Commentaires de livres faits par Aikawa
Extraits de livres par Aikawa
Commentaires de livres appréciés par Aikawa
Extraits de livres appréciés par Aikawa
My eyes open and I'm back in the basement. The stairs shake and Darcy is mumbling something to himself. "Are you still down here?"
I move closer to the light switch, flicking it off and on. He goes stiff, only moving his eyes. "Shit," he says and slowly sticks his hand out. I tangle my fingers with his, wishing he could feel me, and then he sucks in a breath, taking a step back. "I… What was that?"
He grips onto the railing, his hot pink nails digging into the wood. He's wearing another colorful outfit and his hair is styled upward, holding perfectly in place. "I don't believe in ghosts."
I didn't either. Doesn't matter what we believe. The truth catches up to us all eventually. He doesn't move for a while, his chest heavily rising and falling. "How did you even get down here?"
He doesn't believe in ghosts and yet he continues talking to one anyway. I'm glad he doesn't make any more sense than I do. If only he realized I can't respond. At least not with words.
He rubs his face over his hand. "Great, now I'm talking to myself. I'm going crazy."
With the need to reassure him that he's not losing his mind, I search for something I can use to help me communicate better. There isn't anything down here but a bunch of junk.
My eyes rake over every corner of the room and finally stop when they land on a pocketknife on a wooden stool. I smile and pick it up. He turns around, shaking his head, walking back toward the house. I rush up the steps behind him and start carving words into the wooden boards lining the wall beside him. He stops and slowly turns around once the knife stops moving.
"What th—"
His face is expressionless and he takes a step down, moving his face closer, his eyes squinting.
"I'm here. You're not crazy," he reads out loud and then laughs. His hands grab at his hair. "I'm not so sure I agree with you," he says, his eyes circling the room.
"There really is someone here. You're actually real."
I move the knife against the wall again and his eyes light up. "Yes," I write. "We both are."
He laughs again. "Yeah. Apparently so. Shit. This can't really be happening."
"It is."
He sucks on his bottom lip. “What’s your name?"
I respond again. "Caleb."
"Caleb," he repeats. "How did you… Why are you down here?"
I know that's not what he originally wanted to ask, but how do you ask a person how they died without it sounding so morbid? Like, hey, nice to meet you, what killed you? Not the kind of conversations I thought I'd ever have. It's not every day you're a ghost haunting a basement.
It takes me longer to carve in the next few words and he stands there patiently waiting for every letter to show up. "I don't know."
“Yup. It’s just terrible.” Huck sighed. “So very terrible.”
“God, how I hate her. Beelzebub’s concubine. Vile festering whore of Lucifer. That absolute bitch.”
“Wait, what bitch? Myrna?”
“No! My sister! The one who murdered me over a hundred years ago!”
“Right, right. That bitch. Got it.”
“At least no one remembers her. Ha! It is sort of satisfying that they only talk about me… but still! I heard one woman say that she thought I was wearing a veil! A fucking veil, can you believe it?”
“Nope. Sure can’t.”
This was not the first time Huck had heard this rant and seeing how he and Precipitation were both dead and stuck here at the Allan Hotel together, it would very likely not be the last.
Huck figured out the stuck part fairly quickly. After his tumble down the stairs a few years ago, the world became foggy and devoid of color. It was a grayscale haze he wanted absolutely nothing to do with, and he’d tried running right out the nearest door. That, however, was like racing face-first into a concrete wall, and every exit was the same way, even the windows.
Huck didn’t want to accept that he’d died at first, but coming back and seeing his lifeless body crumpled at the base of those stupid stairs was a pretty big clue. He cried and screamed a little, and that’s when he found out that he wasn’t alone.
Precipitation Per Chance was the first spirit he met, the ghost of a young man who had died at the turn of the century. He was in fact not a young bride, but the brother of a bride who had decided to take both the wedding dress and the groom for a spin the night before the ceremony. His sister was furious, Precipitation was drunk, and the last thing he remembered was getting cracked over the head with something heavy.
His unusual name was pretty common for the time—his sister was named Jubilation—and his boisterous personality in life made for a very vivid spirit. He’d been happy to show Huck around and teach him everything there was to being a ghost.
Huck was happy to have a friend in this weird miserable excuse for an afterlife. Though Precipitation didn’t have any answers about why or how they were stuck here in the hotel, it was nice to have company.
Except when Myrna gave tours.
That’s when Precipitation would rant and moan and bitch.
He walked closer quietly to scope out the situation and heard the telltale sounds of someone trying to breathe through something, like an anxiety attack or maybe just heavy crying?
The guy turned to look at him as soon as he made noise, and by instinct, Izzie smirked at him. It was his default in all situations where he didn’t feel comfortable.
“Hey, you okay?” he asked, moving closer to the guy.
He had dark hair and pretty eyes filled with tears, and he had to be Hispanic. Maybe another worker he hadn’t met yet?
When the guy flushed deep red, as if ashamed of being caught in the situation he was in, Izzy decided he had a few minutes to spare.
“I’m Izzy, I just started at the greenhouses.”
The guy closed his eyes and Izzy thought he had spectacularly long eyelashes. It took him a moment to understand that the guy was doing the counting thing.
“Shit, a panic attack?” he asked, and the blush that had been fading came back. “I get them too sometimes. I smoke weed. Helps a lot.”
The guy’s eyes suddenly opened and his gaze snapped to Izzy’s. There was something he couldn’t quite read in those big brown eyes, and Izzy felt oddly…if not judged, then at least…fuck, he didn’t even know.
The guy struggled to his feet and began to walk away as fast as he could. What the fuck had Izzy done? Who got that uptight about a comment about weed? Jesus.
“No need to get your panties in a twist, ‘s not like I smoke at work!” he called after the dude.
He maybe sounded more aggressive than he’d intended, but he needed to make that absolutely clear, because of Justin’s no drug policy. Last thing Izzy needed was some little snitch telling the boss that Izzy liked to get high. He didn’t want to get fired on his first day.
Scarlett was screaming and Harper was throwing a tantrum and now Wyatt was crying—pulling in soft little gulps of air as tears streamed down his face.
“You hurt him!” Harper yelled, pulling free of Justin only to start pushing and punching at him. “You hurt Wyatt!”
And Justin was done. He couldn’t do this anymore. He’d been stupid to think he could in the first place. He couldn’t look after the kids. He couldn’t keep them safe. He was just what everyone in town had always said he was. Just another useless piece of shit O’Dwyer.
Justin fixed on the light at the Abbot house and headed toward it, still clutching a screaming Scarlett. He looked back once, blinking through his tears, to see that Wyatt was shuffling after him and Harper was holding his hand tightly.
The Abbot house loomed closer. The porch light was on, and Justin stumbled toward it. It looked nice, nicer than he remembered. It had been repainted since he’d seen it last, and there was a porch swing now. The golden glow of the light was welcoming, and Justin felt drawn to it, this beacon in the dark.
He just…
He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t. He was drowning and desperate and that porch light was the only thing keeping him on his feet right now.
He climbed the porch steps, sucking in a shaking, juddering breath. He pushed the doorbell, and banged on the door for good measure, and all the while Scarlett screamed and screamed and screamed and an awful, dark part of Justin just wanted to clamp a hand over her mouth until she shut the fuck up, and he hated her, and he hated his Mom, and he hated himself most of all.
And Justin didn’t know—he couldn’t know—what sort of person was behind the door, and he didn’t even fucking care anymore, because all that mattered was that he couldn’t do this.
The door opened slowly, and Justin didn’t even get a look at the man through his tears before he was shoving a screaming Scarlett in his arms.
“I’m sorry,” he said, sinking down onto the porch. He buried his face in his hands. “I’m sorry. Please help me.”
And then he burst into tears.
“Russ?” Stephen said, worry crinkling his brow as he removed his hand from Russ’s shoulder.
“I’m awake.” It came out scratchy and hoarse. Russ cleared his throat.
Stephen took a seat on the leather ottoman. “I didn’t mean to startle you. You had me worried when you didn’t wake up immediately.”
“I’m fine; just took me a moment to put together what happened and where I was.”
“You do remember what happened though?”
Russ sat upright, carefully sliding back until he leaned against the back of the sofa. He kept his injured ankle on the couch as it began to throb. His head wasn’t feeling so hot either. “Yep. Slipped on the steps at work, paramedics took me to the hospital, you brought me back here to rest. I think that covers it.”
Vampire.
Were they gone now? He’d heard them fly away, though the scent loomed strong, copper spiked with adrenaline. He should turn around, head back to safety.
Hugo pressed forward.
With the sun rising overhead, what harm could a vampire possibly do? And the intruder was too close to his home for comfort. Hunting could wait.
Between the thick columns of tree trunks and branches heavy with pine needles, Hugo got his first glimpse.
A man lay supine on the forest floor, vulnerable to the elements, and from the looks of it, severely injured. Dark hair, longish, matted with grime. Dirty clothes. Bloody hands—no, the blood came from his wrists. That explained the scent. It smelled like a fresh kill, but this vampire wasn’t dead. Not yet, though he would be soon if Hugo didn’t intervene.
The man clawed at the ground to no avail.
Hugo deliberated.
Let him die? He didn’t know this man. Didn’t owe him anything. But could he live with himself if he stood idly by while another suffered?
No.
Save him? How? Vampires burned in sunlight, what could he do?
The stranger’s screams pierced the serenity of the dawn and startled Hugo to a swift decision. Launching himself forward in a powerful leap, Hugo landed next to him. He gazed down. If anything, the fear in the injured man’s eyes only increased.
With no time to comfort him, Hugo shoved the vampire over, clamped his large jaw around his nape and dragged him deeper into the shadows.
The vampire didn’t react beyond a whimper. Maybe he couldn’t.
Hugo pulled, struggled, wrenched his charge beneath a dense copse of trees before letting go and stepping back.
With a shake, Hugo settled his fur back into place. He sat on his haunches and stared at the man. Sharp pale cheekbones, a straight long nose, thin lips, and fierce hazel eyes that stared back even though he looked on the verge of death.
Hugo didn’t want him to die. He smelled nice. Though dirty and covered in his own blood, there was something about the vampire Hugo couldn’t put his finger on. He wanted him to live.
His grin remained as he stepped on the footbridge’s wooden planks that spanned the narrowest section of the river. He ambled across, gazing at the rushing water and protruding rocks below.
“Ho! Who’s there?” came a booming voice from beneath his feet.
Toby startled and hopped back.
The rumbling baritone continued, “Who dares to cross Arlo’s bridge without first paying tribute?”
With unexpected grace, a large troll, his skin as grey as granite, climbed from under the rafters to block Toby’s way. He stood a head taller than Toby, with coppery-orange hair cropped close to his head. Eyebrows that could be mistaken for caterpillars drew tight together, and broad shoulders flexed beneath layers of dingy wool. His cheeks were flushed and puffy. But what Toby found most startling were his robin’s-egg-blue eyes, watery and glazed over as though he’d been crying.
“Hello, Arlo. My name is Tobias.” Toby offered his hand. “My friends call me Toby.”
Arlo sniffed and stared at Toby’s hand as if he had extra fingers that had been dipped in slime. After some awkward consideration, he reached out and swallowed the smaller hand in his giant one with a gentle grasp. Arlo’s warm hand felt so good, Toby didn’t want to let go.
“Well then, what should I call you?” Arlo grunted.
“I meant we should become friends.” Toby gave Arlo’s fingers a squeeze. “So call me Toby.”
Puffing out his chest, Arlo dropped Toby’s hand and roared, “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re playing! You only want to be friends to avoid paying tribute. I won’t have it, Tobias. I guard this bridge, and if you’d like to use it, you must earn it fair and square.” He crossed his arms and glowered.
Toby scanned the landscape. A lush canopy of trees on either side, chipmunks scurrying to their burrows, clouds overhead. Which of these threatened the footbridge of Red Elk? And since when did this bridge have a pouting resident troll?
“Guard it from what?” asked Toby, curious.
Arlo shrugged like that wasn’t important. “What will you give me to cross?”
“Well I suppose I must give you my apologies as I’ve brought nothing extra on my journey. And I would like to be friends. You look as if you need one.” He studied Arlo’s expression and saw a longing there that hinted at melancholy. “Are you quite all right, Arlo?”
Their gazes locked; Arlo’s teary blue eyes glared with scrutiny, even as Toby offered a smile. The troll glanced away and exhaled, breath wispy in the wintry breeze.
“Looks like you have plenty.” Arlo gestured to the bulging sack over Toby’s shoulder. “What’s in the bag?”
“These are gifts from my family and friends of River Pack to my other family and friends of Fern Pack. They are mostly for the children. I’m sorry, but none were meant for you.”
Arlo huffed and turned up his nose. “I will take your apologies this time, but next we meet you’d better have a tribute.” The troll stepped aside to let Toby pass.
That didn’t sound good. Jason looked behind and saw he had room to turn around safely. He watched as the rider stood and kicked the wheel he’d worked on.
“What happened?” Jason asked as he came to a stop.
“I broke the damn lever.” He held up broken pieces of plastic. “The tire wasn’t budging, and I guess I forced it too hard.”
The poor guy looked frazzled. Jason dismounted his bike and laid it down gently next to the upturned, tireless bike. At least they were in a good spot, out of traffic. A nearby log would be perfect to sit on while doing the repair. Multi-colored leaves covered the ground. Under different circumstances, it would have been a delightful spot been a delightful spot for a picnic.
“It’s okay. I’ve got levers and we’ll get this fixed.”
“The tire is so tight.” He gestured again with the broken tools. “I’m not sure these can get it off.”
This guy, rider number 114 according to the bike’s placard, must be a newbie at changing tires. Tires could always be loosened. You just needed patience.
“I’ve changed a lot of tires,” Jason said as he got tools out of his seat pouch. “And if I can’t do it, there’s always the sweeper van for a ride to the bike techs.”
“True. Although I really don’t want to have to get in a van.”
Jason picked up wheel, took it to the log and sat down. Gently, he worked the plastic tools in between the tire and the rim. He alternated between pushing with his fingers and flexing the levers so the tire would release.
“New tires, huh?”
“Pretty new, yeah. The first flat this bike has had. I bought it a few months ago.”
Jason looked at Rider 114’s bike as he worked. He’d done enough tire changes that he could multi-task. The bike was a good road bike, near the top of the line and comparable to his own.
“I’m Ben, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you. Jason.”
No Biscuits Today.
Nooooooooo!
No Flour Power biscuits? On a Saturday?
The horror!
Granted, biscuits were on the menu every day at Flour Power, but coproprietor Barry made the biscuits on Saturdays, and Barry’s biscuits were the best. Hence the line Jeremiah had expected, especially on the first weekend students were back in town. Instead, there was no line, and through the windows, the diner looked practically empty with no one at the counter seats and only a few of the booths and tables occupied.
“You moving, sir?”
Jeremiah spun on his heel, a retort on the tip of his tongue, which promptly pretzeled around itself at seeing the breathtaking specimen of a man behind him. A few inches taller than him, the handsome man’s sandy blond hair was streaked with platinum highlights, his aqua eyes danced with amusement, and his skin was fifteen shades too tan for winter in the Blue Ridge Mountains. The price sticker on his plaid scarf and the shine on his parka screamed new purchase, but the fraying laces and mud caked on his Timbs screamed well used. No books or backpack either, so probably not a student. Hmm, another mystery to solve because, no, he hadn’t forgotten about the missing biscuits.
“Yoo-hoo, Earth to Foxy?”
Jeremiah’s tongue unfurled. “Foxy?”
The stranger grinned—good God, that should be illegal—and pointed at Jeremiah’s hair. “Silver fox.”
Ah, yes, that unfortunate genetic variation—along with the one that caused his Crohn’s disease—had briefly made him a suspect in Lincoln and Carter’s investigation in Apex three years ago.
A lot of people.
What the actual fuck? Was this where most of the town was? At a party at the new home of “Professor Lincoln Polk”? Without Professor Polk in attendance? Not that Lincoln wanted to be attending—that much peopling was the last thing he ever wanted, especially tonight after the drive from hell—but a party without the host? And this was clearly not a parents-are-away situation. Those weren’t teenagers inside, and his teenager was back in Dumfries. So what the hell was going on here? And where the hell was he supposed to park?
Three blocks away, he finally found a spot at the curb, pulling in behind a departing SUV. He shot off a quick text to Gabby and Elena, letting them know he’d arrived, then climbed out of the Wrangler. Certain the Jeep would be towed, he hauled out his belongings—luggage, gun case, messenger bag with laptop, and guitar case, the last he slung over his back—and patted down his jeans and coat pockets—wallet, phone, keys. Assured he had everything important, he took off toward the house, trudging through the slush. By the time he reached the front porch, he wished like hell he’d traded his Chucks for the winter boots in his luggage. His toes were numb, and his socks soaked through, and as if that wasn’t insult enough, that damn Welcome, Winter banner hung over the front porch, mocking him. He shot it the bird just as the door swung open.
To the last person Lincoln expected.
The last person he ever wanted to see again.
Special Agent Carter Warren—the trainee of his nightmares, and of the occasional fantasy—stood over the threshold of Lincoln’s “home,” dressed in jeans and a blue cashmere sweater.
Suddenly the party all made sense. Classic Carter Warren. The loudest, brashest kid in class. Always had to be the center of attention. And by that megawatt smile stretched across his face, the flush that softened the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the mischief that sparkled in his green eyes, and the artfully messy mop of dark curls atop his head, he was eating it up tonight.
“Is that any way to greet your new partner?” Carter smirked as he flicked his gaze to Lincoln’s raised middle finger.
Lincoln was tempted to thrust it more directly in his face. “What the hell is going on here?”
Carter tugged at the V-neck of his sweater. “I need you to roll with this.”
Lincoln snapped his gaze up from where it had strayed to the dark curls peeking out from beneath Carter’s collar. Roll with what? “The party?”
“Carter?” a woman called from behind them, her high heels clicking on the hardwood as she approached. “Is that your husband finally? I’m dying to meet him.”
Lincoln dropped his messenger bag. “Your what?”
Reflexes lightning fast, Carter caught the bag before it hit the ground, and Lincoln was grateful for the save. Until Carter, in a booming voice, announced, “Honey, you’re home.”
Appreciation flew out the window on the wings of honey.
Carter lightly bussed his cheek. “Go with it, please.”
Would this night of what-the-fuckery just quit already?
“I thought I would.” I tipped my head back against the wall with a thunk. “Ouch.”
He laughed. “Dork. You thought you would what?”
“Date. I was finally out from under Aunt Kristi’s eyes.” And her oldest son’s talent for extortion. “In my own place. Away from everyone I went to school with.”
“So why didn’t you?”
I was going to play it cool, talk about how busy I was and the demands of the program. But those damned beers acted like some kind of truth serum, so what came out of my mouth was, “You.”
“I never! What did I do?”
I straightened and looked into his eyes. They’d gone smoky gray in the dim hallway. “You said ‘Hi.’ You smiled, that little one that says you’re reserving judgment, but one corner tipped up more than the other, as if you liked what you saw. You said, ‘Class starts next week,’ and your eyes lit up gold and bright. And I fell like a rock.”
He swallowed, hard enough for me to see his Adam’s apple bob. “I— don’t know what to do with that.”
Tiredness settled over me like a lead blanket. “You don’t need to do anything; I wasn’t going to say a word. But when you pulled me away from Dave, for a second I thought you were jealous. And I should never drink beer. Damn it.” I pushed off the wall and turned for my room.
His hand on my arm stopped me in my tracks. “I was.”
“Was?”
“Jealous.”
I stared over my shoulder at him, unable to come up with words.
After a moment, he muttered, “Fuck this shit,” pulled me round, and kissed me.
I looked over at Dave. He was tall, thin, and deceptively athletic. His long, light brown hair stuck out from under his knit hat that was tucked under his helmet, and he leaned forward on his skis and moved his legs back and forth, carving two furrows in the soft snow.
“Fuck, okay fine. I’ll try. But I swear to god, Dave, you better not leave me there if I have a hard time of it.”
He barely gave me a look before he reached out with his poles and exploded down the hill. I watched from the top as he made his way around a few trees in deep snow and even though he was too far forward on his ski’s, he still managed to make it to the next bend and out of my line of sight.
“Well, here goes nothing.” I pushed off and immediately noticed it was a lot steeper than it looked. I tried to keep my edges parallel to the mountain, but it was so steep, and the snow was even deeper than I realized, I was having a hard time staying in control. Fear made me revert back to the wedge I’d learned when I first started skiing so I put my ski tips together and hoped that slowed me down.
And then it happened. I caught the edge of my ski and fell forward over my skis. It was so steep I tumbled a few times and felt a snap in my leg before coming to a stop. One of my ski’s detached but the other stayed on, twisting my leg at an angle it shouldn’t be able to be in. Yep, that was gonna leave a mark.
“So I am.” Whatever else he might have said fled Seb’s mind as he focused on the man who’d addressed him, and discovered he had to tilt his head back a little to meet Rutger’s gaze. Holy fuck. He’d known what to expect thanks to their numerous video calls. But nothing had prepared him for Rutger’s sheer in-person hotness or the breathtaking aura of strength and calm he radiated. Rutger’s short, dark blond hair stood up from his head. His full beard and mustache were the same color as his hair, interspersed with lighter specks. His blue eyes were bright, and small laughter lines crinkled at their sides. Seb imagined what it might be like to thread his fingers through that beard or to feel the scrape of the stubble on the side of Rutger’s head, where the hair had been shaved. Seb didn’t break out of his trance until Ruther lifted his eyebrows at him. “And you must be Rutger.”
“That’s me,” Rutger confirmed, sounding amused.
The setup of the place was not entirely unexpected. There was a mountain riddled with a handful of deep, dark foreboding caves, and the dragon seemed to keep a close eye on comings and goings.
When Brice and Rocinante arrived, in fact, the dragon was in the process of chasing off a knight who had gotten too close. It was the first time Brice had ever seen a dragon outside of picture books, and it did not disappoint.
It was huge and black, with a head as big as Brice, great curled horns, and wings that seemed to stretch on forever. It reared back its head as he watched, taking a deep breath. Then it leaned forward with its whole body, expelling the breath, this time with a blaze of flames.
— Qu’est-ce que tu me veux ? Qu’est-ce que t’attends de moi ? déclare-t-il d’une voix autoritaire.
— Des réponses et l’assurance que tu n’iras pas me dénoncer.
— Pour ça, il faudrait déjà que t’aies posé une question.
— Pourquoi je n’arrive pas à te sortir de ma tête ?
— Qu’est-ce que j’en sais ? Je pourrais te demander la même chose, réplique-t-il en m’analysant avec insistance.
— Si on décide d’en rester là, je pourrais avoir confiance en toi ? Tu ne retenteras pas de me tuer ?
— Je n’en sais rien, je ne sais pas si je peux te faire confiance. Mais je sais un truc, c’est qu’au niveau 1 on n’a aucune chance contre l’un de vous lors des épreuves. Alors si tu me dénonces, ou si quelqu’un soupçonne quoi que ce soit, tu signes mon arrêt de mort. Je serai cinglé de prendre ce risque.
— Je n’ai pas plus envie de te tuer que de mourir. On pourrait simplement faire comme s’il ne s’était rien passé, comme si on ne ressentait rien.
— Tu serais capable de désobéir à l’un des sept principes fondamentaux ? lance-t-il, incrédule.
— Je crois. Et toi ?
Il détourne la tête en sifflant entre ses dents. Son regard se perd sur la pluie.
— Eh ! je le récupère alors qu’il me néglige. Regarde-moi et réponds-moi.
Il se retourne à brûle-pourpoint et plaque ses mains de chaque côté de mon visage, me coinçant sous le porche.
— T’as toute mon attention, Valiant Chamberlain.
“Don’t.” His voice was thick and rough. “I’m having a moment.”
Walter stopped, less concerned now and more confused. “Honey?”
Shutting his eyes, Kelly drew a deep breath, then exhaled slowly before opening his eyes again. He still didn’t look away from the screen. “The teaser trailer for Frozen just came out.”
He edges into my side so my arm slides along his shoulders. “What were you going to do?”
“It was a bit of a mystery tour, but I don’t know what I was thinking. All the stuff was a bit quirky, the sort of things that you and I like doing. Nothing that Patrick would have liked at all.”
“I think the things that Patrick liked could be summarised in three words, all of which are dick.” I laugh and shake my head. “Quirky dates sound nice. Way too nice for him, in fact,” he says, taking my hand in his and running his fingers along the knuckles.
I feel a strange shudder run through me and stare at my hands as if they’re responsible for it. When I look up he’s staring at me, his eyes wide and unblinking as if taken by surprise. Then his lashes come down as if he’s hiding from me, but when he looks up again he’s calm and his expression is shuttered.
“It’s probably the only way I’ll get to enjoy a date,” I say wryly. “If I’m on my own.” A sudden thought occurs to me, and before I know it the words are spilling out without any planning. “Why don’t you come with me?”
“What?”
I nod. “Come with me. Unless you’ve got something planned,” I say slowly. “I know you were single a few weeks ago.”
“I’m still single. I don’t turn men over that quickly.”
“Are you working for the next two days?”
He stares at me. “I’m not actually at work for another three days.” He pauses. “So, you want me to come on Valentine’s Day dates that you planned for another man?” His tone is unreadable.
I bite my lip. “I know it sounds awful, but I actually don’t think I really planned with him in mind anyway. I just thought about what we’d want to do and booked that because I always enjoy everything with you. I miss you lately because I haven’t seen you and I hate that.”
For some reason his expression softens, with a sort of sadness running through the warmth, and then he grins. “Will you wine and dine me, treat me the way a boy like me should expect, Daddy?”
I shake my head. “Don’t call me that. It makes me uncomfortable and you know it.”
The Nino he knew wasn’t a criminal. He certainly would never deliberately hurt someone he loved, and Nino claimed to love him desperately. The Nino he knew also wasn’t a liar and yet he claimed to have been there on the night of the fire that almost completely destroyed Rocco’s world.
“The police and arson investigator never found evidence—”
“He confessed!” Rocco hissed, cutting off his sister Melinda’s surprising whisper.
He’d thought the last eight months were bad, but now he was a prisoner of his own body. A prisoner in his own house. A prisoner without even the mental escape into the worlds he drew.
When the sound of snapping branches outside caught his attention, boredom won out over comfort and Jack hauled himself to his feet, fished his binoculars from the windowsill, and lurched to the back door.
Jack put the binoculars to his eyes, breath catching for just a moment, as it always did in that first second of extended sight. Who could ever know what such sight might reveal? What bit of the world it would alight on? First, the dizzying whoosh of dislocation and then the view steadied and he was projected yards and yards beyond himself.
“What? You said you wanted to get costumes from Wizard of Oz,” Cooper had said in his annoying, ten-year-old voice. “This was the best Mom could do on short notice.”
I’d snorted a string of Red Vine out my nose which had successfully taken all of the attention off both Dorothy and her annoying Scarecrow brother.
“Oh my god, is that a bloody booger string?” Cooper had squealed. “That’s killer!”
Jackson, however, had immediately gone into caretaker mode. “Coop, get a grown-up.” When he’d turned back to me, there had been little adult crinkles of concern on his forehead. “You okay?”
I’d kind of leaned over the bushes beside our family’s new front porch and horked the Red Vine into the brambles before standing back up and saying in my most impressive voice, “Yup.”
The relief on his face had been instantaneous and so freaking sweet. Even when my mother had come screeching out of the front door, convinced her precious baby had succumbed to one of those Halloween horrors parents heard so much about, Jackson’s sweet smile of relief had stayed steady on his face.
“Hi, I’m Jacks Heath,” he’d said, holding out his hand to shake like we were closing on a bank loan.
“Marchie Kagen. My family just moved in.”
Other kids came to the door for candy, but I’d just let them help themselves from the big bowl while I’d stared at Dorothy.
“Well, uh, it’s nice to meet you. Welcome to the neighborhood. My mom will probably bring you some cookies or something,” he’d said before turning around to catch up with his brother, who was already halfway to the next house. He’d nearly tripped over the stuffed Toto dog he had attached to a leash.
And that’s when he’d remembered he was dressed like a girl.
“Oh god.” He’d peered back over his shoulder at me comically, and I’d never forgotten what he said next. “I accidentally told you the wrong name. My name is Cooper. Cooper Heath. Remember that. Cooper.” And then he’d taken off like a shot.
"Fuck, fucking idiot, Triston.” I debated whether to take my chances and try to get the man’s name. Or should I accept that once again, Triston had ruined something that could've been a positive change for me? So, nothing different there then. I said to myself.
I decided not to be a creep and turned to go back into the club. That’s when I nearly bumped into the women he'd been with.
"So,” one of the women said to me before I could go inside the building. “I'm taking it that the guy you seemed to be with isn't really with you?"
"No, he's a fucking ex that won't go away," I said resisting kicking a pebble on the ground like I'd done when I was a kid.
All three women chuckled. "He's very drunk, and it's his birthday, so that's totally okay. I'm sure he'd like to apologize for puking on you, though."
"Really?" I asked feeling optimistic again for the first time since the man walked out the door.
I turned to head toward him when one of the other women burst out laughing. "Not now, god, you're as awkward as he is."
I blushed and looked at the woman. "I'm sorry, I've not been on my game for a long time. I should just go."
"Or you could come to my house tomorrow morning for breakfast," the woman who looked to be the youngest of the three said. "He's going to be spending the night with me since he's so drunk, I wouldn't trust him to be alone. You could get to know him better then."
Even as eager as I was, I was skeptical. I could tell there was more to this than they were saying. Still, even if it turned out to be a total set-up and I ended up on a surprise video show, I'd prefer to take my chances if I could get the guy's name.
I reached out to the woman who'd invited me. "I'm Zach Richards. I own an apothecary shop in the downtown area,” I said all that because I figured they might back out if they thought I was a perv or something. “I'd love to take you up on your offer."
“Cool, hand me your phone," the sassy young woman said. When I gave it to her, she texted herself then handed the phone back to me.
Two seconds later, her address popped up on my phone.
"We'll start around nine. Don't dress fancy. It's a family thing," she said, and all three women chuckled.
"W-what're your names?" I asked feeling like I was walking into a lion's den. Or, in this case, a lioness' den.
"I'm Kris. This is Renee, our oldest sister. And this is Bethie. The drunk guy is Lane."
I looked at them for a moment. "Won't this be weird?"
"Oh yeah,” the one who hadn't spoken before said then laughed out loud. "It's gonna be epic!”
I sighed. "Okay, I guess I must be more desperate than I thought, but you're on. Nine o'clock for breakfast."
(Liz) Because Takahiro-sama hates the SP so we could only do it secretly. This kidnapping incident could be resolved this quickly also because of them.
(Takahiro) Ah ah thank you very much.
(Liz) Use this opportunity to let the SP follow you.
(Takahiro) I don't want.
(Ryota) We studied while exploring Japanese things outside. It's better to learn by experience. Right big brother? We studied Japanese!
(Takahiro) Yes. If I'm learning a foreign language, it's easier to converse like lovers. So, in a way, it was a date.
(Ryota) What?
(Saku) Wait, what are you saying?! Ryota's lover is me!
Miguel Ramirez.
While not as atrocious as some of the other boys who’d frequented his home over the years, he’d still been awful enough that Edward remembered Miguel’s horrid behavior. His looks hadn’t improved much since then either.
In jeans and a T-shirt—items Edward would never be caught wearing—Miguel looked frumpy and far too casual, even if his beard was well trimmed. His dark, slightly wavy hair was mussed, and the shoes he wore would never have stood up to anything resembling proper back in Edward’s day.
But Edward’s day had long gone, and now he was stuck here, on his family’s property, watching as new owner after new owner tried to make heads or tails of the situation. Not keep people out with the padlock that now hung limply from the door handles.
It had worked to a degree. At least fewer people actually made it inside now.
Edward took the measure of the man who’d aged by several years since the last time he’d defaced Blackwell property. Miguel was handsome, sure, but Edward had learned long ago not to be fooled by good looks or smooth talk. After all, that was what had done him in all those years ago. Well, not the good looks and charm, but thinking a man was attractive and allowing himself to be seduced by intense, honey-colored eyes.
Miguel’s eyes were brown, like the dirt-covered barn floor, so Edward figured he was safe from any temptation there. But still, Miguel had broad shoulders and a lean torso, like he took care of himself and his body. If he dressed more suitably for a man of his age, Edward thought he’d look more sophisticated. The jeans and T-shirt did nothing to express his status as a gentleman. A nice top hat and waistcoat paired with some properly fitted trousers would be much more fitting.
Stepping closer, a bird who’d not yet taken off startled, and Miguel practically jumped in fright, making Edward stifle a laugh. He knew his laughter wouldn’t be heard, but years of conditioning to have perfect posture, proper decorum, and a haughty air of superiority made him suppress the impulse nonetheless. The birds knew he was there even if they couldn’t see him.
“I’m guessing I’m not alone if the raised hair on my arms is anything to go by,” Miguel said into the empty space, making Edward raise his eyebrows. “I’m Miguel, the new owner of your estate. I used to come here when I was younger.” Miguel rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. “I apologize for my stupid behavior and any trouble I might have caused. My teen years were less than stellar. I’ve moved back home to help out my mom and sister, and I’m planning on fixing the place up.”
Miguel looked around one more time, his gaze passing right through Edward. “I just wanted to say hello. I hope we can find common ground where we’re all happy. Anyway…nice to meet you. Have a good night.” Then he turned on his heels and left the barn, locking the padlock behind him.