Unmistakable

by Lauren Abrams

  I nod my head towards her. With a wicked grin, he draws me close and whispers into my ear, “Play along, won’t you, doll?”

  He taps the blond on the shoulder and when she spins around, I’m struck with an instant, and vehement, sense of dislike. She’s composed and elegant, despite the oppressive heat of the dance floor and the jostling elbows of people trying to make it to the center of the crowd. Every inch of her, from the intricately curled, bottle-blond hair to the sky-high, sequined heels, is annoyingly perfect.

  “I must be in heaven, because they don’t make them like you on Earth,” Darius says, holding out his hand to her with an enormous grin. I nearly bust out laughing, but I manage to hold it together when he jabs my side. “May I have this dance?”

  She turns to the man standing beside her. “Hold my bag,” she orders, extending a tiny, sequined purse.

  The imperious tone of her voice rubs me the wrong way. Everything about her rubs me the wrong way. I’m so busy shooting jealous daggers that I fail to look at her companion.

  “No.”

  The ferocity of that one simple word, and the knowledge that the person who said it is no more than three feet away from me, steals the last of my breath.

  Of course he’s here. It’s all one big cosmic joke—even if I don’t find it very funny. Encased in the crush of the dance floor, I have no choice but to look directly at him. With agonizing slowness, I raise my gaze and find that his electric blue eyes are immutably fixed on mine. He doesn’t blink, or look away, or even glance in the blond’s direction. I’m held captive, just like I was in the hallway and that night on the patio and a thousand other times that he’s silenced me with the sheer power of his gaze.

  The blond lets out an angry puff of air and makes an undignified noise, but Darius eventually manages to sweep her away to the dance floor, leaving Luke and me to fend for ourselves.

  Luke extends his hand. Like the coward I am, I hesitate.

  I glance back towards Izzy, who’s staring at Luke as if she wants to eat him with a spoon. She licks her lips and gives me her “Stella, you’d be crazy to turn this incredibly fine man down” stare. Usually, we communicate perfectly without words, but when I try to tell her that the man standing in front of me is the Luke, she just wiggles her eyebrows so hard that I’m afraid they’re going to fall off her face. There’s no hope of rescue, then. All really is lost.

  “Come. Dance with me.”

  It’s not a request.

  It’s possible that he still hasn’t recognized me. It’s possible that he has. I’m not sure which of the two alternatives I would prefer.

  I’m not sure of anything.

  “Come,” he says again, a trace of annoyance crossing the lines of his face.

  I need to touch, to be close, even if it’s just for a mere moment. When my fingers brush against his, I give myself up to madness.

  I know that he can feel the uncontrollable vibrations of my skin, because he turns back and gives me a little smile before curling his fingers into my palm. My teeth start to chatter in yet another manifestation of my body’s response to him. Damn it. Damn him.

  When we reach the outer edges of the dance floor, he takes my other hand and draws me into his broad chest. I’m wearing Izzy’s highest heels, but I’m still tiny and powerless in the shadow of his strength.

  I’m grateful for one thing. The music is all-consuming; even if he tries to ask me a question that requires an answer, it will be drowned out by the thump of the bass. It’s a fleeting gratitude, though, one that dissipates when he skims his long fingers over the small of my back, a careless gesture which causes little flickers of heat to run rampant throughout my entire body.

  Never mind. Talking is safe. Safer, at the very least. He slides his fingers lower, caressing the bare skin just above the line of my dress. Even though I’m screaming at myself to flee, I inch closer, wanting more of his touch.

  If I look at him, I may never be able to dig myself out of the black hole, so I fix my gaze onto a distant point.

  My body remembers the endless steps that we’ve taken together, which is a good thing, since my brain has seemingly left the building. One of his hands stays firmly planted on my lower back and the other roams freely, brushing against the loose hairs that have tumbled down my back.

  We could stay like this forever. And it still could never be enough.

  As he pulls me out of a low dip, I hear faint whistles coming from the crowd, and I’m so caught up in the dance and the noise that I glance up into his face.

  There’s clearly a reason that I’ve been careful to avoid it. I fall down and down into the endless blue.

  It’s back, that smoldering heat that itches to get inside me and expand into forever. No one could stand in his particular fire and not be consumed. He smiles, once, and tucks a stray piece of hair behind my ear, a movement so tender and familiar that it nearly causes me to self-combust.

  I’m still not sure if he knows who I am. It’s far more likely that I’m just another potential conquest. Everything about him—the words that come out of his mouth, the sideways glances, the feathery touches of skin—is designed to make women wild with desire. He flirts with every ounce of his being. That’s just who he is, and that’s what this is. It’s not affection—just pure and unadulterated lust.

  I don’t care. It feels too good in his arms.

  I let go, losing myself in the music and the rhythm and the soulful croon of Billie’s voice. I’m dizzy, hopeful, effervescent—seven years old again and already in love. He slides me into one last spin, and I fly, bottling the feeling up so that I can take it out and examine it in my most shameful fantasies. It’s only when we stop spinning and the music hums its final notes that I realize that the spin was a ploy to leave me without a quick escape.

  Despite my knowledge of his deception, I’m rooted to the spot. Stuck on him. Inevitably. There are catcalls and hoots from the crowd, but they’re nothing more than background noise. Luke and I could be alone on another planet.

  Underneath his familiar wry smile and thick eyebrows, his eyes are desperate and confused. In all of the years that I’ve known him, I’ve only seen that precise look once—on that patio, when we said all of those awful things to each other and left so many others unsaid. For one agonizing second, I think he’s going to finish what we started a very long time ago.

  Instead, he presses his lips to my temple, and his breath tickles the baby hairs on my face. It’s a brotherly kiss, but the underlying tension lends it an intimacy that I can’t deny. I struggle in his arms, afraid that I really am going to lose control.

  “Stella,” he murmurs. “Stop fighting me."

  I panic. I have no room to breathe, to think, to escape. I want to live in the here and now, with Luke’s lips to my skin, but I fall into the memory, lost to the sounds and smells that I know are only a phantom. I put up a valiant fight against the tides, but surrender is preordained. And the memory is somehow more real than the night that was.

  Luke is holding me, in a different time, in a different place, and there are people all around us. There’s no music. The candles and champagne and green dress all disappear. There’s only screaming and whispering and murmuring and words I can’t seem to force myself to hear.

  Luke cradles me in his arms, saying my name over and over and over again in a broken voice that sounds nothing like his. I’m covered in a red that sticks and oozes. Blood. Everywhere. Some of it is mine and some of it isn’t. The lights flash and burn. I scream until I can’t tell what’s real and what’s not.

  I yank myself out of the black hole, but the trip back to reality takes its toll. I should be accustomed to losing space and place and time by now, but there’s never a way to prepare for the brutal assault on my body.

  I thought I could leave the weakness behind, along with my hair, my clothes, and everything else besides my name. I thought I could create strength from the ashes.

  I was a fool.

  I need to get
out of here before I come completely undone. Luckily, I catch Luke in a moment of his own weakness, and I wrench myself free from his powerful grasp, shaking my head violently and spinning away.

  I lose myself in the crowd. No more flashbacks. No more unraveling. Not now, not when there are witnesses to my madness. I’m not ready for it, to face him, to face what happened between us so many years ago.

  No. Not what happened between us. What happened to us.

  I peer across the crush of beautiful people, searching for Izzy, but more importantly, searching for a way out of here. When I spot the glowing red exit sign, I hesitate, weighing the risks of leaving Izzy alone against my desperation. Ultimately, it’s not so much a decision as a last-ditch effort at salvaging my sanity and my pride.

  When I break through the doors, I find a miraculously deserted alley. I lean against the brick wall and take shallow breaths of cool night air until the world rights itself again.

  I grab my phone from my purse and shoot off a quick text that I know Izzy will understand—The Luke. Home. Sorry. Love you. It’s not likely that she’ll get it tonight. Her phone is probably tucked into her nightstand or sitting on a bench in the middle of Greenview’s campus.

  I can’t think about that now. I try to run, but my stupid heels catch on the holes in the pavement. I consider taking off the shoes and running barefoot through the streets, but logic returns—a mile of walking in broken glass might alleviate other kinds of pain, but it would only be a temporary solution.

  “Stella. Hey!”

  In my state of disarray, there’s only one thing that registers. The voice is deep. Male. I quicken my pace, darting down the alley before Luke can catch me, before he can stop me from leaving.

  I’m not fast enough. A hand catches my arm and spins me around.

  The eyes are the wrong color and the wrong shape. There’s no danger in his gaze, no fireworks from his touch that steal my breath. It’s not Luke, and a tiny shiver of disappointment runs up my neck. I hate myself for it.

  No. It’s Dr. Delicious, in the flesh, wearing a perfectly tailored, pinstriped suit. Bootlegger Ball attire. What kind of professor goes to the club? I mean, seriously.

  “Hey. Hey,” he says softly. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I say flatly, turning away. “I’m just heading home.”

  So, he’s just the second-to-last person that I wanted to see tonight. I’m batting a thousand. If I can find a gas station, I really am going to buy that lottery ticket.

  When I try to brush past him, he catches my arm easily and holds me in place.

  “I’m really hoping that you’re not reckless enough to think about walking home alone. This is the wrong part of town.”

  “It’s always the wrong part of town for walking home alone.”

  “Then let me help you find a cab.”

  “There aren’t any cabs around here. Greenview isn’t exactly an urban center, in case you haven’t noticed.” I cringe when I hear the harshness of the words and the acid in my voice, but there’s nothing I can do about it now—I need to get out of here and he’s standing directly in my path of escape.

  “Then I will walk you home,” he says firmly, putting both of his hands on my shoulders.

  I bristle at the contact. “Are you sure that’s appropriate? You’re my professor, not my date.”

  He keeps getting the very worst version of me. I’ll have to deliver another humbling apology, particularly if I need to beg for a different lab section again, but that’s for tomorrow and not tonight.

  He fixes unyielding eyes on mine. “I don’t let women walk home alone, regardless if the woman in question is my friend, my date, or my student. Come on. Let’s get you home. Do you live on campus?”

  I stubbornly refuse to answer, even as the cool air whips an involuntary shiver right through me. He attempts to place his jacket around my shoulders and I shove it back into his arms with a grunt.

  “Please. Just leave me alone. I need to be alone.”

  He inspects my face and shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I’m going to guess from your non-response that you live on campus. Therefore, you only have to endure my company for a few minutes. If you wouldn’t put up such an ultimately ineffective fight, we could be halfway there by now.”

  His mouth is set in a firm line, and I know then that resistance is futile. That doesn’t mean I have to be nice about it.

  “Fine. If you want to stalk some student all the way home, go ahead. Make my day.”

  I immediately take off down the sidewalk, hoping that my rudeness will somehow manage to shake him, but unfortunately, his footsteps continue to follow me. Neither of us makes any further attempts at conversation. It’s a smart move on his part, but the silence encroaches on my already volatile nerves. I can’t take much more, so when we reach an intersection near campus, I dash across the street, hoping to leave him behind.

  It doesn’t work. When he catches me, there’s a flash of anger in his face, which is far more disconcerting than the barely concealed amusement I’ve already gotten used to.

  “You might have a death wish, but I’d appreciate it if you’d give me some warning next time,” he says, the impatience creeping into his voice. “Hello? Earth to Ms. Walton.”

  The full power of those amber eyes is aimed directly at me, but that’s not my name. Then I remember—I am Stella Walton. The frozen one. Ball-busting femme bot.

  “Dr. Evans,” I say briskly. His mouth opens to correct me, but I amend my words before he can. “Sorry. Holden. Thank you for your concern, but I no longer need an escort. We’re on campus now, and I really will be fine. I don’t see too many shady characters lurking in the shadows.”

  I try to suppress the tiny tremor of fear that the words unearth. He sees it anyway.

  With each word, his voice grows louder and more adamant. “I’m not leaving you. You’re just prolonging our time together. One might think you wanted to spend more time with me.”

  “A white knight,” I mutter, adding a heavy dose of sarcastic disdain.

  He staggers backwards. For some unforeseeable reason, I finally hit my mark. All of my other insults, like stalker, douchebag, and pervert professor, barely made a dent, but that one sticks in the air between us.

  I’m disgusted with myself. He’s just deserted what was a pretty spectacular party to make sure that a student he met today makes it home safely. I swallow my pride.

  “I’m so sorry.” I suck in mouthfuls of air and try to stop the onslaught of words. They come pouring out anyway. “I didn’t mean to ruin your night, or your day, or to call you a douchebag, or a stalker. I’m really not a total bitch, even though all evidence is pointing to the contrary. I’m just a mess. A total, fucking mess.”

  He softens. “Is there anyone in your dorm room right now?”

  “I just left my roommate back there in the club, and she’s probably wondering what happened to me. I tried to text her, but I don’t know if she even has her phone on her, and…” My panic is palpable. I fight for control. “I’m okay. I will be okay. Okay?”

  He doesn’t believe me. I don’t believe me. I’m a mumbling, muttering hot mess. I raise my eyes to his, expecting to find censure or panic. Instead, the warm amber of his gaze is steady. It soothes me and revises, bringing me back to myself.

  “We’re getting a cup of coffee,” he says finally. “I know some people who are still at Phillips, and I’ll text one of them and have someone find your friend. They’ll make sure she gets home safely.” He nods at the row of shops and restaurants next to us. “Come on.”

  I’m hovering so close to the edge of tears that I don’t trust myself to open my mouth. I simply nod and follow him, wondering what kind of disaster I’m getting myself into this time.

  Chapter 8

  There are two coffee shops on restaurant row; one of them has cushy armchairs, eight-dollar lattes, and “artistic” snapshots of people playing the guitar. Basically, it’s your typical hipster ha
ven. The other one is an unabashed hole-in-the-wall. When that becomes cool and/or they enforce the smoking ban, it will get taken over by trendy Greenview students. Thankfully, that day hasn’t come yet.

  I fully expect Holden to choose door number one, but he surprises me and goes for the diner. I catch his grimace when he breathes in the cloudy, smoke-filled air, but he continues, undeterred.

  The waitress watches us skeptically as we slide into a booth. I half-expect her to tell us to go next door, but Holden bestows one of his comfort-whiskey smiles on her and she visibly melts. Add another female notch to Dr. Delicious’s belt of bimbos.

  “Two cups of coffee, please,” he says.

  She’s too flustered to say anything back, but she does give me the evil eye as she walks back to the counter. Spit coffee is a virtual certainty.

  My head aches from Izzy’s intricate up do, so I lean my head back against the cracked vinyl and run my fingers through my hair, yanking at the bobby pins and not giving a damn about the fact that my head now resembles a ratty birds’ nest. Holden gives me a curious look and shakes his head, as if he’s not entirely certain how we ended up here. Hell, I don’t know how we ended up here. I give him my best attempt at a smile, and he reciprocates before pulling his phone from his pocket.

  It’s one of those Nokias that went out of fashion in the late nineties. Not even a flip phone. I snicker.

  “Is my phone funny to you?” He sounds more than a little defensive.

  I reach into my bag and pull out my phone, which is identical to his. I’m rewarded with a smile that spreads slowly from his mouth to the rest of his face.

  “Yeah, I guess it is funny.” I grin. “A couple of dinosaurs.”

  My refusal to get the latest technology is a vestigial act of teenage rebellion. My father, who orders the latest models straight from the manufacturers as soon as they’re released in Japan, sends me a new phone every couple of months. I promptly return all of them, never bothering to remove the plastic. It’s a silly ritual, one that I look forward to more than I want to admit.