She smirked.
Straightening my spine, I started towards him. Even though I was walking at a normal speed, everything and everyone seemed to move in slow motion. What was he doing here? Did he think he could just show up out of nowhere and stand in the lobby of my high school? What did he want? Should I look happy or sad? Neutral. Best stay neutral. But was he really here for me? Oh God, I did get that piece of lettuce out of my teeth after lunch, right?
I shook my head. Play it cool. He’s obviously here for you. And yes, you did go to the bathroom after lunch with a toothpick.
Hayden looked up when I was halfway there, straightening out of his slouch. He was twirling two fat red roses in his hand, the thorny stems covered in… duct tape? Wow. He was really taking this ‘no accidents’ thing seriously.
Handle this. I stopped in front of him. My legs felt like water balloons.
“W—what are you doing here?” I stammered.
A shield of dark red consumed his face, all the way down to his collar bone. He held out the roses. “I thought you might like an apology,” he said. “For Saturday.”
I frowned, unmoving. Flowers alone wouldn’t get him out of this. “You didn’t say goodbye. You didn’t even call me this weekend.”
“I didn’t think you would pick up.” He ran a hand over his black hat.
I sighed. Chanel had snuck away. “You’re right,” I agreed flatly. “I probably wouldn’t have.”
“Yeah. I didn’t think so.” He pulled back the roses, looking rejected.
We stood there in silence, eyes looking anywhere but at one another. As I stared at the chipped tile, I remembered how much I hated awkward silences like these. I hated that my mind clouded and I didn’t know how to speak or what to say.
“Do you want to go for a drive?” he asked.
I lifted a brow. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”
“Your dad let me off for the day.”
“He did, huh?” I tapped the heel of my boot. Dad didn’t do that very often for new employees, certainly not for ones who had eyes for his daughter. “And how’d you manage that?”
“Um. I told him it was family drama—which in a way it is—can we just… go?” He was tripping all over his words. “Please? I am sorry for Saturday. It’s just, I panicked. I was in no way expecting to see her there.”
My hands moved to my hips. “Who is she, anyway?”
“Can you get in the truck?”
“Maybe. When you tell me who she is.” If he was into the whole cougar thing, I swear.
He rolled his eyes, getting frustrated. Twirling the roses faster, he said, “Um. Someone… who left me thirteen years ago?”
I scanned his face, his answer baffling me. Someone who left him?
Then it processed. “Oh crap.” I froze, the link clicking together. A link I should’ve made so much sooner, a perfectly realistic explanation. “Oh crap! Oh, no wonder you ran!”
He pushed his tongue against his cheek, free hand curling. “Yeah.”
My fingers pressed into my temples, but even they couldn’t rub away the guilt. “I’m such a jerk. Here I am complaining because you’re not talking to me while I should’ve been using my head.” I could’ve smacked myself. The similarities should’ve been apparent the second I saw Ita tripping over the woman in the gazebo; the same blue eyes, the same smile.
“I feel so awful right now,” I groaned. “I really should’ve called and checked on you after all.”
He brushed the roses’ petals against my cheek, putting on a weak smile. “It’s ok. I wasn’t expecting you to.”
I sulked, letting our eyes meet. Dark circles clouded the underneath of his today, and—all black blush aside—his face looked sort of sallow. When was the last time he slept?
Without another thought I stepped forward and laced my arms around his waist, pressing my head into his chest. His heart pounded rapidly against my ear as a cold, thin plate of silver tried to cover his chest beneath his hoodie. After a moment it faded, became soft, warm human skin again. His sweater smelled a cross between dust and mint leaves.
Slowly, his arms circled my back and shoulders, resting gently on my lower spine. He was cautious about returning the favor, and I listened to his lungs exhale as his chin touched the crown of my head. “Come on,” he said after a minute. “My truck’s in the parking lot out front.”
“What about my car?” I pulled away, but my hands were still around his waist. “I can’t leave it here all—”
“I told Lea to come get it when he’s free. He’ll take it to my apartment and you can get it when we come back.” He brushed a strand of hair from my face, then playfully tugged my hoop earring. “Ok?”
I smiled. “Yeah. I guess that’s fine.”
“So.” He held up the roses again. “We alright?”
I took them, sniffing the centers of the bright flowers. “Yeah. We’re good.”
He stepped forward and pushed open a door. “Ladies first.”
We drove around aimlessly for an hour, talking a little bit about his mother— he sort of cut the subject off after I pointed out that not only was my mother’s fiancé his uncle (oh my goodness that would be great blackmail towards Lyle) but crabby old Mrs. Mason must be his grandmother.
After that, we talked about whatever came to mind. Hayden was one of those people who you can prattle on about a pointless subject and he’ll join you. One second we were discussing hairstyles, the next we were talking about why stop signs were octagonal. It was simple. Stressless.
Somehow we ended up at a little shack by the beach, where we bought fish and chips and I ordered a shake that was too large to drink on my own. I had him share it with me. After we’d munched as many fries as we could, we went out onto the beach. Ditching our shoes in the sand, we trotted down to the water. The lukewarm tides lapped against our toes as we walked hand-in-hand down the ocean’s edge… It was like a scene right out of a Nickolas Sparks book.
I loved it.
20) Cadell Tright
T
he sun was setting over the city, painting the sky orange and pink. It was late when I arrived home… late enough that dad felt it right for an interrogation, especially when he figured out who I’d spent my afternoon with. He jammed the button on the food processor, sending the roar of crunching ice through the house. When he was done, he got out a fat plastic cup and poured the strawberry slosh into it. “So much for being gone on family trauma today.” He snorted. “Huh! If he needs the day off, fine. Say it. But that kid lies to me and—”
“He wasn’t lying, dad!” I spat. I stood at the entrance to the kitchen, shoes and purse still in contact with my body. There hadn’t even been time to take them off before he was all over me.
Dad swung his head around, nearly toppling his glass. “How is that not lying?! He ditches work and steals my daughter—you call that family trauma?!”
I clenched my fists together to keep from spouting out a nasty comment. “His mother showed up at mom’s shower on Saturday,” I growled. “He’s been wired and he needed someone to talk to!”
Dad’s vicious expression fell. “His what?”
“His mother! Who he hasn’t seen since childhood—which you would know if you knew anything about him!” I yelled, throwing a hand into the air. “Oh, and did I mention she’s Lyle’s sister?”
Dad’s mouth hung open, caught with his own words. “How are—well then if he—Good Lord, Rose! If you’re just pulling this out of thin air—”
“Don’t you dare call me a liar! You want proof? Give me the phone I’ll call mom and put Lyle on right now! He’ll tell you his sister was there, that she has blue eyes just like Hayden’s! That her name is basically the same name as his mother’s—”
“Rose, just—stop.” He waved a hand at me, closing his eyes. “Ok. Maybe it’s possible. Hell, I have no clue.” He pinched the ridge of his nose, like he was waiting for a nose bleed to happen. “Bottom line. Rose, where is this going?”
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“What?” I snapped, confused.
“Where is this thing going with you and Hayden? I want to know.”
“I…” I paused. “I don’t know. Why do I have to know?” Who the heck actually knew for sure where their relationships were going? Anything could happen, and couldn’t we just let fate have its way?
Dad poured his smoothie into the cup, saying, “Because, Rose, I’m worried you’re getting too attached. One minute you hate the kid, now you adore him! I just think it’s strange. And Joe and the guys are worried about you too.”
“You know, how is it one second you’re dying for Hayden and me to get along, and now you can’t stand it?” I crossed my arms.
“Because I wanted you to see he wasn’t a bad kid—which he’s not.” He slurped his drink, probably regretting that he’d tried so hard now. “But I didn’t expect you to get the hots for him and start sneaking off to the beach for the day!”
“Please don’t say get the hots.” I leaned my head against the wall, squeezing my eyes shut. “You make me sound like a hormone-driven teenager. We’re not even technically dating, dad.”
“Maybe not, but are you a hormone-driven teenager, Rose?”
“No, dad!” Good God, had I not lived in his house long enough for him to know me? “FYI, I’ve only had one boyfriend in my life and it wasn’t even that serious. Trust me, compared to poor Chanel’s parents, I’ve made it easy on you.”
Dad shook his head, pulling a spoon from the drawer. He started eating chunks of strawberry that hadn’t made it through the blender.
“You should trust my judgment. I have the brains to pick a good one.” I almost added, I’m not mom, but since there was a time when she loved dad, I didn’t need him taking it the wrong way. “And if I’ve picked Hayden, it’s only because the good I see in that boy is the same good you saw the day you hired him… and I trust your judgment.”
Dad set the smoothie down, running a hand through his russet hair. There was suddenly a lot of silence in the kitchen.
“I just don’t want to see you get hurt,” he whispered. “But then again, I guess I shouldn’t baby you. You’re old enough to make your own decisions—or mistakes.” He shrugged. “So I guess as long as he’s good to you… I’ll hold the worst of my complaints.”
My heart lifted as the tension in the air started to dissipate.
“But,” dad added hastily. “If he causes any trouble, his ass is mine. And I’ll cut him off from you because I love you. And no one hurts my only daughter.”
“You can’t fire him for breaking my heart.” Though I knew Hayden wouldn’t do such a thing. And if he did, dad should’ve known I’d make the boy suffer myself.
“It’s my effing shop,” dad retorted. “I’ll do as I please.”
I blinked at him. I could’ve rebelled against his my-way-or-the-highway attitude, but it was his way of caring, of protecting his only child.
Because he couldn’t protect his other. My throat closed up. Rachel’s face popped up behind my eyes and suddenly all I wanted to do was escape, leave this conversation behind. “Thanks, dad,” I said, voice straining. “Am I dismissed now?”
“Yeah. Shoo.” He waved a hand. “Go… slobber over your little buddy. Actually—no. Don’t do that. And if you do, don’t tell me.”
“No worries,” I laughed as I turned away. “It’s not like I kiss him or anything.” Though, oh man, I wanted to…
Tuesday morning, something strange happened.
I leaned lazily on our table in cooking, Cheyenne’s head on my shoulder as she snoozed. Mrs. Jansen was going on a very detailed, very sleep-inducing lecture about food safety. Near the back of the room, a set of brawny boys from the soccer team were lightly snoring, their sunglasses on so she couldn’t see their closed eyes.
The door creaked, summoning my attention. A tiny freshman entered the classroom. It was a Deliverer—what we called the office assistants that ran notes and requests around for students. They were great for getting you out of class to go talk to a counselor or teacher, but others were awful because you knew you were in trouble or had testing to complete.
This little stick with the red pixie cut hair was carrying a green note, something I hadn’t seen before. I’d memorized them long ago; yellow or orange for counselor notes, blue for come-to-the-front-office notes, or (everyone’s favorite) pink for leaving-school notes.
The girl handed the green paper to Mrs. Jansen, who was perched on her stool at the overhead. She read the note, then scanned her students. “Rosalia,” she called.
I sat up, accidentally bumping Cheyenne. Her head smacked the table. “Ouch!” She rubbed her skull, half awake as the girls behind us giggled.
“Sorry,” I whispered, standing up. I weaved around chairs and tables to the head of the room.
“This one’s for now.” Mrs. Jansen handed me the slip.
I examined the paper. It was a come-to-Mrs.-Watson’s-office. Uh oh. No one gets requests from the vice principal unless it’s bad news.
“Should I take my stuff?” I asked.
Mrs. Jansen glanced at the clock. “Maybe. We’re running low on time.”
Exchanging nervous glances with Cheyenne, I gathered my purse and bag. As I walked down the hall, I started coming up with reasons why Mrs. Watson—of all people—would’ve called me down. I can’t deny I was nervous, but at the same time wondered: why should I be? Far as I knew, I hadn’t done anything wrong.
Maybe it’s your tardy slips, I thought as I entered the mainstream hallway. It was empty with the exception of a few passing girls, their Baby Phat jeans slung low around their hips. You’ve slipped by so many times. Maybe that’s all it is. Chanel had been called in for tardies before. I could deal with detention for a day or two, though that was a lame way of punishing kids for running late if you asked me. We weren’t all perfect, and even if it was “training” for when you get a job, there was a big difference: you show up at work, you get paid. You show up here, you get squat and several hours of suffering.
My skin still rippled in goose bumps as I entered the office, however. The feeling of being in trouble was never a settling emotion—even for the smallest things. I passed the front desk and headed to the back near student services. Doors and chairs lined the thin hall. Mrs. Watson’s door was the first on my right, her blinds down in the window. I knocked gently.
The knob turned, and a dark-haired, middle-aged woman appeared. “Aw! Ms. Ridgewood,” Mrs. Watson greeted sweetly. “Sorry to claim you on such short notice, but we have a minor situation.”
She stepped aside, revealing her company.
A man sat in one of the chairs before her desk. He had one leg over the other, his tan head shaved close to the skin. He wore a black suit, his spidery fingers tapping at a PDA. Or maybe it was an iPhone. I couldn’t see. Behind him stood two unusually tall men, their hands clasped behind their backs. They were dressed even more like Men-in-Black than the man sitting down, and they were still as gargoyles.
Mrs. Watson gestured me in and shut the door. An eerie, wiggly feeling of unease settled in my stomach. Something felt off. I didn’t like this.
“Have a seat, dear.” Mrs. Watson patted a chair a few feet over from the sitting stranger. When I reluctantly sat down, she continued: “Ms. Ridgewood, this is Cadell Tright. Cadell, this is Rosalie Ridgewood.”
The man turned his face and I suppressed a gasp. Under his dark eyes, a redpurple line sheathed his cheek bones, running over the ridge of his nose. It looked kind of like something you’d see on a tribal warrior, like a line they’d paint over their face before battle.
But this line wasn’t paint. It was a real scar… and it didn’t look like an accident.
“Hello, Ms. Ridgewood.” The creepy man smiled, holding out a hand. “Cadell Tright, undercover agent for the Los Angeles police. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
My skin crawled as I shook his pale hand. His skin was chilly. “N—no problem,” I stammered, barely conceal
ing the fear. Why were the police here? Had I
done something illegal?
“I’m sorry to interrupt your day.” He stashed what I saw was an iPhone after
all, then reached back towards… what to call them? His colleagues, bodyguards?
“We’re hoping maybe you can help us.” One of the Men in Black ceased his stonelike formation long enough to hand Mr. Tright a fat manila file.
“Um. Alright.” My words were spoken lightly, but terrible thoughts invaded
my head. Was he here because of Hayden and the Arizona incident? Or because of
the Viper and Vixen, maybe? I was underage. Could you get arrested for sneaking
into a club when you were underage? I hadn’t had any alcohol, but I still wasn’t
sure. I hated the fact I wasn’t sure.
Mr. Tright opened the folder and pulled out a black and white “WANTED”
sign. “Ms. Ridgewood, have you ever seen this man?” He extended an arm out,
the one with the flyer.
I leaned forward for a better look, and felt my insides plummet. The sketch
displayed a man with rounded cheek bones, jagged pitch-black hair, and greyshaded eyes of a delicate yet dangerous nature.
It was Adrian.
“A witness from a dance club in northern Los Angeles claims you were conversing with him.” A shadow crossed Mr. Tright’s face. “Do you know him?” I had to think hard. What to say, what to say? The wrong words could bring
misfortune, whether with the human police department or the faeries, it could
cost me. Which were more dangerous: the fey or the police?
“Um… yes, he talked to me,” I confirmed. “But no. I don’t know him.” Mr. Tright folded his hands in his lap, mouth curling with disappointment.
“So, you met him there, then? He was a stranger to you and you’ve never seen
him before?”
I thought of the mall incident, when he’d been in the food court. His followers—they came to mind, too. “No. I hadn’t seen him before that night.” “I see.” He leaned back in his chair, not pleased with that answer, either. “But
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