I watch him for what could be anywhere from thirty seconds to a solid five minutes for how keyed up I am. Then I take a deep breath, gather my nerve, and press my palms to the back of those sinful hands.
Charade’s fingers are cool under mine, his knuckles sharp hills in my grasp. It doesn’t take long for the pounding of his pulse to become one with mine or our breathing to sync.
Then it’s not his pulse; it thrums and dances beneath my skin. Vital, vibrant, a rhythm all its own.
Energy.
A hot sensation like the white intensity of the sun burns a path up my arms, through my chest—my heart—and into my brain. It is fire and life, and I don’t think I’ll survive as it strips away my mental and physical defenses like a cleaver throughcake. Pastel gray dots fill my vision. I swallow against the rising of my stomach, the roiling sickness there.
Don’t pass out.
Would it be worse to pass out in front of Charade or vomit on him?
The sickness eases as my vision clears. I open my eyes and I’m standing in the courtyard of a college campus unlike any I have ever seen. Every building in sight is made from slate and beige cobblestones. Stone paths crisscross through lush, verdant grounds lit with sunshine like it’s the promised land. Every single person walking around looks like they could be an H&M model.
“What version of Hell have I walked into?”
No one looks in my direction.
Out of nowhere, headlight bare down on me, the squeal of brakes cutting through the cacophony. I dive for the green and roll to a stop beside the gray Mercedes that tried to run me over. Cursing, I brush at my clothes, but there’s nothing on them. The grass I landed on isn’t even bent out of shape.
A horn blares out from the now parked car somewhere behind me. I give the asshole my coldest glare as I stalk to the driver’s side window.
“Charade?”
He looks so young, maybe eighteen or nineteen. The smile on his face comes easy as his eyes train on the building in front of him. A girl races out the doors, almost skipping in her joy. She smells like spring, soft floral and dew. It trails after her lovingly on the breeze.
Moira.
The name springs to my mind unbidden, but it feels right. A ghost of warmth follows the realization, speaking of things I have no right or reason to know about. Sunny afternoon picnics in the park. Romantic rendezvous in the stacks ofthe university’s massive library. Pretending to study if anyone passed them by.
She’s a beam of sunshine with long blonde hair bouncing wildly, a cream romper with yellow flowers on it skimming the tops of her thighs and a jewel-toned jacket covering her shoulders. She jets into the front passenger seat. I hesitate only a second before slipping into the car with them.
Charade peels out, leaving a dark trail on the road behind us. Moira howls with joy while I grit my teeth and clutch at Charade’s headrest. He doesn’t slow until the campus is just a speck in his overpriced rearview mirror.
“I can’t believe you made it!” Moira’s voice is high-pitched and soft, but full of energy. “Reina has been taking bets—don’t laugh! She has a point. You’ve stood me up for five dates in the last two weeks. You’re lucky I love you.”
“I love you too. And I’m sorry.” His hands tighten on the wheel. “Work has been intense. I slept at the office a few times, but my partner and I have been making so much progress in our research. I think we’re going to be able to help a lot of people very soon.”
“Your partner wouldn’t happen to be an attractive lady scientist, would they?” she jokes. I roll my eyes at the hint of insecurity in the question.
“I’ve worked with plenty of women on projects in the past and I’ll do it again,” he reminds her. “The only thing we share is a love of discovery and innovation. You have nothing to worry about—I loveyou.Besides, I’ve told you about C before.”
C. As in the creepy message sending, carrot in the windpipe, enemy of my enemy C? That C?
“I remember, I just…” Her smile flashes, pearly white and full of apology. “I guess I’m just stressed. Did I tell you about?—”
My attention drifts from the conversations as they discuss Moira’s last semester and the gap year she’s debating takingbefore master’s program begins. Scooting to the middle seat, I get a better look at Charade’s face. His eyes crinkle when he laughs. Warm, brown eyes that lighten to honey starburst in the center. Even though his gaze never leaves the road he’s engaged and listening intently to Moira’s stories, laughing in all the right places, asking all the right questions.
“There’s something I have been meaning to tell you.” My attention focuses back in on the girl. Her expression floats somewhere between excitement and nausea. Her breathing shallows, her hands trembling as she tucks her hair behind her ear.
A sharp trill breaks the conversation and her expression falls. The sound rings out three more times in the thirty second it takes Charade to find a safe place to park the car. We’re about half of a mile away from The Skyway, a stretch of Highway 12 that connects the suburbs just outside East New Malcolm to downtown. The infamous bridge that inspired the name is resplendent just beyond the windshield.
“Hello?” He listens for a few seconds, rolling his eyes for Moira’s benefit. “Okay. Yes, Mr. Raskin, I’ll check it out, but I’m sure it’s fine. No, that won’t be necessary. Yes.” He listens again for another few impatient seconds. “Okay. Thanks again, Mr. Raskin.”
He deposits the device into a cupholder, glancing at the traffic over his shoulder before changing lanes. “We have to make a detour, okay? I’m sorry.”
He squeezes her hand lightly, taking his hand off the steering wheel for the briefest second. For as willing as he was to speed earlier, he is oddly attached to ten and two. “Just a quick stop, I promise. You remember Mr. Raskin?”
