Page 13 of Blacklist

“Where are your shoes?” he barks as we reach the street that leads toward the dormitory parking.

“They were ruined.” Someone else answers. I don’t recognize my own voice.

He stops and opens his mouth, probably to lecture me on how stupid and frivolous throwing away a pair of shoes is, but he doesn’t speak. He studies me for a moment, his face unreadable. What had he said about not being able to read a book? He was right. He’s written in a language I don’t speak. So I don’t expect it when he sweeps me off the ground and into his arms.

6

Sterling

“Put me down!” Her fists beat my back and I have to twist to avoid a well-aimed kick. She might be beautiful, but she’s hard to like.

“Stop that shit,” I order her, “or I’ll drop you.” I mean it, even if she feels good in my arms, like picking up sunshine—if sunshine had an attitude and too much to drink. This isn’t the time to think about that. This girl deserves to have her ass handed to her, or to have her ass meet the cold pavement, at least. Another time.

Earlier, she was being a bitch for no reason. She has a right to be one now. Cyrus told me about the call from her brother. I don’t know why I tagged along to find her or why I volunteered to drive her. That’s the hazard of staying sober, I’m always cleaning up messes. It’s how it was in New York. Why would Valmont be different?

“You shouldn’t have picked me up in the first place,” she argues, but she stops physically resisting me. Probably because she believes my threat.

Good. It’s fucking hot enough in Tennessee without fighting her. My t-shirt is already sticking to me like a second layer of skin. Her body pressing against mine isn’t helping. Another time, this might be romantic. Valmont is removed far enough from the city that the stars blink brightly overhead. Flowers perfume the muggy air. I dare a glance at the girl in my arms. She’s tucked her chin against her chest. I can’t see her eyes. Is she crying? She seemed tough earlier, but she’s not standing up to a stranger now. She’s facing most people’s worst nightmare. I want to tell her that she’ll survive it, even if she might not want to, but I keep silent instead. She doesn’t care what I think and tonight? She’s not going to be okay tonight.

I continue to carry her, knowing I’m way out of my league with this situation. I don’t know this girl, let alone this city. Why had I volunteered to drive her? I don’t know where I’m going—where the hospital is. Cyrus said they took her parents to Davidson County General. Hopefully, my piece of shit phone can pull up a map. Francie insisted I have a new one before I left but all we could afford was the free option, which is not what anyone would consider new. Now I’m supposed to drive the princess to who-the-fuck-knows-where with it as my guide. We reach the parking lot and I realize I have a bigger, more immediate problem. I have no clue what Cyrus drives. I fumble the key fob, trying to see it in the dark without losing my grip on her and start randomly pressing buttons until a car alarm goes off.

No fucking way. I can’t believe anyone in his right mind would give me the keys to that. Then again, all evidence up to this point suggests these people have more money than sense.

She doesn’t comment on my method or that it takes me a couple tries to silence the alarm. She doesn’t even say anything as I drop her into the passenger seat. Instead, she curls into a ball, tucking her knees against her chest. She doesn’t buckle up and I’m not about to fight her on it. Circling around the car, I allow myself a split second to appreciate it: a Jaguar F-Type convertible. This car costs more than I’d make working full-time for five or six years. He had just thrown me keys to a hundred-thousand-dollar sports car without a second thought.

Sliding into the leather seat, I discover there’s no ignition. I flip on an overhead light and glare at the steering column, but there’s definitely nowhere for a key. I feel her green eyes watching me, still not saying anything. After a second, she leans over to press a button. Her breasts brush my arm sending a jolt of electricity to my dick as the engine roars to life.

“No one drives in New York,” I grumble. I don’t know what bothers me more: that she had to help me or that my pants are suddenly too tight.

She doesn’t respond, and I wonder if I accidentally tripped her mute button.

“I’m just pulling up a map,” I explain as I google the hospital. I have no idea why I’m giving her a play-by-play. Maybe because each second that passes in silence is worse than the last. I’m probably the last person she wants around right now. I sure as hell don’t want to spend my night like this, but what am I supposed to do? When that girl tracked down Cyrus she was having a full-blown meltdown, and she couldn’t find Adair.

That’s her name—the girl next to me. The reason I went to the party. The reason I was about to leave the party. I only know it because shit got real. No one questioned me when I told them I’d watched her run out of the house. I left out that she was running away from our argument, and when they went after her, I followed them out of some type of morbid obligation. Why? These people are complete strangers. So far the majority of them appear to be a special breed of asshole. Now I’m playing taxi cab to their Queen Bitch.

Because Francie would expect it from me, even a thousand miles from home. Even if Adair doesn’t deserve it.

The map finally loads, and I mutter a curse when it tells me we’re half an hour away. This is going to be a long night.

Adair stays quiet as we make our way off campus into the sleepy college town. Porch lights and street lamps illuminate pristine streets dotted by well-kept houses and picket fences. Flowers blossom in every yard. I’d bet money there’s a goddamn chicken in every pot. Even the smaller homes whisper privilege. Or maybe it’s so far outside my comfort zone that I can’t wrap my mind around it. In Queens, people live on top of one another. If you want to see grass you better head to Central Park. Even at this hour, New York is alive with people rushing to parties and jobs and home. Here? It feels like we’re the only two people in the world. We don’t see another car until we hit the highway.

She continues to watch out her window as I watch the clock. The benefit of the Jaguar is that it’s fast. In town, I felt like I’d put it on a leash and it was tugging for freedom. As soon as we hit the freeway, I press the gas and let it loose. I don’t have much experience driving. Hell, I don’t even have a license, but I’m pretty sure this is the vehicular equivalent of sex.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks so quietly that I almost don’t hear her over the beast of an engine.

“Your friends were drunk.” She can’t argue with that.

Still, she looks puzzled like this isn’t the answer she expected. A pained expression crosses her face, her freckled nose scrunching a little as she spits out two words. “Thank you.”

Forced gratitude. I don’t want it. She doesn’t want to give it. I grunt—an acknowledgment of our shared, if obligatory, social niceties. I hope she knows I’m not her knight in shining armor. Just like I know she’s no damsel in distress. Help is not salvation. I’m not saving her.

I keep my hands tight on the wheel. “I wasn’t drinking.”

I’m surprised when she doesn’t ask why.

“Neither was I,” she murmurs. She doesn’t volunteer more information.

Now I find myself wanting to ask her why. It feels like I’m trapped in a maze and every path I take is a dead end. We’re strangers. I can’t even call her a friend. I’d planned to talk to her. She’s the reason I’d gone to the party when Cyrus invited me. But my skin started crawling the second I walked inside the frat house. Someone pressed a Solo cup full of beer into my hand and…I’d lost it. I should have walked out the front door. Instead, I headed to the second floor.