He steps closer and touches my chin with his pointer finger so that I look up at him. “I really like being with you.”
And then he closes the gap, and we’re standing there beside the bubbling geyser as his lips graze mine. The faintest flutter of a touch steals my breath away. My eyes slip shut and the world seems to give way beneath my feet.
Logan leans into me, until my back is against the wooden railing, the geyser fizzing behind us. His elbows rest on the railing, and I reach up, interlacing my fingers at the back of his neck. I pull him against me, and for one beautiful moment, it feels like we’re one. Then it seems like it’s just a heartbeat later that he’s pulling back, but it must be longer because by then I’m practically panting, trying in vain to catch my breath.
Logan makes the breathing thing even more difficult when a second later, he reaches up and traces my cheek with his thumb. “So maybe it’s more impressive than I thought.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A couple hours later, I wait impatiently at the elevator, slapping the up button again and again, even though it’s already lit. Hospitals always feel so…uncomfortable to me. I can’t stand in them without thinking of my mother. Without feeling an echo of the panic I’d felt that day. And now, they also remind me of my broken collarbone, of flying over the handlebars of the quad.
I just want to find Bick and get out of here.
The doors glide open and I slip inside the lift, hitting the button for the second floor at least three times in the hopes that will make the doors close faster. Of course, when they eventually do, I find myself wondering how many germs are crawling around on the buttons, how many sick people touched them.
It seems like forever later when the doors slide open, and I follow the arrows until I’m standing in front of room 223.
I knock on the door frame and then step inside to see Bick sitting at the edge of the bed, dressed in street clothes—Carhartt jeans and a black T-shirt, plus his Romeo shoes. When my eyes meet his, my mouth goes dry.
“Oh,” I say, my voice falling.
He has cuts over his eyebrow, and one black eye, plus a swollen, split lip. “It looks worse than it is.”
“I hope so, because you look terrible.”
He laughs, and then winces. “Ouch. Don’t make me laugh.”
“Would you rather I made you cry?”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “Thanks for picking me up. My mom was driving me insane, running around and fluffing my pillows and handing me ice chips.”
“Well, I thought we’d make a nice pair, what with your charming face and my lovely brace here,” I say.
He chuckles again and shakes his head. “Can we just get out of here?”
I grab the backpack off the couch. “Sure. Are you all discharged or whatever?”
He nods. “Yeah, my mom signed all the stuff when she brought me my change of clothes.”
“Cool.”
I start to swing the backpack over my good shoulder, but Bick lifts it off me. “I can carry this, gimpy.”
“Whatever, crash,” I say, leading him out the door.
“Hey, the wreck wasn’t my fault,” he says.
“It wasn’t?” I turn back to him as I push the down key on the elevator pad. We’re almost out of here. Just a few more moments…
“No. Somebody plowed right into me. All I saw was a big black SUV. It pushed me right into the ditch and my truck rolled onto its side.”
“Oh my God,” I say. “Do you think they were drunk?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “They were going fast as hell though. I hardly saw them coming and by then it was too late to move.”
“Why don’t you know? Did you get knocked out?” I grab a hold of the railing inside the elevator, using my good hand to hold me up. Bick completely downplayed this on the phone. He rolled his truck. It was not some teeny little fender bender.
No wonder his mom was fussing over him.
“No. Well, maybe, but only for a minute. I remember what song was playing when they plowed into me, and it was still playing when I came to.” Bick reaches up, tenderly touching the abrasions on his forehead. “The other driver didn’t stick around.”
We step into the elevator and I stare at him in the harsh light of the lift. “It was a hit and run?”
He nods. “Yeah. Exactly.”
“How’d you get out of your truck?”
“I had to climb out the passenger side door. By then someone else was there, and they called 911.”
The elevator dings and we step into the hall. “So is your truck totaled?”
“Probably. My mom had it towed to our house but she said it looks pretty bad. I might be able to turn it into a four-by-fouring rig. Take off the fenders and everything.” He frowns, furrowing his brow.
My shoes click on the sterile tile floors as we walk past the hospital gift shop and out into the suddenly cloudless day. “Wow. That sucks. I know you love the thing.”
He nods. “Yeah. I just keep telling myself it could have been worse.”
“True.” We cross the lot to my little car, and I hold the door open for Bick.
“Thanks, Mom,” he says, rolling his eyes.
I laugh under my breath as I round the driver’s side. Then I climb in, snapping my seatbelt on. “Well, you’re right. It could be worse.”
“How’s that?” he asks, wincing as he reaches for the seatbelt.
I hold up my right arm. “I could drive a stick. And then we’d both be screwed.”
When we arrive at Bick’s house, I park next to his mangled truck and barely manage to contain my shock—it’s so much more twisted and crunched than I could have ever imagined. I knew he rolled it…but…wow.
We climb out of my coupe and I can’t help but stare at the crushed metal, the shattered windshield, the cracked headlights as we round the back of the truck on our way to the door of Bick’s house. Bick shuffles along quickly, obviously eager to move past the hulking reminder of his accident. I move to follow him, then pause at the right front fender, my heart going still. “Um, Bick?”
“Yeah?” he looks up from the door to his house, disappointment swimming in his eyes as he once again catches sight of his prized truck. He obviously didn’t realize it was in such poor shape.
“How long did you say you were unconscious?”
“A minute. Maybe two, tops.” He gives up on the door and comes back to meet me.
“Long enough for someone to do this?” I ask, pointing to the truck.
A blood-red handprint is emblazoned on the fender.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
On Saturday, Adam pulls into my driveway in his jacked-up Samurai, all smiles as he whoops out the window.
I roll my eyes, thinking it’s probably crazy to go four-by-fouring today, with my broken collarbone and with the image of Bick’s truck so fresh in my mind. But I told Logan I would, so I can’t back down now. Allie gets out of Adam’s car and slides her seat forward, making room for me to climb into the tiny backseat. I’m glad I won’t have to be crammed back here for long—once we get to Logan’s, I’ll be riding with him.
“Ow,” I say, as I thunk down too hard and jar my elbow. I lean my head against the vinyl window, staring out at the fields as we leave my house.
“Smooth move,” Adam says, slamming his door shut.
I roll my eyes, ignoring his barb. “It’s too bad Bick can’t come with us. It seems wrong to go without him.”
“He’ll catch us next time,” Adam replies.
Then Allie adds, “I doubt his mom would let him go even if his truck was workable right now anyway.”
I nod and stare out the window, thinking that Bick’s mom might have the right idea. It took a good half hour for me and Bick to remove the red handprint from his truck window—it was just paint, fortunately. Still, though, the mark burns in my brain, making me believe that the “accident” wasn’t one at all, that the same person who caused it is the one who sabotaged his quad, and that
maybe that same person is also the one who’s doing all of the other crazy stuff around town.
I’m so caught up in my own thoughts that before I know it, we’re at the winding road to Logan’s house. I sit up as we pass the familiar, overgrown hedges.
Adam turns through the rusty iron gates, and we glide down the cracked concrete driveway, pulling up in front of Logan’s gothic house.
“That is seriously the coolest place I’ve ever seen,” Allie says, awed as she stares up at the three-story behemoth.
“I think it’s kind of creepy,” I say. My vision of the house will forever be tied to Daemon’s dark sneer, to the image of the little twin girls with a tragic fate. I can’t view it as just a house anymore.
Then again, Daemon’s been on my mind a lot lately. Luckily, tomorrow is Sunday. The day of our sit-down with him. I’m dreading it, but I want answers. I can’t stop wondering if he’s responsible for the red handprints…and other things as well. Things like Bick’s accident.
We have to confront him.
Adam jumps out and pushes his seat forward, and I climb out, happy I’ll be sitting in the front seat of Logan’s Jeep and not the sardine can known as the backseat of a Samurai. I stand in the driveway and look up at the mansion, shielding my eyes from the glare of the autumn sun.
An upstairs window is ajar, gray curtains flapping through the opening. I see a tall figure flash by and then there’s Logan, popping out the front door, impossibly fast. I glance back up at the window to see if someone else is up there, but there’s nothing but shadows.
“Hey,” he says, leaning in to kiss me.
“Hey,” I say. “Is that your uncle upstairs?”
Logan turns and looks up at the curtain as it flutters in the breeze. “No, he’s away on business for a while. That’s Daemon’s room.”
“Oh,” I say. So Daemon showed me his own room, not Logan’s, on the tour?
“So, you ready for this?”
I take in a ragged breath of air. “Sure. Number six. Four-by-fouring. I can totally do this.”
He grins. “You’re riding with me, right?”
I nod and follow him to his shiny red Jeep, glancing back to wave at Adam, who is supposed to lead us up some old backroads to Evans Creek ORV Park, since Logan and I have never been up there. He climbs into his Samuari, taps his horn once, and turns his car around as I climb into Logan’s Jeep.
We leave the creepy mansion behind and follow Adam down some back roads, across a bridge or two, up a winding, narrow road on the side of a mountain. Overgrown branches scrape at the vinyl windows as we snake between trees, around curves.
We stop at a tall, narrow bridge, waiting for a 1950s Chevy truck with rusty fenders to pass by. The bridge is hundreds of feet tall and only wide enough for one vehicle. Once we have the bridge to ourselves, we cross, sailing impossibly high over the Carbon River.
Somewhere along the way, while I’m staring up at the canopy of Evergreen trees, Logan’s fingers find mine. I’ve craved his touch all week long, and finally, here we are.
“You never told me why Daemon got expelled from Cedar Cove,” I say.
His warm touch turns awkward when he stares back out the windshield. When he slows for a curve, he has to untangle his fingers from mine and shift. “It’s a long story,” he says.
“It’s a long drive,” I say.
He purses his lips. “I know you want to know, but…I’ve spent the last year feeling like everyone looks at me differently just because of him—Daemon. And I can’t take it anymore. I just don’t want to talk about it right now,” he says.
I look down, twisting my hands in my lap. “When will you?”
“I promise I’ll tell you eventually. But can you please just trust me?”
“I already do, Logan. It’s Daemon I don’t trust. I want to know what he did.”
“Can we talk about it after we’re done Jeeping? We’ll go get dinner or something.”
“I guess. Yeah. Sure.” I sigh, barely holding onto my patience.
“Good,” he says, brightening. “Now, tell me: What’s number four?”
I turn to him, and despite my earlier annoyance, find my lips curling into a smile. “Driving on the freeway.”
“Seriously? You’ve never driven on the freeway?”
I shake my head. “I made my dad take me to Puyallup for my driver’s test because I heard they only make you go on local roads.”
“And?”
“And the rumors were true,” I say, staring down the steep, jagged angles of the mountain. Maybe driving up a crazy, rutted backroad should have been on my list too. I feel like we could slide right down the hill, and we’re not even to the off-road park yet.
“You’ve really never driven on the freeway? Ever?”
“Not once.”
“Wow. I have to admire your persistence, at least,” he says, grinning at me in a way that makes me forget that we’re hundreds of feet up in the air, twisting and turning on a perilous mountain.
And that we’re about to careen down it…intentionally.
We pull into the gravel lot by Evan’s Creek, and Adam stops, gets out of his SUV, and then jogs back to Logan’s window. Logan rolls it down, and Adam rests his forearms on the sill as he leans down. “We can go easy or challenging.”
“Easy,” I say, just as Logan says, “Challenging.”
I turn and glare at him—only sort of kidding—and then look at Adam. “Come on, guys, I have a broken collarbone. Can’t we just take some nice, leisurely trails?”
Logan and Adam share a look and I can’t tell what it means, but before I can protest, Adam nods and heads back to his Samurai.
I swallow. “So you’re doing easy, right?”
“You’ll be fine, Harper. I promise. I won’t let anything happen, okay?”
I take in another ragged breath of air and nod, willing myself to believe that even though this all feels really similar to the quad-riding episode, at least this time Logan will be with me til the very end. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s just get this over with.” I tighten my own seatbelt. Allie goes off-roading with Adam all the time and says it’s a blast. If she can handle it, I can too.
Logan shifts into gear as Adam pulls out, heads between two fir trees, and disappears into the shadows.
We follow, splashing through a few puddles, the mud-brown water spraying out around us. Adam’s black Samurai pulls away as Logan slows. The monstrous climb looms in front of us.
“We have to give him a little space on hill climbs,” Logan explains. “If he gets in a tough spot, we don’t want to be too close.”
I nod, but I’m not sure whether I should feel relieved by the confidence in his voice or freaked out by the idea of being “in a tough spot.” What does that even mean?
I can just see the flash of brake lights from Adam’s black Samurai at the midway point in the climb, partially obscured by the new orange and yellow foliage on the deciduous trees.
“Logan?” I ask, my voice rising.
“I got it,” he says.
“Oh.” I try to imagine myself at home, relaxing on the couch, watching Titanic with Allie.
“Okay. We should be good,” he says a long moment later. I ditch the vision of a comfy couch and grip the handle on the dashboard as Logan shifts into first gear, spinning his tires in the mud as we set off.
We hit the bottom of the hill at what feels like high speed, and I think I might fly right out of my seat. Halfway up, though, I realize he had to do that and that we’re slowing as we climb higher, losing momentum.
I grip the door handle with white knuckles.
We hit a giant hole bordered by two large boulders and I nearly hit the ceiling, my hair flying up around me. I grimace, cradling my arm to protect my collarbone, but a moment later I change my mind and grab the handle again.
Logan hardly moves, and my fear ebbs. He’s got one foot on the clutch and the other on the gas. Meanwhile, one of his hands is on the wheel and the other on the sti
ck as he tries to make it out of the huge hole without hitting the boulder on my side. His face is serious, concentration taking over.
So he’s really not a rookie. I unwind a little and relax my death grip on the handle.
Logan stares forward, tense as he grinds the gear—nearly missing it all together—and then hits it and we lurch forward.
We get out of the hole and creep forward, and I slide back in my seat as we hit the steepest part of the climb. I hold my breath as Logan eases up the last stretch, ultimately lurching over the edge of the hill, where Adam’s Samurai comes into view.
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