my ‘date’ as I passed by followed by someone else whispering a remark where ‘mom’ was audible. Wyatt waited in his truck, wearing a stony expression and blasting Three Days Grace. I slid into my seat. His eyes didn't leave the dashboard.
For the first five minutes of the drive, he refused to talk to me. I expected him to apologize for acting like an antisocial dick in the restaurant. Maybe I glorified him, giving him way too much credit. “Don’t you think your friend needs help?” he finally asked.
Don’t punch him! “Look, she pops pills. I’ve tried to help her for two years.”
“That wasn’t just pill popping. That was . . . pathetic,” he sputtered.
I wanted to tell him that it hurt me when Sophie lost herself in a h
azy stupor. That it terrified me to imagine her with the same fate as Mom.
But those were words I couldn’t bring myself to say.
“She’s my best friend, and you’re shallow, Golden Boy. So just shut the hell up.” Each syllable was emphasized, my voice growing louder until I almost screamed.
“Shallow?” he demanded. “You think I’m shallow? You’ve got to be kidding. You think you’re the only one who has to deal with shit?”
“I never said that.”
He gripped the steering wheel as if he were steadying himself. “Yeah, well, that’s the way it seems.”
“Why do you even care?”
Wyatt whirled on me, but his face stayed surprisingly calm. “Bet you didn’t know my sister’s been in rehab all summer!” he yelled. “That she spent two months of my freshman year hidden away in a home for druggies. But I guess not, right? Because I’m golden, my life shines.” The last few words faded to a heartbreaking whisper.
My chest ached as I digested his words. I’d never seen him so vulnerable. Or angry. Cautiously, I reached out and touched his forearm. He flinched. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Silence followed. I toyed with the strap of my seatbelt as I waited for him to speak to me. At last, he exhaled, “Char . . .” He pulled my hand into his, turned toward me, and offered a strained smile. He opened his mouth to say something else then his gaze slipped past my face. His eyes bugged.
A force slammed into the passenger side of the truck. My side.
The Dodge spun around in a complete circle as the airbag crushed against my face. I heard the sickening snap of bones, and I didn’t know who the sound belonged to. Horns—both Wyatt’s and others around us—wailed, but I could care less.
He might be dead.
Frantically, I clawed at the thick material clouding my vision until I saw his face. His airbag hadn’t deployed, and he lay slumped against the door. A jagged gash ran across his forehead. His eyes were closed.
But I felt his heartbeat throb over the buzzing in my ears. I didn’t realize that the passenger side of the car was burning, that my leg was on fire, until after the foul and heavy scent of fuel assaulted me. My eyes stayed locked on my burning skin for a moment. I dug my fingers into the leather seat, watching my body extinguish the fire. I reached out and swallowed when I touched the damp mist that clung to my thigh.
Wyatt muttered something incoherent as I crawled toward him. I knew it wasn’t smart to move him, but I jiggled his door open and pushed him out of the truck.
His truck was a lost cause. Flames engulfed it while other drivers took out their phones to call for help. I only cared about Wyatt. He pulled his eyes open and blinked, staring into my face and regarding me with a confused expression. “I’m sorry.”
Then his head dropped to my lap, and he sank into an unconscious dream world.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“We need to examine you, Charlotte,” Dr. Morris said again. His lips thinned as I rolled my eyes. Ever since the paramedics rolled me into the ER an hour ago, I refused care.
“He’s right,” Dad said. He was at work when he got the call about the accident, so he met me as soon as I came through the doors.
“I’m fine.” I kept my eyes glued to the curtain, hoping and praying Lorelei would hurry and show. She was in Boston with Cam when I called her. If Dr. Morris checked my vitals, things could get messy.
“An 18-wheeler slammed into your side of your boyfriend's truck. The impact should have killed you, but yo—”
“Is he okay?”
“Broken arm and cuts and bruises,” Dad said, sighing. “Charlotte, can you just cooperate for once in your life. How do you know you don’t have broken bones or a concussion?”
That would be hard considering I could probably jump off a 12-story building and get right back up. Too bad I couldn’t tell the good doctor or my father that.
Lorelei swept through the curtain with Cam in tow. She rushed over and played the part of doting . . . whatever the hell she was. I glared at her as she brushed the hair from my forehead and fussed over me.
“You’re like a magnet for trouble,” Cam mumbled.
“And she’s about to be grounded if she doesn’t let Dr. Morris take a look!” Dad said.
Wasn’t I already grounded?
Dr. Morris tapped his clipboard against his leg, demanding everyone’s attention. “No more chitchat. We need to see what’s going on with you, Charlotte.” He took a step closer and held his stethoscope out.
I almost rolled off the squeaky cot. My gaze caught Lorelei’s. She looked serene and totally at ease. Right, because exposing the fact neither of us could die was just peachy. As I argued with my family and Dr. Morris, she began to hum. Words—ancient and foreign and mesmerizing—flowed from her lips. She moved between the three men, keeping her eyes focused on me.
They were stoned in a matter of seconds. “I’ll start on your release paperwork,” Dr. Morris said. Wide-eyed, he shuffled from the area, yanking the curtain around the tiny stall.
“I want to see Wyatt,” I told her.
Fifteen minutes later, I was released. Lorelei convinced Dad to go back to work and asked Cam to wait in the car while I found Wyatt’s room. He was being kept overnight for monitoring. I almost didn’t want to enter because I heard the tearful conversation straining from the cracked door. It budged a little when I leaned against it.
“Come in,” Mrs. Anderson sniffled.
I grimaced, counted to twenty, and walked in. Both of Wyatt’s parents—and a man who looked familiar—crowded around his bed. They were dressed up, and I remembered Wyatt saying his parents were attending a benefit dinner.
I wiggled my fingers in an awkward greeting. “Hi.”
“I thought I killed you,” he croaked. I shuffled by his bed. He looked horrible and beat up.
Was that why he'd apologized? He had thought I was going to die. I swallowed as I imagined what would have happened if the truck struck his side instead of mine. “I’m fine. My brother and his girlfriend are here to take me home.” I couldn’t get the image of him in the truck out of my head. My stomach twisted.
He shook his head and immediately grabbed his neck, wincing. “They aren’t keeping you?”
“Nope, um, I’m good to go.”
His face was blank as he stared at the cast on his left arm. “I don’t understand. I heard your neck snap, Charlotte! You were on fire.”
Oh, hell no. His parents shared an uneasy look between one another. I took a deep, unnecessary breath and managed a laugh. “No, you fainted after you hit your head.” I was glad I wore a hospital gown over my clothes. Otherwise, he would see the hole charred into my jeans. He would have called me out for the freak I was.
“Men don’t faint, young lady.” I turned to face his parents’ friend. “You are?” he asked.
“Charlotte Brewer.”
His lips curled into a sneer. Something flickered in his brown eyes—rage and maybe disgust. For a moment, I thought I found the siren hunter. He blinked, and I tilted my head when he stared at me with slate blue eyes.
What was up with his eyes?
Then he spoke, and I realized it was much worse than a seashell-wielding psychopath. “Kenneth Sanford, I’m handling public relations for Mr. Anderson.”
Sanford? As in Kyle Sanford’s father. Awesome. Could the immortal piece of shit known as my life get any worse?
***
The need to guide pulled me out of my bed at 2:30 in the morning. I crept through the house, past the sofa in the living room where my dad slept. My newest summer chaos rocked him, and he swore up and down that he had no plans of loosening my leash again. Instead of doing my job quickly and bailing, I walked the beach first and pictured Wyatt in his hospital room. “I heard your neck snap,” he had said just before every drop of color drained from his face.
Tapping my fingers on my neck, I sagged down on the remains of a sand castle. Wyatt just needed to be convinc
ed that he imagined the sound of my bones breaking, the sight of fire dancing across my leg. I would remind him that he passed out. That I pulled him from the car. Making him believe me would be simple, right?
When I squeezed my eyes together, though, nothing seemed easy. I saw his bruised, honest face, and I shivered because it was impossible to misread the expression. He was challenging me. Tell me the truth, Charlotte.
“Would you really believe me?” I whispered. Reluctantly, I opened my eyes and let the image of him go. Not that I could focus on my own thoughts—one of the souls was in the middle of an afterlife breakdown. She screamed and pleaded, and the longer I ignored her, the louder she screeched. I slipped off my flip-flops and stalked toward the waves. So much for peace and time alone.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I waited for the soul to come to me. They always met me but some were more hesitant than the others. Tonight, the soul hid. And it pissed me off. I was in no mood to deal with an unsure dead chick.
I tried to sound sweet. I traveled through the darkness waiting for a watery hand to grasp mine or to face a stream of questions coming from an unmoving mouth. Neither happened.
My chest tingled a warning. Was I floating into a trap? What if the hunter had some way to echo a soul? But then the sea changed shape and the soul appeared. I knew her—the crooked nose and the full lips. The face in front of me was an older, liquid version of my own.
Mom.
“Help me, Char.”
I reached out to touch her cheek. She burst into millions of tiny jets. Holding my breath, I waited to see if she’d come back. It took forever, but she formed behind me this time.
“You have to save me.”
“How?” I turned and was too afraid to touch her again. Too scared to see her go.
“I’m stuck here.”
My hand hurt as I extended it to her, and I instantly knew it was against the rules. I couldn’t take her where the good souls went. “I’ll find a way to help you,” I promised.
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