Atone

by Wendi Wilson

  He pops open the bag and holds the opening in Savanna’s direction as he sits down on the couch beside her. She shakes her head, earning a sigh from Jett, who sits on her other side.

  “Savanna, you need to eat something,” he says. “You have to keep up your strength.”

  Pulling the flask from his pocket, Jett offers it to her. She takes it, unscrews the cap and drinks, her eyes meeting mine over the end of the bottle.

  “Sorry,” she says after she swallows and recaps it, handing it back to him. “Does that gross you out?”

  I shrug and say, “Maybe it used to. But not anymore.”

  She opens her mouth to respond, but no sound comes out as her text alert chimes. She scrambles off the couch and lunges for her phone, nearly knocking it off the T.V. stand where it rested in her haste. Pulling up the app, she reads the text aloud.

  “Meet me tomorrow at noon. Lincoln Memorial. Come alone, or there will be consequences. I have eyes everywhere. Do not defy me. E.P.”

  Tears fill her eyes and spill over, running in trails down her cheeks. Beckett pulls her into his arms and my face heats. I feel like I’m intruding on a private moment, but I’m not about to leave. This is too important.

  “Okay,” Wyatt says, pacing across the room and back. “Noon tomorrow. That means we have some time. It’s what? A four and half hour drive to D.C.? We can leave at six and have plenty of time for recon.”

  “Recon?” Jett asks, his tone condescending. “Who are you, James Bond?”

  “Shut up, Jett,” Wyatt snaps, his voice tinged with anger. “At least I’m trying to help.”

  “Please. Don’t fight,” Savanna begs, pulling away from Beckett while wiping her eyes.

  “Sorry, Savanna,” Wyatt murmurs.

  “Sorry,” Jett mumbles.

  These boys will do anything for her. I hope she knows how lucky she is to have not one, but three amazing guys completely devoted to her in every way. I try not to be jealous, but I kind of am. I just wish—

  “I’m going to go lie down for a while,” Savanna declares, cutting into my thoughts.

  She glances up at the clock and kisses each of the boys on the lips. Giving me a little wave, she heads up the stairs. Lie down, my ass. I’m not buying that for a minute.

  “Hey guys,” I say, making my voice sound hopeful, “doesn’t Savanna love cheeseburgers? I bet if you all went out and got her one, she’d eat.”

  “Yeah,” Wyatt says, his face lighting up. “I bet she’d love a milkshake, too.”

  “And chocolate,” Beckett adds.

  “You guys go,” I say. “I’ll go up and keep an eye on her until you get back.”

  “Thanks, Lizzie,” Jett says.

  I head upstairs and watch them leave from the landing, then I shuffle down the hall and ease open the door to our room. Savanna hears the latch click and spins, kicking the duffel bag she’d had in her hands back into the closet. I close the door behind me and cross my arms over my chest with a frown.

  “Don’t do it,” I say.

  “Don’t do what?”

  “I know what you’re planning. It’s written all over your face. If you persuade those boys into letting you go alone, they may never forgive you.”

  She sucks in a breath and shushes me, pointing to the floor then to her ear.

  “Don’t worry. I sent them out. Told them a juicy cheeseburger would make you feel better.” I stare at her for a moment, my face earnest. “They jumped on the idea, saying they’d get you a milkshake, too. And they’re stopping for chocolate. Anything to make you feel better. They will do everything for you. To make you happy. To keep you safe. If you do this, you’re putting all of that in jeopardy.”

  She drops the pretense and slumps her shoulders. “Don’t you understand, Lizzie? I feel that same need. The need to make them happy. To keep them safe. I know if I leave without them, it won’t make them happy. But it will keep them safe. And that’s more important.”

  “You’ll use your power against them.” It’s a statement, not a question.

  “It’s the only way to keep them from following me,” she says, her eyes pleading for understanding.

  “It’s going to break their hearts.”

  I let my words hang in the air between us, then turn to go. I pull open the door, then look back over my shoulder at her. I have to try one more time.

  “Only you can decide which path you’ll take on this, Savanna. I hope you make the right choice.”

  18

  I have to leave the house. I write a note and leave it on the counter. It says I’m going to explore the town, but there’s only one thing I’m interested in exploring.

  And that’s the baseball field at the high school.

  I know it’s stupid. The boys will be in class for another couple of hours, at least, and the field will be empty. But I search up the address of the high school in my phone anyway, then input it into my GPS. Along the way, I spot a coffee shop and turn on my blinker. An iced coffee sounds amazing and there’s a drive-thru, so I don’t even have to get out of the car.

  I pull back out onto the road and check my navigation system. The school should be a mile up on the left. Within seconds, I spot the tall floodlights towering above the treetops. I catch a red light and veer into the turning lane, realizing the cross-street leads right into the school parking lot.

  I find some visitor spots that don’t require a parking pass and pull into a space. Turning off the engine, I lean back in my seat and sip my coffee. I gaze around the empty campus grounds, assuming all the students are currently in class. If I can make my way to the baseball field before the bell rings, I can find a place to watch where I won’t be seen.

  I try to ignore the feeling of being an absolute creeper as I climb from the car and lock it up behind me. I’m not a stalker. Totally not a stalker.

  I repeat the words in my head as I walk across the lot. I spot the red dirt of the field and head that way. There’s a grouping of trees on the outfield side, and I head in that direction. Once I reach them, I sit down at the base of one and Look around.

  I should be able to see everything from here and, unless one of the boys plays centerfield, I shouldn’t be spotted. I can always circle around and hide behind the tree if need be.

  So not a stalker.

  I pull out my phone and open a game app to pass the time. I complete several levels when the sound of people running meets my ears. My phone drops to my lap as I look up and squint, straining to make out the Madsen twins in a sea of baseball uniforms and caps.

  The form on the pitcher’s mound catches my eye and, as I watch, he pulls his hat off to wipe the sweat from his brow. Blonde hair flops in the breeze and I suck in a breath. I can’t tell if it’s Silas or Slade from here, but whichever one it is, he looks amazing in a baseball uniform.

  The catcher behind the plate pops up and whips off his mask, revealing the other twin. Pitcher and catcher? They have to be good players, then.

  “Let’s go, Silas,” the catcher yells, clearing up my confusion.

  Slade replaces his catcher’s mask and squats down behind the plate as Silas bends at the waist, watching his brother throw some signs between his knees. Silas straightens, facing sideways, rotating a baseball in his right hand behind his back as a batter swings a few times to warm up.

  Then… magic. Silas winds up for the pitch, his arm flies and he releases in one fluid motion. The ball whizzes toward the plate so fast, I can’t even see it and, apparently, neither can the batter. He doesn’t even attempt to swing as the thump of the ball hitting Slade’s glove echoes across the field.

  “Strike,” a man in umpire’s gear calls from behind Slade.

  He throws the ball back to Silas and they do it again. And again. The batter is out, shaking his head as he ambles back to the dugout. The next batter comes up and it’s the same thing. Three strikes, no balls, no fouls.

  I’m impressed. Silas strikes out one more player and runs in, his brother pounding him o
n the back as they head down the steps into the dugout. Another pitcher heads to the mound and warms up with a catcher, but my eyes stay glued to the dugout entrance where the boys disappeared.

  A player emerges, and I can tell by his height and build that it is one of the twins. Someone yells out, calling him Slade, confirming I’m right. I watch him as the pitcher winds up and he prepares to swing, but at the last second, he steps back and lets the ball fly past him.

  “Ball,” the umpire yells.

  The second pitch must come in straight, because Slade shifts his weight to his back foot and, using his entire body, swings the bat around. A loud crack booms through the air, and the ball flies toward me, clearing the fence and landing slightly to my left.

  I panic, not wanting to be seen, and crawl on my hands and knees to the opposite side of the tree. I press my back against the rough bark and freeze, my breaths coming harsh and heavy as I panic.

  If the boys see me out here, they’ll totally think I’m a stalker.

  “Time to go,” I mumble as I push myself to my feet.

  I peek around the tree to see Slade slapping hands with a few other players, including his twin, at home plate. Confirming neither Madsen brother is looking my way, I slip from behind the tree and make a beeline for the parking lot.

  I don’t breathe easy until I’m behind the steering wheel and pulling from the lot. In my haste to escape, I turn left instead of right, going the wrong way. I could flip a U-turn and head back to the house, but I don’t.

  I need some time to think.

  I hang a right down a tree-lined street with towering Victorian houses. They’re pretty, with their tall peaks and gabled porches. The street ends on what looks like a main thoroughfare, and I turn left when the light flashes to green.

  A shopping center on my right catches my attention, as does a sign that says, “Brewtiful Dreamer.” The sign depicts a steaming mug below the words and that tells me all I need to know. Jerking the steering wheel to the right, I whip into the parking lot before I miss the entrance.

  I park and look around at the shops as I get out of the car. A second-hand clothing store, a book shop, and a small diner surround the coffee shop. Every storefront is lined with dark wood and old fashioned lanterns hang on each supportive post. The whole strip has a “take me back in time” feel, and I like it.

  A bell jingles as I push open the door to Brewtiful Dreamer and the intoxicating aroma of freshly ground coffee beans fills my nostrils. My eyes drift closed as I inhale deeply, and I’m pretty sure the sigh that escapes me sounds downright carnal. A throaty chuckle fills my ears, and my eyes snap open.

  “Sorry,” a male voice says, pulling my attention toward the back counter. “We get that reaction a lot here.”

  “What reaction?” I ask as I approach him, my eyes flitting between his face and the large chalk menu board behind him.

  “The blissful closing of the eyes and deep inhale when you smelled the coffee,” he says.

  My gaze focuses on him and he smiles, nearly taking my breath away. It should be illegal to have such perfect teeth peeking out from between full, pouty lips. Especially on a guy. I don’t know whether to feel attracted to him or jealous.

  My eyes travel up, taking in the rest of his features. Olive skin, dark hair, gray eyes rimmed with silver. I freeze, my own eyes widening. His smile drops and his eyelids fall shut as he sighs. When he reopens them, the warmth and humor that had been there previously have vanished.

  “What can I get for you?” he asks, his monotone voice sounding cold and sterile.

  “A mocha latte, extra whipped cream, please,” I request.

  He nods, the movement almost… mechanical, and turns to start my order. I don’t really understand his change in demeanor, but it’s making me uncomfortable.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me my name?”

  He looks up from the espresso machine, lips turned down and one eyebrow arched. “Your name?”

  “For the cup?”

  I say it more like a question and flinch internally. I don’t know why his snub is affecting me the way it is. Maybe it’s because he’s cute and I’m used to cute boys flirting with me. Maybe it’s because I have a new outlook and treating complete strangers like they’re beneath me isn’t a part of it. Maybe it’s because he’s an Alt and I have a whole new… appreciation for Alts in general.

  “Does this look like a massive coffee chain to you? This is a family business.” He holds up a ceramic mug with a unicorn on it. “We use real cups. And we don’t write people’s names on them.”

  I don’t like his tone. He’s talking to me like I’m stupid now. He obviously doesn’t deal with many strong, southern women. He is fixing to learn something.

  I move closer to the counter and lean forward, resting my palms against the cool wood. As he shakes the whipped cream dispenser, he glances over at me. Taking in my face and posture, his hand freezes mid-air.

  Now that I know I have his attention, I ask, “What, exactly, is your problem?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I didn’t stutter,” I respond, snarling for good measure.

  “I don’t have a problem,” he says, looking down his nose at me as he slides the unicorn cup in my direction.

  “Then why the attitude?” I ask, not backing down.

  I don’t know why I care so much. It’s one guy, working in a coffee shop that I’ll probably never visit again. I shouldn’t give a crap about him or his multiple personalities.

  “I saw how you reacted when you realized…”

  “Realized what?” I ask, my brow furrowing.

  “You know.”

  “Uh, no I don’t.” He narrows his eyes at me, and the silver rings around the edges of his irises almost glow. “Oh,” I say, understanding dawning on me, “you mean when I realized you’re an Alt?”

  He points to his nose, then at me and says, “Ding, ding, ding. Give the lady a cookie.”

  “So, me being a little shocked when I noticed your eyes is reason enough for you be a total asshat?”

  His head jerks back at my words, like he can’t believe I called him out on his bad behavior. Maybe he gets away with acting however he wants because people are scared of him. The thought cools some of the heat coursing through my veins at his impertinence. Maybe he has good reason to be cynical.

  “Sorry,” I say, “that was uncalled for.”

  “No, you were right. I was being an asshat.”

  I smile. “And as for my reaction, I was just surprised. I never even saw an Alt until a few weeks ago. Now, my new best friend, her three boyfriends and the twins we’re staying with are all Alts. I guess I just didn’t expect my barista to be one, too, after more than seventeen years of never meeting one.”

  “I’m sorry, did you say your new best friend has three boyfriends?”

  “That’s your takeaway from everything I said?” I ask, arching a brow.

  The bell hanging over the front door jingles, grabbing my attention. I turn and see the surly barista walking through the front door. Momentary confusion wracks me, and I look back to see him still standing behind the counter. Oh… twins.

  “Rafe, did you put in that order for the new—oh, sorry, I didn’t realize you were with a customer.”

  I turn back towards the barista, Rafe, and his twin walks behind the counter to join him. “Hi,” he says, tying an apron around his waist, “I’m Gabe Davila.”

  “Lizzie Williams,” I respond, hiding my smile behind the unicorn mug as I sip my latte.

  “I hope my brother is treating you like a valued customer,” Gabe says, giving his brother a pointed look.

  I have a feeling the hotheaded Rafe has run-ins with his customers on a regular basis. And his brother obviously gets on his case about it. As I catch his eye, he gives me a pleading look. I get the hint.

  “Of course,” I say. “Great service, great coffee.”

  “Good,” Gabe says.

  “Lizzie was just telling me a
bout her new best friend and her three boyfriends,” Rafe says.

  At Gabe’s skeptical and somewhat disgusted look, I feel the need to defend Savanna. Even if I don’t really understand it, myself.

  “It’s not like she’s juggling three guys who don’t know about each other,” I say. “They’re brothers. Triplets, actually, and they talked her into the relationship.”

  I flinch, not sure why I felt the need to share so much information. It’s not like I’ll ever see them again. This is just a random stop at a random coffee shop.

  “Triplets, huh?” Gabe asks. “Are they like us?”

  I look at him for a second, unsure of what he’s asking. Like them, how? Insanely hot, if somewhat standoffish?

  “Yeah,” Rafe says before I can answer. “She said they’re Alts.”

  “Maybe they’re persuading her to be with them,” Gabe grits out, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

  “Ew, no,” I say. “The Pattons love Savanna and she loves them. It’s strange, but it works for them. Besides, they can’t persuade her. She’s an Alt, too.”

  Gabe’s face relaxes, and it dawns on me that he was seriously pissed at the idea of the brothers persuading Savanna to be with them. Interesting.

  I shake myself, wondering again how this conversation with two strangers got so personal, so fast. Maybe baristas are like bartenders, there to listen to all your problems and secrets and offer advice. Maybe they could offer me some words of wisdom about my emerging feelings for the Madsen twins.

  I brush the thought away as soon as it crosses my mind. It’s ridiculous, really. I can’t talk to two hot strangers about my feelings for another two hot boys who are practically strangers.

  What has my life become?

  “I gotta go,” I say, setting the mug on the counter. “Thanks for the coffee and it was nice meeting you both.”

  “It was nice meeting you, Lizzie Williams,” Rafe says.

  “Yeah, thanks for coming in,” Gabe adds. “We appreciate your business.”

  The bell over the door jingles as I beat a hasty retreat toward the parking lot. Pressing the button on my key fob, I unlock the doors of my car and slide in behind the wheel. I take a few deep breaths before cranking the car.