Chris wanted to sit on the porch and feel the rain. But Michael would eventually come out and ruin
it, so he went back to his bedroom, where he could lock the door and sit by the window.
The heart of the storm was drawing closer, sending a strong breeze through the screen to ruffle
pages of the notebook sitting there. Nick had claimed the desk chair to prop his feet on the bed.
Gabriel was rolling a silver Zippo lighter across his knuckles, making it click every time it changed
direction. Chris leaned against his dresser and looked out the window, watching the lightning flash in
the distance.
Then he just waited.
"So she doesn't like rain," said Gabriel.
Nick smiled. "I kind of like the irony."
"Jesus, you are such a nerd." Gabriel flung the lighter at him. "Stop using big words."
"Five letters is a big word?"
Chris sighed. "No one likes rain."
"You do," said Nick. He flung the lighter back to his brother.
Gabriel caught it. "Maybe we should put some money on it, see how long it takes Chris to get her
wet."
Chris ignored the double entendre and glanced at the pile of makeup work still sitting on his desk.
"Could we maybe speed this up?" He could feel the rain pooling on his windowsill again. The red
tail sharks in his tank circled and chased, slicing through the water until the less aggressive ones hid
among the driftwood at the bottom.
Nick gave a low whistle. "Leave him alone, before the fish kill each other."
Chris gave a pointed look at the door. "Why don't you both leave me alone."
Gabriel laughed and made no move to leave. "You have got it bad for this girl."
Like that mattered. She'd been pretty clear where he stood. "Tyler shouldn't be hassling her."
"He'll back off," said Nick. "He'll realize she's got nothing to do with us."
"I don't know about that." Chris glanced at the fish. They helped him manage his temper—he didn't
like riling them. But they seemed to be settling. "He threatened her. He told her the deal is off."
Nick pulled his feet off the bed to sit up straight. "He said that?"
Chris nodded. "Well. She said he did."
Gabriel rolled the lighter across his knuckles again, slowly now. "Because of last night?"
Chris met his eyes, then shrugged.
He still didn't regret it.
"The deal can't be off," said Nicholas. "They can't just decide—"
"They can do whatever they want," said Chris, the words tasting bitter.
Nick stood. "We have to tell Michael. He'll—"
"He'll do nothing," said Gabriel. "Don't tell him."
His twin looked at him like he was nuts. "Are you crazy? We have to—"
"No." Gabriel sat up, any trace of humor gone from his expression. Thunder rolled in the air
outside. "You saw him last night. He doesn't give a crap what they do. All he cares about is letting
them have their way."
"So what do we do?" said Chris. He thought about the way he'd felt the water freeze into Tyler's
skin. That had been a good storm. A powerful one. He wondered how much damage he could do if he
practiced.
The thought scared him, a little. But it comforted him, too.
"Tyler says the deal is off." Gabriel flipped the lighter in the air and snapped it, lighting it as it
spun. The flame danced between his fingers. "He's not going to hold to it. Right?"
"Don't be stupid," said Nick. He knew his twin.
Chris knew him, too. But he liked the note of danger in Gabriel's voice, the promise. It reminded
him of that moment of solidarity last night. "Right ... ?"
Gabriel smiled. "That means we aren't held to it, either."
Her mom was working the night shift again. The sheer irony was that any kid with a normal social
life would envy Becca's freedom.
Quinn was sitting in the kitchen, but schoolbooks were spread across the table tonight. She looked
up at Becca through a fall of blond hair. Her voice was small. "Hey. Your dad called again."
Swell. Becca hung her jacket in the hall. "What, you'll speak to me when you need a place to stay?"
"You're the one who didn't answer my texts."
"Maybe if you hadn't bolted from the lunch table, I could have mentioned that I broke my phone last
night."
Quinn didn't say anything for a long moment. Becca grabbed a soda from the fridge and swung into
a chair. She glanced down at the notebook on the table. Quinn was struggling with Trigonometry.
"So you want me to leave?" said Quinn.
Becca rolled her eyes and popped the can. The storm seemed to be sticking around—thunder still
boomed every few minutes and lightning threw silhouettes against the glass. "You are such a drama
queen."
Quinn flung her textbook closed. "Well, at least it's better than being a liar."
Becca sat up straight. "A liar? What the hell did I lie about?"
"Self-defense class? You could have just told me you were sleeping with Chris Merrick."
"Who said—wait—what the—are you crazy?" Becca couldn't string a sentence together. "You
think I'm sleeping with him? Why on earth would you think that?"
"Gee, I don't know." Her voice dropped to a mocking baritone. "I'm just here to thank Becca for
last night."
Becca stared at her, unsure whether to laugh or cry. "Quinn—"
"You could have told me, you know." Quinn doodled on the margin of her notebook. "I didn't even
know you liked him, Bex... . I mean, after all the stuff with Drew—"
"I did go to self-defense class. And I didn't sleep with Chris." Becca paused, waiting for Quinn to
look up. "When I came out, Seth Ramsey and some college guy were beating the crap out of him in the
parking lot."
"Why?"
The question made her stop. It was a good one. "I don't know. But I chased them off with the car."
She told Quinn everything, including what had happened in the pet store and her visit to the Merrick
house.
"You should call the cops," Quinn said.
"And tell them what? I don't even know Tyler's last name."
"You know Seth's." Quinn's voice was careful.
"I'd rather not get involved, Quinn."
"Bex—"
"Leave it." Becca glared at her.
Quinn rocked back in her chair. "So you aren't interested in Chris?"
"Please. He doesn't really want to go out with me."
"I think the sixty-dollar thing is kind of adorable." Quinn chewed on the end of her pencil and
glanced up.
Becca groaned. "You're not helping."
"I'm just saying—maybe people are over the Drew thing."
"Tommy Dunleavy's note today asked me if I give a happy ending."
Quinn winced. "Okay, maybe some people are over the Drew thing."
Becca replayed her comments to Chris, the way she'd lashed out at him over the lunch table. She
frowned, but then scowled. "Still. A soccer game? That can't be a coincidence."
"Yeah, well." Quinn flipped the textbook open, her eyebrows raised. "Guess you'll never know
now."
"You suck." Becca grinned and shoved her notebook at her.
Then Quinn shoved it back, a little more pointedly. She tapped her pen where a number was
scrawled. "You going to call your dad or what? I can only be a bitch for so long."
"You sure about that?"
Quinn made a face. "You know, that's a local number."
Becca stared. She hadn't noticed. Did that mean he was in town?
Did it matter?
Becca tore the piece of paper from the notebook.
Then, just like last night, she crumpled it up, shoved it in the trash, and carried it out to the curb.
CHAPTER 9
By Friday, Chris still looked like crap, and Becca wanted to call him on it. But in third-period
English Lit, he sat across the room and didn't make eye contact once.
Fine.
She must have beaten Chris to World History, because New Kid was sitting in the same seat as the
day before—Chris's usual spot. He'd paired a rust-colored tee shirt with dark jeans and black Vans
today. Average, nothing-special clothes that looked striking and exotic just because he was wearing
them.
Monica Lawrence was sitting at the desk next to him, leaning into him, giggling at something he'd
said. She called Tommy Dunleavy her boyfriend, but you wouldn't know it from the way she was
putting her assets front and center.
Not that New Kid seemed to mind.
Guess he doesn't need the dog to pick up chicks after all.
Becca swung her bag higher on her shoulder and moved down the aisle to her seat, carefully
avoiding Monica's eyes.
New Kid looked up when she passed. "Hey—"
"Ohmigod, no," said Monica. Her manicured hand latched onto his arm and a spill of blond hair
pooled on his desk. Her boobs were going to explode from the neckline of her shirt in a minute.
Then she leaned in close and whispered into his ear, breaking off to glance at Becca more than
once.
Yup, that had lasted about five minutes.
"Grow up," Becca muttered. She dropped into her chair, busying herself with pulling a textbook
from her backpack, finding a pen, and establishing the mental fortitude for the abuse that would start
when Tommy sat down.
"Hey."
It was Chris Merrick's voice, his tone almost aggressive—and so startling that she jerked her head
up, sure he was talking to her.
But he was standing next to New Kid, a hand braced on the nylon strap of his backpack. "You're in
my seat."
New Kid lifted his head, a slow, deliberate movement. Becca watched him size up Chris—but his
eyes widened fractionally when they got to Chris's face. The bruising along his cheekbone and jaw
had lightened, turning a mottled yellowish blue. His lip was healing, but you could still see a split.
Monica was staring, her lips slightly parted. "What happened?" she said, her voice soft with awe.
"Wow. Yeah." New Kid settled back in his chair—a clear refusal to move. One eyebrow lifted,
and his voice was dry. "Someone sit in your seat?"
Monica snorted with laughter and giggled behind her hand.
Chris leaned down, his blue eyes dark, like the ocean at night. The bag slipped off his shoulder to
hit the floor.
Mr. Beamis chose that moment to step into the classroom. He cleared his throat. "Mr. Merrick. I
presume you're welcoming our new student?"
Chris put a hand on New Kid's desk. "Welcome. Move."
"Keep moving, Mr. Merrick," said Beamis. His tone drew the attention of the rest of the class, and
conversation died. "There's a seat farther down. I suggest you find it."
Chris didn't move. Neither did New Kid.
Beamis dropped his briefcase on the top of his desk and snapped the latches. "Or would you prefer
to find a seat in the office?"
Half the class did that stupid "Oooh" thing. Then laughed. Chris grabbed his bag and sighed, then
walked six feet to drop into the next empty seat in the row.
Right next to Becca.
He didn't even glance at her, just pulled a textbook from his bag.
"That's Jocelyn Kanter's seat," she said under her breath. "You gonna make her fight you for it
later?"
He stopped, turned his head, and looked at her from under his bangs. "You too?"
"I'm not the one who picked a fight over a chair."
He looked away, so she did, too, staring down at the glossy pages of her textbook. From the corner
of her eye, she saw New Kid glance her way, but she kept her gaze down and flipped a page, not
wanting to make eye contact.
Furniture scraped along the tile floor. Students were moving desks, shifting the writing surfaces
together. Becca threw her head up. What had she missed?
They seemed to be turning six rows of desks into three. She started pushing her desk to the right,
watching the others to make sure she was following instructions she hadn't heard.
"What are we doing?" she whispered to Chris.
"Succumbing to the whims of a bitter old man." He shoved his desk the rest of the way, until it was
up against hers.
She sighed. "I meant—"
"Rewriting a peace treaty," he said. "Semester project."
Talk about a thrill-a-minute. "Why are we moving the desks?"
He snorted. "Who the hell knows. He probably read about this in a teachers' magazine."
"Quickly, everyone," said Beamis. "Quickly. Now that you're partnered, you will work together
over the next six weeks—"
The class erupted in groans, and several girls scrambled to change seats so they could be together.
She and Chris didn't move for the longest moment.
"Great," said Chris, his tone flat.
"Sorry," she snapped. "I'm sure you'd rather be with Monica."
But Monica looked all too pleased to be partnered with New Kid. Two rows over, Tommy was
fuming, sprawled in his chair, completely ignoring his partner Anthony Denton, the scrawny boy who
was two years younger than everyone else because he'd skipped a couple grades in elementary
school.
"Do you know the new guy?" said Chris. "He keeps looking at you."
She glanced up in surprise. New Kid was writing in his notebook, not looking anywhere near her.
Chris leaned in. "Earlier."
Becca looked down and doodled on the corner of her paper, feeling warm. Chris was so close, his
voice dark and intimate like it had been in his bedroom the night before.
Her tongue felt tied in knots, so she just shrugged. "Not really."
He went silent for a while, every now and again copying instructions from the assignment as
Beamis outlined the structure of the grading.
He kept his eyes on his paper and said, "Look. If you want to partner with someone else, I get it."
Did he not want to be with her? "It's fine," she said quickly. Then she added, "It's only six weeks."
He gave a short, humorless laugh. "I'll try to suffer through it, too."
She had no idea what that meant.
A folded piece of paper flew through the air and landed on the center of her book. She jumped.
Tommy Dunleavy was hiding a smirk. Her throat felt tight. Now? Really?
Chris reached out and grabbed it.
"No!" she hissed, trying to take it back. "Give that to—"
Then he had it open in front of him. With their seats so close together, she could read it over his
arm.
$5 Sucky sucky?
Gross. She snatched it out of his hands and crumpled it up.
Her cheeks burned. Her eyes weren't far behind. Seeing the notes privately was bad enough.
Having a guy like Chris Merrick read them—right in front of her—was a million times worse.
"Hey. Dunleavy." Chris's voice carried a shred of wicked humor.
Tommy looked over his shoulder. His eyes were amused, and a dark smile still hung on the edge of
his lips. He sat ready for his efforts to be appreciated. "Yeah?"
Chris took the crumpled ball of paper out of her hands and flung it. "Fuck off."
Tommy came halfway out of his seat, his hands balled into fists.
Chris came halfway out of his.
"Gentlemen!" Beamis was knocking on his desk, though Becca couldn't imagine what he expected
that to do. Chris hadn't moved farther; his glare locked on Tommy now.
The class sat frozen, Becca included.
"Christopher," said Mr. Beamis. "Take a visit to the office."
And though she was staring at him, Chris didn't look at her. He just shoved his books into his bag,
slung it over his shoulder, and strode out of the classroom.
"So let me get this straight," said Quinn, spinning her water bottle in her hands. The rain seemed to
be holding off, so they had the lunch table to themselves again. "He threw the note at Tommy and then
told him to fuck off? Or do I have it backwards?"
"I'm detecting some sarcasm."
"And then got himself sent to the principal's office because he was ready to defend your honor?"
"Quinn."
Her friend waved a hand. "No, I think you might be on to something. This is clearly an elaborate
plot to screw with you. He asks you out, he defends you from that meathead—what next?" Quinn's
eyes flashed wide in mock surprise. "Crap, Bex, do you think he'll do something truly horrible like
buy you flowers?"
Becca gave her a look. "So you think I should apologize."
"No. I think you should give him a shot." Quinn rolled her eyes and dropped her voice. "I think you
should give someone a shot."
Becca chewed on her lip and peeled at the label of her water bottle.
A shadow fell across the table and a lunch tray slapped down next to Quinn.
Becca jerked her head up, surprised by the quick flutter in her chest.
But it wasn't Chris—it was New Kid.
She stared up at him. It took her brain a second to get it together.
"Hey," he said, dropping onto the bench beside Quinn. "Why do you sit all the way back here?"
Quinn looked at him for a moment, then back at Becca. Her expression was some combination of
bemused and incredulous. "Did you save his life, too?"
New Kid picked up his fork and looked over. "Whose life did you save?"
Becca opened her mouth, then closed it. Her brain was refusing to engage. She couldn't figure out
how to play this without knowing what his motives were. The quick and easy intimacy of discussing
death in the aisle of Pets Plus didn't exist here—especially since she'd seen him sit head-to-head
with Monica for fifty minutes.
"Quinn's just being silly." She kept her voice disinterested. "You ... ah, you're eating with us?"
His whole tray was full of healthy food—grilled chicken, steamed vegetables, brown rice. No
wonder he'd gotten through the line so quickly. He went for the stuff most kids wouldn't touch.
He peeled the lid off something that looked like sliced fruit. "That all right?"
Quinn put an elbow on the table and gave him a level look. "She wants to know why."
He raised an eyebrow. "I'm hungry and I don't know anyone else?"
Becca wasn't going to buy any poor-little-new-kid crap now. "You seemed to be getting to know
Monica Lawrence pretty well."
He met her gaze head on, a spark of boldness in his green eyes. "Oh," he said, his voice flat. "You
mean instead of sitting here, I could hear all about Monica's badass cheer routine and where she gets
her highlights done and how some girl named Claire, who's a total whore by the way—"
"Okay, okay." Becca couldn't help the smile.
"No, wait. I'm just getting going." He sliced into his chicken.
"Claire is a total whore," said Quinn. "She and Monica sit behind me in Trig."
Becca watched New Kid work the cutlery. "Bet you wish you'd given up your seat now, huh?"
"Oh." Quinn settled back on the bench and gave him a more appraising look. "This is that guy."
He looked thrown for a second. "That guy?"
Quinn nodded. "Pet store hero, ex-police-dog owner, seat stealer."
Trust her best friend to be absolutely direct. Becca glanced away and tucked her hair behind her
ear. "I might have mentioned you."
"She spilled all your secrets," said Quinn.
"Yeah?" He sliced off a piece of chicken and glanced across the table. "What's my name, Becca?"
Busted. Becca wanted to melt into a puddle.
Quinn grinned. "You mean it's not really New Kid?"
Becca kicked her under the table. "That's not fair. I was wearing a name tag."
"It's Hunter." His fork went still as he held her eyes. "Want me to write it down?"
Yeah, with your number. Talking to him felt entirely different from sitting with Chris, exhilarating
and challenging and breathless all at once—like running a race.
"Nah, I've got it," she said.
He picked up a forkful of broccoli. "Was Chris the same one those guys were looking for last
night?"
She lost the smile. "Yeah."
"I shouldn't have been a dick about the seat. I didn't realize you'd get stuck with him."
There was a thread of disdain woven through his voice. She frowned. "He's okay."
"He looks like a thug."
"Those guys did that to him."
Hunter must have heard the tone in her voice, but he didn't back off. "Somehow I get the impression
it might have been deserved."
Becca stared at him for a moment, torn over whether to defend Chris. Hunter didn't help, either,
just looking at her across the table as if he could hear her thoughts fighting it out.
"What's with the white hair?" said Quinn.
He broke the eye contact with Becca and smiled at her friend. "I thought you knew all my secrets."
Now Quinn blushed.
His smile turned into a grin. He looked down at his tray and shoveled rice onto his fork. "You guys
hitting that party tonight?"
"Which one?" Becca said drily. "We try to make the circuit."
He smiled in a way that said he saw right through her. "Well—and I want to make sure I get this
straight—Monica said Claire said her boyfriend's best friend's brother was home from college with
that skank Melissa—"
"No," said Becca sharply. "We're not."
His eyebrows went up.
"Jesus," said Quinn. "You followed that?"
Becca faltered, knowing she sounded like a freak. But Claire's boyfriend was Matt Carpenter. The
goalie of the soccer team.
And Drew McKay's best friend.
"I might have to work," she said lamely. Her heart was kicking.
"I hear you," he said.
"You said you weren't working tonight," said Quinn. "Free and clear, you said."
Becca slapped her water bottle on the table. "Damn it, Quinn."
"Free and clear, huh?" Hunter said.
"Look," she said, hearing her voice come out choked. She had to clear her throat. "That party is
going to be at Drew McKay's house... ."
"Old boyfriend?"
"No."
"Yes," said Quinn. When Becca glared at her, she shrugged. "It's true."
His pierced eyebrow lifted. "Still carry a torch?"
"No," she snapped.
Hunter was just looking at her, his eyes bright and challenging again. Her breath caught. Forget
running a race—this felt like dancing.
"In or out?" he said.
All that air left her lungs in a rush. She stared right back at him.
"In."
Chris counted the rust-colored cinderblocks of the detention room. Twice.
When the bell rang, he scowled through the lecture about a next time and hustled up the stairs to the
front hall. Gabriel and Nick weren't exactly patient.
They weren't exactly there, either. The bench by the double doors sat empty.
Chris swore.
It was only three miles. He'd walked it before.
The last time sucked.
But Michael's work truck sat idling in the fire lane, a massive red pile of steel with their last name
on the door. The diesel engine roared over the extracurricular students spilling through the double
doors, a low thrum that moved the pavement.
Michael was working on something, his head bent over a notebook.
Chris was halfway through the crosswalk when Michael's voice caught him. "Don't screw with
me, Chris."
Whatever. Chris climbed into the cab and flung his backpack on the floorboards. The truck
perpetually smelled like mulch and grass clippings and always reminded him of his father.
He didn't look at his brother. "What are you doing here?"
Michael flipped the notebook closed and shoved it into the center console. "It seemed as good a
place as any to catch up on paperwork."
This would go on forever and a day if Chris let it. "Would you just say whatever you came to say?"
Michael waited for students to clear the road before pulling the truck away from the curb. "I think
you're the one who needs to do some talking."
Chris had no idea what that meant. Did Michael know about what Tyler had said? About the deal?
He kept his mouth shut.
Michael glanced over. "You picked a fight in class?"
Christ, this was worse. "The school called you?"
"No. I'm psychic. What the hell is wrong with you? First that crap with Seth and Tyler, and now
this?"
Chris felt his hands curl into fists. It wasn't like he'd laid a hand on Dunleavy—and that was the
rule. No contact, no parents. Now he wished he'd just slammed that stupid prick in the face. "I didn't
pick a fight."
"Chris—"
"I didn't."
Michael said nothing for the longest time, and Chris felt his hands start to unknot. He leaned back
against the headrest and stared out the window as the trees raced past.
"Then tell me," Michael said finally.
"They shouldn't have called you." Chris picked at the upholstery on the door. "I didn't even touch
him."
"Why don't you tell me what you did do?"
"I told him to fuck off." Chris sighed. "That's it."
"Wow, just like that. Middle of class. No provocation at all—"
"God, would you shut up? He was hassling someone, okay?" Chris expected that to launch a new
round of interrogation, but Michael looked back at the road and didn't say anything.
He was thinking, though. Chris could practically feel that.
Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. "All right, what?"
"Was this 'someone' a girl?"
This felt like a trap. Chris hesitated and decided not to say anything.
Michael glanced over. "Could it be the girl who dragged you home? The one who conveniently
showed up last night?"
Maybe his brother was psychic. "How the hell do you know that?"
"Because I'm not an idiot. I know you helped her get away from me that night."
Chris scowled and looked at the trees again.
"Stay away from her, Chris."
"Jesus, could you sound more dramatic? I already told you, she's got nothing to do with Tyler.
She's just a girl in my class."
"Average girls don't jump into the middle of a fight between three guys. Stay away from her."
Like it mattered. "Fine."
They drove in silence for a mile, both staring through the windshield at nothing.
"Look," said Michael, and his voice was low, quiet. "Even if she's an average girl—you don't
have the control for a relationship, Chris."
"I'm not in a relationship!" God, he should be so lucky. He'd give his left arm for someone outside
this family to talk to. Chris rounded on him. "Besides, don't you think maybe you should be having
this talk with Gabriel, who might actually be screwing half the cheer squad right now, or Nick, who
has to beat girls off with a stick?"
Michael hit the turn signal to pull into the driveway. The twins were tossing a basketball at the
hoop over the garage. "They don't worry me."
"Oh, but I do."
"Yeah." Michael glanced over. "You do. Emotion and elements—they're too closely tied, Chris.
Control—it can snap like that."
Chris sighed.
"Trust me," said Michael. "What if you hurt that girl? What if you—"
"What if I hurt her?" Chris swung his head around. "You're one to talk."
For an instant, he thought he'd pushed too far, that Michael would come after him the way he'd
gone after Gabriel.
But Michael just pulled the truck beside the garage and shifted into park, his jaw set, his hands tight
on the wheel.
Chris knew he should apologize. He didn't want to. "Look," said Michael, his voice rough. "Just
let this mess with Tyler and Seth blow over, and they'll leave you alone again—"
"Are you crazy?" Chris glared at him, the rage so pure he could barely speak around it. "Do you
know they tried to kill Gabriel? Seth had—he had his hands—he was going to—"
The cab door swung open. Gabriel stood there, a basketball under his arm.
He met Chris's eye, then glanced past him at Michael. "Still being a dick?"
"Shut up," said Michael. "Close the door."
"Chris—want to play?"
"We're talking," said Michael.
Chris grabbed his backpack and swung out of the cab. "No, we're not."
Then he slammed the door, flung his bag by the corner of the garage, and caught the ball Gabriel
passed him.
CHAPTER 10
Becca was standing in the kitchen when her mom came down at seven, wearing an old tee shirt and
threadbare sweatpants instead of her nursing scrubs.
Becca stared at her. "What are you doing?"
Her mom yawned and headed for the refrigerator. "There were too many nurses on, so they
canceled me. Did you already eat?"
"I found something." Becca dug her nails into her palms. Her "dinner" had consisted of a glass of
chocolate milk—she was so nervous the thought of eating made her want to puke.
Her mom started pulling food out of the refrigerator. "Isn't this nice? Maybe we can rent some payper-
view or something."
"Um, Quinn and I were going to catch a movie, actually," she said. "I'm supposed to pick her up
What are you seeing?"
What is this, the Spanish Inquisition? Becca took a gulp of her chocolate milk. "I forget. Quinn
picked."
"Well, let me put some jeans on. I haven't been to a movie in ages."
Becca almost dropped her glass. "You want to go? Mom—it's kind of a girls' night out... ."
Her mom rolled her eyes. "I'm a girl, Becca. I haven't seen you all week—"
"And whose fault is that?"
Crap. Becca winced, wishing she could suck the words back into her mouth.
"Becca, you know I started working nights so I could be home during the day." The refrigerator
door swung closed, and her mother came to lean on the cooking island, a stern expression on her face.
Becca couldn't remember seeing gray hair threaded along her mother's temples before, but it was
sure there now.
She wondered if her mom knew her father had called. Twice.
"Look, Mom, I know—"
But her mom was already off and running with the lecture. Becca resisted the impulse to keep
glancing at the clock.
When it seemed like she was winding down, Becca sighed and played the guilt card and glanced up
at her through her lashes. "Mom, it's really about Quinn," she said in a hushed voice. "I think she
wants to get away from parents for a while."
That was probably true. Quinn was more than likely sitting in her living room, staring out the front
picture window, desperate for Becca to pick her up.
So they could drive to Drew McKay's house.
Maybe a movie with Mom wouldn't be such a bad idea.
Her mom studied her. "Just you and Quinn?"
Becca averted her eyes and downed the last of her milk. "Yeah, Mom, who else?"
"Well, you look very pretty."
"It's just an old pullover." Thank god the house had been chilly. Otherwise her mom might have
seen her in that silk top that exposed half an inch of midriff and made it look like she had a chest to
write home about.
Monica can kiss my ass.
"I meant your hair. The makeup."
That had taken forty-five minutes. She'd actually had to hunt for the curling iron.
Becca started to put her glass in the sink, then thought better of it and rinsed it for the dishwasher
since her mom was standing right there. "It's a Friday night. You know."
"I know." Her mom was leaning against the refrigerator now.
Becca bit the inside of her cheek, sure she was blushing.
"Wow," she said, looking in the general direction of the clock, though her brain was too addled to
register the time. She grabbed her bag and her car keys. "I'd better get going if we're going to get
popcorn and stuff."
Her mom was still watching her just a little too carefully. "Be careful, Bex. Not too late, okay?"
"Sure, Mom." She'd almost made it to the front door.
"I'll be up when you get home."
Can't wait.
Then Becca was out the door and into her car, well aware her mom watched her pull down the
driveway, roll down the street, and waited at the window until she made the turn toward Quinn's
house.
Quinn wore a beaded tank, Capri pants, and strappy sandals, an outfit that demanded nicer weather.
Her blond hair hung straight and shiny down her back, swinging when she jumped into the car.
Quinn was fishing through the glove box for gum. "Why didn't you let Hunter pick you up?"
Because that meant it was a date. This wasn't a date. This was a dare. Becca started to bite at her
cuticles, then told herself to knock it off. "I wanted a getaway car."
Quinn laughed—but when Becca didn't join her, she stared. "Seriously?"
"Yep."
"What do you think Drew's going to do, throw you down and rape you right in front of the soccer
team?"
That was probably number five on her list of worries. "I'm hoping Drew doesn't notice I'm there."
"I'm proud of you."
"Thanks, Mom."
"Seriously." Quinn sounded hurt.
"Thanks. Seriously." But Becca didn't feel like she'd done anything to be proud of.
Drew lived down off River Bay Road, in an old shore house that could fit two of hers inside it. The
house backed up to one of the many tributaries of the Chesapeake Bay, and sported a thirty-foot span
of beach beyond his backyard. The water was nothing you'd want to swim in, but the beach was nice
in the summer; just enough sand to make you feel like you were vacationing all the time.
She remembered it well.
She had to park down the road a ways, and they could hear the music from here. Some kids already
had fires going in a couple of drums down on the beach. Smoke and charcoal wrapped around her and
flavored the air.
Quinn reached over and turned off the ignition, then put the keys in her pocket. "I'm taking your
keys."
Becca snapped to. "What? Quinn—I never drink—"
"I don't give a crap if you drink. I don't want you bolting without consulting me." She smiled and it
looked a little vicious. "Now get your ass out of the car."
When they started walking toward Drew's house, Becca focused on the narrow strip of asphalt in
front of her until it started to feel like a gangplank.
One wrong step and she'd fall.
What the hell am I doing here?
"You came."
The voice spoke out of the shadows to her left. Becca jumped and swore and almost took her friend
down.
Quinn grabbed her arm to steady her. "Damn it, Bex! God, I should have snuck you one of Mom's
valiums. It's only New Kid."
"Hunter," he said, but his voice was amused. He was leaning against a late model Jeep Wrangler
with the top off, partially cloaked by the shadow of a cherry tree. He'd worn cargo pants and a
charcoal long-sleeved tee, and his thumbs were hooked in his pockets.
Casper's head hung over his shoulder, his tongue hanging out.
Becca widened her eyes, delighted. "You brought your dog!"
Quinn was just as wide-eyed. "He ... brought his dog."
He reached up and rubbed the dog's ears. "I never really bring Casper anywhere. He gets out of
the yard and finds me all the time. I'm always worried he'll end up under some guy's tires." He
grimaced. "It's easier to let him hop in the car."
This was awesome. The dog could be her bodyguard. She imagined Casper tearing into Drew the
way he'd done to Tyler.
But then Hunter said, "He'll just sleep in the back of the jeep." As if on cue, the dog lay down and
rested his head on the tailgate.
Damn it.
Hunter pushed off the car and stepped closer, and suddenly she remembered this wasn't a chance
meeting on the side of the road. "You didn't want me to drive."
She looked up at him, tightening her grip on the strap of her purse. He smelled good, like woods
and fresh air and confidence. "Is that a problem?"
"I thought you might be planning to stand me up." His eyes were bright, his voice gently chiding. He
glanced at Quinn. "Make New Kid walk in alone."
Quinn rolled her eyes. "She just wanted a getaway—" Becca elbowed her in the side. "Have you
been waiting long?"
He shook his head. "Shall we?"
The music pouring from the house seemed to move the sidewalk, and the front door stood wide
open. It wasn't like those high school parties in the movies, where everyone was hot and well dressed
and straight sober despite having a drink in hand. In front of Drew McKay's house, three guys were
sitting on the front step, smoking. A girl wearing a fleece tracksuit was already puking in the front
shrubbery. The word Juicy was plastered across her ass, and most of the vomit ended up in her hair.
She staggered like she might pass out.
One of the smokers jeered and flicked ash her way.
Becca hesitated on the front walk.
"Leave it," hissed Quinn. "Come on."
Maybe she had too much of her mother in her, but Becca couldn't just blow right past that kind of
train wreck.
"Hey. Are you okay?" she asked.
The girl looked up, rings of mascara under her eyes. Taylor Morrissey, varsity cheerleader. She
swiped at her mouth with the end of her sleeve.
"Becca Chandler?" she whispered.
"Yeah." Becca tucked her hair behind her ear, very aware of the weight of Hunter's presence at her
side. "You want me to get you a towel—or a washcloth—"
"Why are you here? Did someone pay you to strip on tables or something?"
One of the guys on the stoop snorted with laughter, blowing smoke through his nose.
Becca jerked back. Despite hearing comments like that on a daily basis, it was still a surprise.
"Drunk bitch," muttered Quinn.
Then Taylor was laughing, almost hysterically, until she fell on her side in the grass. She narrowly
missed rolling in her own vomit. "Or—wait—you just do it for free, right?"
"Ignore her," said Hunter, his voice low and close to her ear. "She's hammered."
But Taylor's words had punched her in the gut, and now Becca couldn't get enough air. She shook
off Quinn's arm and spun for the sidewalk.
Two of Drew's soccer team buddies were coming up the walk. One had a case of beer under his
arm. She couldn't remember his name, but his eyes didn't get as far as her face—he was staring at her
chest. "Hey, baby, where you going?"
The smoke, the laughter, the sheer number of people surrounding her—it was all suffocating. She
needed to get away. Quinn had her keys, so she bolted through the open door, into the foyer.
Music slapped her in the face, something with a loud, driving beat pounding from the bass speakers
in the living room. Some guy she didn't recognize had shot glasses lined up on the hall table, and he
held one out to her.
"A drink for every lady," he said with a wink.
Liquid courage. Just what she needed. She took the glass from his fingers.
It was like swallowing fire.
It felt fantastic.
He whistled and held out another. "Let me see you do that again."
Her limbs felt hot and heavy already, as if the alcohol were traveling through her veins to her
fingertips. She reached out and took the second glass.
This burn was twice as nice.
Some people from the living room were whistling now. She shut her eyes and felt her body waver,
as if a wind had whipped through the hallway.
When she opened them, he'd come around the table and was holding another shot in front of her.
She could smell him now, liquor and smoke and male sweat. His voice turned low and taunting.
"Let's see you get that down your throat."
A hand reached out and took it before she could. "Let's not."
Hunter.
She meant to turn, to confront him. Her legs had a different idea. She stumbled and the room tilted
sideways. She knew she was falling, but her brain couldn't get it together to do anything about it. She
probably should have eaten dinner.
Hunter caught her. She heard the shot glass rattle on the hardwood of the foyer.
Her veins were still burning. Her knees wouldn't lock to hold her upright.
Hunter glared over her shoulder. "What is that, tequila?"
"Dude, it's not like I held her down—"
"Stop it," she said, not wanting to hear any more talk of being held down. She tried to shrug out of
Hunter's hands. The music was still slamming into her body with every beat. "Lemme go. I just want
—I need my keys—"
"Here." He backed her up until she was leaning against the molding between the hallway and the
living room, then let her go. He looked at the guy with the shot glasses. "Get her a cup of water or
something."
She braced her hands behind her on the wall and stared up at Hunter. She couldn't figure out his
expression, whether he was disgusted, or disappointed, or exasperated.
Maybe Quinn was right. Maybe she was going about this all wrong.
"Where's Quinn?" she said.
"I told her to give me a second."
Traitor.
"Isn't this what you wanted?" At least her voice wasn't slurring yet, but everything felt warm.
"Now I'm all liquored up. You didn't even have to work for it."
His eyes narrowed. "Why would I want you trashed?"
"You're a guy, right? Isn't that why you asked me here?"
He glanced away and sighed.
"See." She reached out and poked him in the chest. Hard. "Monica told you about me. About Drew.
That's why you brought me here."
"Damn. You're on to me." He was untying one of the twine bracelets from his wrist.
His words drew her up short. "Wait. What?"
He got one bracelet free and held it between his fingers as he untied another. He shook his head. "I
have no idea what you're talking about."
The movement of his fingers had her spellbound. What was he doing?
"Monica talks too much," he said. "I stopped listening." He was on to a third bracelet, and he
didn't look at her. "Besides, I prefer to figure things out for myself."
Shot Glass Kid showed up with a plastic cup. "Here. Drew will shit if she pukes in the hallway."
That made her want to stick her finger down her throat right there.
Hunter took the cup and held it out to her. His eyes leveled with hers. "Drink."
She took the cup and sipped. Water did nothing to tame the inferno in her stomach.
He reached out and started tying one of the bracelets around her wrist.
She was so startled that she let him. "What are you doing?"
The silvery black stone strung on the twine fell against her skin, smooth and cool. It cut through the
fire better than the water had. "This is hematite. For anxiety." His voice turned wry. "And clarity of
thought."
"It's a rock." But the tequila did seem to be having less effect.
The corner of his mouth quirked, and he started tying another one. His fingers were gentle and
warm against her wrist. "Amethyst. It does a lot of things, but really, I'm just trying to take the edge
off so you can walk."
He was walking around with a hunk of amethyst on a piece of twine? "You're giving me a bunch of
rocks?"
"Not giving." He glanced up. "Loaning."
"What, are you afraid you'll be off balance?"
"Something like that." He tied the third bracelet. "Quartz. To help the other two."
She looked down at the three stones on her wrist and wasn't quite sure what to say. She sure didn't
feel drunk now. Just a buzz.
She touched her finger to the stones, and new awareness was bringing heat to her cheeks. She felt
like a freak. It was probably a miracle he was still standing in front of her.
Then again, he was the one tying on rock bracelets. She glanced up at him from under her lashes.
"Don't tell me. You read Tarot cards, too?"
"Mock all you want. You feel better, right?"
She did. Standing in the hallway in this house full of people, with R&B music so loud it seemed
part of her body, he somehow made her feel like they stood alone in the middle of a field. At night,
under a silent moon.
Becca had to take a deep breath.
"I didn't realize coming here would upset you," he said.
She shrugged and looked down into the cup of water. "It's all right."
"My father used to tell me something, when people would screw with me," he said. His voice got
kind of quiet, and she had to lean in to hear him.
People used to screw with him? He seemed so ... untouchable. Above it.
She didn't want to hear some sentimental pep talk, either. But his father had died, and whatever the
words were, they were important to Hunter.
"What?" she said.
"Fuck 'em."
Her head shot up. The edge of a smile played on his lips, but she could read the emotion in his
eyes.
"It helps," he said.
Fuck 'em. She smiled. It did help.
She looked up at him, standing so close. Her pulse picked up. She licked her lips. "I think I'm
going to go ... ah ... straighten up."
He took a step back and grinned. "You all right to walk?"
Becca straightened and pushed off the wall. Her head still swam, but her legs felt steady. Mostly.
"Yeah." She took a step into the hallway. Then another. The water in her cup didn't even slosh.
"Thanks for the magic rocks," she called over her shoulder.
As she turned the corner, she banged into something hard. Her eyes saw the blue shirt first, then the
spread of water across a male chest. He swore.
She recognized the voice and jerked