Guardian
by
A.J. Messenger
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Cover images credit:
Atorn Buaksantiah | Dreamstime.com
Leigh Prather | Dreamstime.com
Copyright © 2014 by L.M. Perkel
Copyright © 2016 Fallen by L.M. Perkel
All rights reserved.
Table of Contents
Epigraph
Preface
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Reader’s Note
Books by A.J. Messenger
Excerpt from Fallen (Book Two in the Guardian Series)
“There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
-William Shakespeare, Hamlet
Preface
This can’t be. It can’t.
“Please don’t go,” I implore, choking back tears. “You can’t die. You can’t. Please, no.”
If he hears my cries there’s no sign.
It’s my fault. My. Fault. The searing pain in my chest drives me to beg to be taken instead. Let it be me. Not him. Please, not him.
Was it really only months ago that I remained blind to the evil around us? The evil that did this? I can’t bring myself to wish that I could go back. To the person I was. To the time before I met Alexander …
Only now I realize I’ll never be safe.
Now I know I’m next.
Chapter One
I can’t breathe.
I’m in the bathroom again grasping both sides of the sink and struggling to pull air into the crushing hollow where my lungs should be. Sweat forms rivulets along my brow, tickling past my ears and down my neck, disappearing into my cleavage. My heart hammers to the beat of a single thought: I need to lie down. Now.
Or I am going to die.
I know it’s a panic attack, okay? Or an anxiety attack, or whatever my mom or the therapist she sends me to calls it. But none of that matters because my heart is pumping hard enough to punch a hole through my chest. Knowing it’s all in my head only makes it worse.
I would give my kingdom for a bench to lie down on right now. The toilets in here don’t even have lids to sit on. I hold out my hand, shaking, under the faucet and push down hard on the “water-saver” knob with the other, but nothing comes out. Thanks, San Mar High—way to kick a girl when she’s down.
I try two more sinks until I find a working tap so I can splash my face. Oh thank God, the coolness helps. I rub water feverishly over my forehead and cheeks as I gulp in air and let it out raggedly several times. As my heart begins to calm, I slowly slide my hands down my face and peer out between my fingers into the broken mirror above the sink. Pale skin and stark blue eyes stare back. My light brown hair (“dirty blonde” as my mom always calls it—the least-attractive-sounding hair color ever) is now wet around my brow and in complete disarray. I drop my hands and continue to stare at my reflection.
Stop being such a wuss, Declan. You’re officially an adult now, so pull up your big girl pants and get back to class.
Insulting myself somehow makes me laugh a little… or keeps me from crying at least. I take another deep breath and stretch off the black ponytail holder on my wrist so I can tie back the long, wet strands plastered to my cheeks. As I maneuver my hair into place, I can’t help but sigh. I thought senior year would be different.
Actually, that’s a lie.
I held a childish, secret hope that I had only 18-years-worth of anxiety in me and then it would stop. Just like that. It was magical thinking mixed with a giant dollop of desperation. My birthday today proves how idiotic it was. Why would this year be different than all the others? I’m still the same old malfunctioning freak as before. Nothing has changed.
Maybe it’s good to be starting school again. The summer was long and unusually hot for the Northern California coast, making our whole town crankier than a beach community has any right to be. And although the crowds that descend on San Mar have always attracted a certain level of crime, we had far more trouble this year than usual. I think everybody was ready for the tourists to pack up and take the heat—and the criminals—with them. Mostly though, I’m looking forward to getting through senior year at San Mar High and moving on. Right now I’m a small fish in a small pond. I’m looking forward to having a larger ocean to hide in.
I turn to the full-length mirror on the wall and inhale deeply and let it out in a long, slow breath. My heart has descended back into my chest and is beating almost normally. I smooth my hands over my crisp, pale blue cotton top and discover wet spots down the front from the water I splashed wildly all over my face. Great. Nice job, Declan. I punch the large silver button on the ancient hand-dryer jutting out from the wall and bend down to stretch my shirt underneath the hot air. After a few cycles, my ears plead with me to stop so I straighten the fabric as best I can and turn back to the mirror to try to make myself presentable. My jeans are worn and supposedly lucky because prior to today I never had a panic attack in them (so much for that theory), but my shirt is new. I bought it during a rare mini shopping spree with money I made working at Jack’s Burger Shack (Home of the Famous Hula Burger!) over the summer. It’s nothing fancy—every dime goes to my college fund so H&M is pretty much the top of my budget—but it’s a cute top with cap sleeves and white stitching along the edges and, most surprisingly, it’s sized perfectly for my five foot, one inch frame. Finding decent petite clothes within my budget is usually impossible. I once bought a tank dress in the children’s section out of desperation.
The clock on the wall says I can’t avoid going back to class any longer. I bend down and adjust one of my sandal straps, let out a deep sigh, and push open the door to join the throngs of other students heading in all directions in the hallway.
I’m relieved to see Finn and Liz standing outside homeroom. Their heads are bowed over Liz’s notebook and Finn’s floppy brown hair is obscuring his boyish face. Liz and I already compared schedules so I know we have most of our classes together. As I walk closer, Finn looks up and waves when he sees me.
Finn and I have been best friends since the first day we met in pre-K. A cute little beagle puppy wandered onto the school playground with its head stuck in an old twelve-pack box and all the kids were laughing. Finn and I were the only ones who ran over and helped the poor little guy. When we released him, he didn’t dart away like we expected. Instead he licked our faces apprecia
tively and rolled onto his back so we could rub his tummy. We made a pact right then and there that one of us would somehow adopt him. Finn’s mom arrived first for pickup and he managed to convince her to take the puppy home. They posted signs everywhere to try to find his owner but no one came forward so Finn got to keep him. He named him “Zeno” after one of his favorite philosophers.
Even if we hadn’t rescued Zeno that day, it would have been a curious meeting because I felt a level of ease around Finn that I’ve never experienced with anyone else. Years later, I realized it’s because Finn is so honest. I always know where he stands, with no hidden motives. He has Asperger’s and his thoughts drop out like gumballs. Lying doesn’t make sense to him—even little white ones. I remember asking him in first grade what he thought of a drawing I did of my cat, Willow. Without hesitating, he said it looked more like a badger and I needed to work on my fine motor skills. I crumpled up the paper and threw it in his confused face before stomping off, but while I was sulking it occurred to me that he was the only one being straight with me. Teachers and parents always cooed “Great job!” or “It’s beautiful!” no matter what my drawings looked like. If I wanted the unvarnished truth, I could ask Finn. Most people don’t understand and they think he’s rude, but I think he’s pure. Life would be a lot easier to navigate, in my opinion, if everyone practiced gumball honesty.
“Hey Dec, Happy Birthday,” says Finn as I join them.
“That’s right,” chimes in Liz. “Today it’s official. Nicely done, by the way, making your birthday land on the first day of school.”
“Yeah, you like that? I wanted to be sure to suck all the fun out of it.”
Liz smiles. “Well eighteen is big. What are all the things you can do now that you couldn’t do before?”
“What do you mean? Like vote?”
“Yeah, or gamble,” she says.
Finn shakes his head. “It’s 21 in Vegas. But you can be incarcerated now in an adult penitentiary.”
I flash him a look that says “very funny.”
Finn just smiles and shrugs. “I have two classes with you guys. In the morning,” he says as he holds up Liz’s schedule. He has a special deal where he leaves most afternoons to take classes at UCSM (the University of California, San Mar) because he passed every high school math and science requirement years ago.
“They may be the last two classes we’ll ever have together,” says Liz. “In exactly ten months we’ll finally be saying goodbye to this place—and all the asshats in it—for good. Hard to believe.” She’s wearing skinny jeans and an Avett Brothers t-shirt from the concert we went to over the summer. Her dark hair is in two low pigtails with a hot pink streak across her bangs. Liz moved to San Mar in sixth grade and even though she probably could have fit in wherever she wanted, for some reason she chose to fit with Finn and me. I liked her even before I saw her stand up to Molly Bing on her first day at Mission Middle. Molly marched over and ordered Liz to move because she unknowingly sat at Molly’s regular lunch table. Liz just calmly looked Molly up and down and said, “Ken’s waiting for you at another table, Malibu.”
The nickname “Malibu Barbie” was born and it stuck. People still use it interchangeably with Molly’s original moniker, “Queen B.” Finn and I joined Liz for lunch that day and the three of us have been inseparable ever since. She gets Finn, like I do.
Liz’s expression changes when she notices my hair is damp. “Hey, you okay?” She reaches over to tidy a loose strand around my face.
“Yeah, just another one of my ‘you-know-what’s,” I say, trying to make light of it. “I was in homeroom early and suddenly I had to get out. No idea why. First day back maybe.”
Liz peeks around the doorjamb into the class and leans back out again. “Well I have an idea why: Queen B’s in there. She’d make anyone want to bolt out of a room.”
I smile half-heartedly. “If only it was that simple.”
Finn reaches over and squeezes my hand. The first time he ever saw me having a panic attack we were just kids. He paced nervously back and forth, tapping his hand to his chest, because it upset him to see me hurting and he didn’t know what to do. My mom suggested I tell him how he could help so I asked if he wouldn’t mind holding my hand whenever it happened, to let me know it’s going to be okay. He’s been doing it for me ever since. I squeeze back and smile before we let go.
“You know, speaking from a strictly scientific standpoint, Molly should be a very happy, friendly person,” says Finn. “Studies have shown that when your looks conform to universal beauty standards you gain advantages in every area of life.”
“Yeah right, Finn,” Liz says with a laugh. “Go tell her she should stop being such a royal be-otch because her face is symmetrical.”
The final bell rings and the three of us file into homeroom and sit down in the only row with empty seats, up front.
Mr. Brody walks in after us but my eyes are drawn to the new student that follows behind him. Tall, with tousled, dark-chocolate colored hair, he radiates a bright intensity that hits me like a physical vibration. His hands are partly in his pockets, pushing his jeans low on his hips, and his t-shirt hugs his broad shoulders, revealing tan, muscular arms. Everything about him trumpets health and the outdoors. His deep green eyes scan the room with an open, easy confidence as he strides in my direction. I realize too late that I’m staring at him like a dumbstruck fool and I flush crimson as he sits down in the empty seat next to me. His eyes meet mine for an instant and a smile forms at the corners of his mouth before he turns to face forward. Oh God, he saw me gawking. I look down and try to melt into the floor and disappear.
I peek around and see that I’m not the only one taking notice. Everyone is focused intently on our new arrival. He must sense all those pairs of eyes boring into the back of his head. Strangely though, he doesn’t seem at all affected. He’s exuding a relaxed calm that flows over me in waves, spiriting away all remnants of my crippling anxiety from earlier. I know it’s crazy to think the feeling is coming from him but whatever it is I don’t want it to end—I’ve never felt anything so soothing. I’m probably just lightheaded. I was in my usual rush and missed breakfast this morning. I’ll have to remember to eat the granola bar I stuffed in my backpack.
Mr. Brody welcomes everyone and opens with a joke about us finally becoming seniors when he’s interrupted by a loud burst of static from our ancient P.A. system followed by a number of unintelligible announcements. When the broadcast finally stops, he takes roll and I pay close attention as he makes his way through the alphabetical list in his hand. When he calls out “Declan Jane,” Liz has to kick my foot under the desk because I’m so focused on listening for the name of our new student. As he reaches the end of the list, Mr. Brody pauses and lifts a pink slip off his desk and copies something from it in pen at the bottom of the roster. Finally he looks up again and says, “Alexander Ronin?”
“Present,” a deep, accented voice answers from beside me.
Chapter Two
“Oh my God, don’t you just love his accent?” Molly’s shrill voice echoes off the tile as she and her sidekicks enter the bathroom.
“Is he British?” asks her friend Suzie.
“He’s Australian, you moron,” says Molly.
“Well whatever he is, he’s hot,” replies Becca. They all giggle.
Lunch period just started and I’m in the last stall by the window. I contemplate waiting until they leave before coming out but I decide I’m being ridiculous. I want to meet up with Liz and Finn and I have a feeling Molly and her minions are going to be fawning over mystery man Alexander for a while. As I open the stall door and walk over to the sink, all talking ceases, accompanied by accusing stares as if I’m interrupting a private business meeting.
“Hi, Molly. Ladies,” I say with a smile and a nod to each, trying to take the high road. I can’t believe Finn and I used to be friends with this mean-girl poster child when we were kids. Molly musters a forced grin that almost makes
me laugh out loud because it’s accompanied by the stink eye that she usually reserves for me. An uncomfortable eternity passes as I wash my hands in silence. Before leaving, I force myself to casually apply my Dr. Pepper Lip Smacker lip gloss (a vestige from childhood, what can I say?). I don’t want Molly to know she intimidates me. Finally, with a tickle of panic rising in my chest, I walk out with a giant sigh of relief and head to the quad.
“Sooo … what do you think of our new student?” asks Liz.
“Who do you mean?” I know she must be talking about Alexander but new students arrive in San Mar all the time because university professors often come and go with their families.
“C’mon, Declan.” She isn’t buying my coyness. “Alexander Ronin? Mr. Australia? The Aussie Adonis? Any of these jolt the Jane memory banks?”
I laugh. “He’s pretty cute. Obviously.”
“Judging by the fact that every girl in school is falling to pieces just mentioning his name, I’d say he’s more than cute. And as soon as he opens his mouth that accent of his seals the deal. But I’ve never been intimidated by a pretty face so I talked to him.”
“He talked to us,” corrects Finn, “and you’ve never been intimidated by anything.”
Liz smiles. “That’s true. But I would have talked to him if he hadn’t come over on his own. I wanted to meet him before Molly Bing could go all ‘welcome wagon’ crazy as class president and tell him all the wrong things about this place. Anyway, Declan, I found out he’s not just hot, he’s also nice. Like, surprisingly, disarmingly nice. And he asked about you.”
“It must be hard moving to a new ... wait … what did you say?”
“He asked about you. His grandfather is a visiting professor at UCSM and they just moved here from Sydney. They’re renting a house on your street actually—the one on the corner.”
“On my street? What did he say about me?” Please tell me it’s not about me staring at him like an idiot.
Guardian (The Guardian Series Book 1) Page 1