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I sift through them. They whisper as I push them around. There are guidelines for this, but I always tweak them. Fuck the rules. Where I am, they don’t apply.
I gather the ones I need into a pile, then put the cap back on. I store the container back inside the cabinet and repeat the process eleven more times.
Then I close the cabinet doors, leaving most of their contents untouched. Those things I will need later, if it gets that far.
Three more minutes in the small room, one long gulp of soothing water and a splash on my hot face, and I’m back in my bedroom.
I rub a hand through my hair, run my fingers over my brows, where want of sleep already tugs at me. Then I hurry down the stairs.
I’ve got an eighth of an ounce in a vacuum-sealed bag under the sink. I toss that into my messenger bag, grab the books and notebooks I need, and let a deep breath out as I shut the door behind me.
Next time I’m here, I won’t be alone. If I play my cards right, I might never be alone again.
Three sharp raps jerk me out of sleep. I shoot up, slamming my forehead against the underside of the study table that dominates my little library room.
It’s the same room I was in with Kellan Walsh, so the first thing I think about after my eyes focus on the green cinderblock wall and my palms flatten out on the rough, industrial carpet, is the feeling of him driving into me. For a heart-racing second, I’m immobilized. Lust is the brightest color mixing on my mind’s easel.
Fear becomes brighter. On the other side of the door, I envision furious police, a snarling drug dog, my mother’s devastated face, a gossipy library monitor who somehow saw Kellan and me fucking like animals on a hidden camera...
I scramble out from under the table and straighten with a wince. I’m dizzier than a kid at a carnival, and my mouth is painfully dry. My hands shake as I try to right my twisted leggings, tug down my rumpled Smuffins shirt, and straighten the big, black shawl that’s doubled as my blanket. I’m not wearing a bra.
I grit my teeth as The Man knocks again. “Just a second, please!”
My Vera Bradley overnight bag sits, unzipped and barfing up my favorite outfits, on the padded bench where Kellan had me in his lap last night. Beside it is my book bag, crammed with my laptop, day planner, and text books. I wrangle with the overnight bag until it’s zipped, tug the shawl away from my body with a prayer that my nipples aren’t hard, and drag my tangled hair into the rubber band around my wrist. I take a shallow breath and pull the door open.
When I see Kellan, my stomach somersaults. He’s wearing a blue and white gingham button-up with a pair of straight-front khakis that look like they were made for his trim hips and long, strong legs. His blond hair looks a little messy and a lot soft. His stubble-shadowed jaw and the gorgeous planes of his face remind me why he has his way with so many girls.
But it’s his eyes that drop an anchor to my soul. Something about the way they fix on my face. There’s concern there, born not of alarm but interest. It makes his gaze soft.
For an intoxicating moment, I wonder what it would be like to be cared for by him. But that fades as I remind myself I’m being unrealistic. Fantasizing. I have the desire to be cared for in this silly, over-the-top, romance novel sort of way... But the guy standing in front of me wants a sex deal. If there’s a real person somewhere underneath his sharp clothes and Spartan body, I’ll never know it.
He makes my panties wet and—yes—he piques my curiosity, but so what?
I break my gaze away from his and cast it down to the grease-stained paper bag he’s holding. Is that for me?
He doesn’t notice me eyeing the bag. He’s too busy noticing my situation. His eyes trail up and down my sore body, checking me out. When they meet mine, they are wide with incredulity.
“You slept here.”
I clamp my teeth down on my lip and let my eyes wander to his shoes. What do I say to him?
“What happened?”
I look from his shoes to my socked feet. There’s a hole above my right foot’s pinkie toe. “Milasy... found the brick.”
In the thick silence that follows, I focus on the motion of my ribcage, moving much more gently than my frenzied mind.
When I get the nerve to look back up, I find his fingers curled around the door frame. “Did you tell her where you got it?”
“No. Of course not.” I wrap my arms around myself. “I’d never do that.”
His shoulders slacken. His face relaxes as he steps toward me. I take a step back into the room, allowing him to fill it up. His husky voice says, “That’s good, Cleo.”
He’s so wide, so tall—and I can smell him. Shaving cream and something earthy; spicy; rich; the way I imagine “warm” should smell. The back of his hand comes up to brush my cheek. “You slept on the floor.” I feel myself flush as his fingers trace the little pock marks the carpet made on my cheek.
“Cleo,” he says, low and taut. His eyes press mine. “You should have called.”
I draw my face away from his hand. Not just because his fingers are making me dizzy, but because there’s something in the tenor of his voice that strikes a painful chord inside my chest. “You’re not my superhero, Kellan.”
