Expel (24 page)

Chapter 41

Missing you

Long after midnight, the tiny prattle of raindrops sizzle along my window as I lie in bed tossing and turning. I pour over every memory that Gage and I ever shared like some sort of morbid eulogy to our relationship, always falling into the glaring hole of my deception. It’s destitute to think there may never be another moment to add to the collection. That I had unwittingly already experienced the very last kiss he would ever give me.

I send him a quick text.

I miss you ~S

I wait an hour for a response but nothing.

There’s a rattle in my closet, and I spike up in bed. It’s him!

I run my fingers through my hair and sit up in anticipation as a dark shadow emerges tall and gangly, smelling profusely of something banned by the government. Its just Ellis.

“I gotta do a quick run, wanna come?” He sits at the edge of my bed and bounces three times straight to pronounce his urgency.

“Yeah. Like you don’t need me,” I say, taking off my covers and stepping into my shoes, albeit from two different pairs. I’d change, but I’ve found that PJs are perfectly acceptable attire for lurking in the bushes. “What’s the code?” Ever since a demonic Fem took over my likeness, I thought we should have a password to affirm my identity.

“I’m supposed to ask you,” he says.

“Oh, right. How about we say it together, and that way I know it’s you?”

He holds out his fingers and counts to three.

“Love honeys,” we say in unison. Our voices meld in rhythm. It sounds pretty, like an old-fashioned song.

I take Ellis up by the hand and away we go.

***

It’s cool out this night—homecoming of years past. A thicket of fog lies over the island, sealing us in its comfortable haze. Headlights trail down the road, lighting up the world for a moment with their quiet illumination before the void fills in with shadows again.

“I’ll be quick,” Ellis darts up the driveway high fiving a crowd of guys in the stoner circle out front.

I must have landed us later than usual. I’m probably in the forest right now hunting Chloe down with the spirit sword. A repressed smile emerges at the thought. Chloe and her masterful destruction of my relationship—she has no idea what I have planned for her—neither do I, but those discretionary details don’t seem relevant at the moment.
 

A husky voice calls out goodnight as it fast approaches.

It’s Gage!

I take in his sturdy frame, recognize that signature hop to his step that suggests he had a good time. God—I would give anything to love him again.

“Excuse me!” I call out, dashing out of the bushes in my pajamas and mismatched shoes. OK, so, if I would have thought this through I could be looking really hot right now and not like some psychotic pajama-wearing lunatic who’s playing fast and loose with time in an effort to stalk my boyfriend. At least it’s not the pink PJs with images of kittens in teacups wallpapered all over. I look down and, to my surprise, I’m mocked by both kittens and teacups alike. Perfect.

“I was just thinking about you.” There is not one note of anger, or sarcasm in his tone as his gaze settles. Those hungry eyes burn for me, and it takes everything in me not to bow in his presence. I’ve already impressed myself on him in the past. “You wanna hang out?” He ends the question with a rise of curiosity as he inspects my strange attire.

“I spilt something, and this was all I had,” I fan out my arms. “Yes, I would very much love to hang out.” I stop just shy of attacking him with a massive hug—accosting him with my lips.
  
 

“You want to drive down to Devil’s Peak?”

“No,” I practically shout it at him. No driving. “I’m not in the mood for a drive.” I shrug.

“OK. How about a movie? No one’s awake at my house,” he leans in and his dimples explode with glory.

“That sounds perfect.”

I privately laude Ellis’ genius all the way over to the Oliver’s living room as Gage places in a DVD. I hold my breath as the movie gets started in the event Chloe’s revenge spans time and space.

The movie cues up, the opening scene is peppered with a slow trickling list of credits, and I exhale my anxiety. Gage sinks into the couch beside me and lays his arm just over my shoulders. I scoot in close to his thigh, nuzzle against his neck and take in his sweet familiar scent.

“Is everything OK?” His mild sense of worry proliferates into an all out look of concern.

Tears start to build, and I fight them off with a series of hard blinks.

I reach up and trace his lips with my finger. He bites down playfully before pulling it back up to his lips and kissing it softly.

It would be so easy for me to take advantage of him like this, knowing full well he’d throw me out the door if he knew who I was, what
future Skyla
had done to him. I lay my hand over his chest and take in his features, broad and solid, every bit a god—if not more so—than Logan.

I let him come to me with his lips, cover me with the hot of his mouth and indulge in a kiss that ignores the constraints of age and time—it spells out love and forever much better than any careless sentiment that I could ever utter.

We spend the next hour in a playful tug of war with our tongues, his hands hot on my waist, my thighs. I miss the pleasure of being with Gage, even now while I’m with him lost in his kisses I openly yearn for him. I didn’t know it was possible to feel this way, love this deep and yet, ache with fathomless hurt at the same time.

“Would you forgive me if I made a mistake?” I whisper it soft into his ear as the movie drones on.
 
    

“Of course I would.” He reaches down and sweeps his thumb over my cheek, wiping away tears I didn’t know existed. A part of me wants to fill him in on who I really am or who I will be in his life one day—the mistakes that will put out the fire of our relationship and leave us choking on the smoke. “I doubt you could hurt a fly, but I’d forgive you of anything.” His eyes spark with renewed lust for me.

I lean into his chest, close my eyes—rise and fall with his steady breathing.

I’ve hurt you, Gage—and you haven’t forgiven me.

Chapter 42

The Deal

The dark clouds overhead, glide steady like the shadow of a very long train, rolling over Paragon.

I let myself into Demetri’s oversized McMansion and stumble into the entry with nothing but the hollow sound of my footsteps to greet me.

“Hello, beautiful,” strums a soothing male voice.

I turn in fright to find an aura of blue, filling up the room with its shimmering majesty.

“Logan,” I reprimand. “You gave me a freaking heart attack.”

He morphs into his fleshly version and offers an apologetic smile.

“I need a hug.” I wrap my arms around him. He feels real in every way, solid and alive.

“They’ve moved me from the Soulennium.”

I pull back, trying to decode what this might mean.

“I’m a semi-permanent resident of the Transfer until I get my body back—
if
I get my body back.”

“You will,” I assure, picking up Demetri’s twisted list of demands, glossing over it before tossing it back from whence it came. “In fact, I’m going to tell Gage about you.” It’s part of the big plan I concocted to manipulate Gage into committing vocal discourse with me. I’ll simply blurt out
Logan is dead,
and I’ll have his full attention. But, then again, Holden has him masterfully pissed. Gage might actually cheer if I told him Logan was in a cadaverous state.

“You probably shouldn’t tell Gage until he’s finished his round of antibiotics. My uncle said he was very close to another internment at his least favorite spa. Let him get better.” He presses out a weak smile. “Can I take you somewhere later? Falls maybe?” There’s an air of desperation in his voice—a hint of mourning for all we could have been.

“Sure. I heard Ethan and Chloe mention something about a party at my house tonight,” I shrug. “It’s the last place I want to be.”

Logan blinks out of the room.

“Logan?” I step around the corner in the event he fell through the wall, or he’s spontaneously decided to engage in a game of hide and seek.

“I’ve banished him from my presence,” Marshall strides by as though it were the norm for people to pop in and out of existence—and in Demetri’s house of horrors, it just might be. “I’ll be making an anonymous deposit to the trolling alley nonprofit fund this Monday.”

“Trolling
,” I parrot. Funny, and yet, so true. “Thanks! What do I owe you? And I no longer pay in flesh.”

“I’ll consider your time equally as delicious. I’m holding a celestial boot camp exclusively for you. We must prepare for battle, Love. Bring your game as you would say. You’ll need it.”

I follow him down the long expansive marble floors right into the cavernous kitchen. Marshall pulls open the stainless fridge and bends into the massive steel unit inspecting the offerings.

“There’s someone who wants a word with you,” he muffles.

“My mother?” I spring up at the thought.

“No, Love.” He closes the refrigerator door and exposes a very toxically fueled Ezrina. “I’ll leave you two to discuss the finer points of your agreement, carry on.” And with that, he disappears.

“Trial,” Ezrina’s voice echoes. It vibrates through the miles of stainless appliances that line the kitchen, trembles beneath my feet, electrocuting my bones.

“Yes, I’m working on that,” I round out the large island in the center of the room, slow and steady, as not to let on that I’m about to bolt.

From behind her back she produces a long handled knife the size of a small sword.

“Body,” her voice quivers as she speeds in my direction.

“No!” I hold up my hands in defense, fully expecting her to slice off all ten fingers in one clean sweep. In an aerobic worthy feat I manage to jump to the back of the kitchen, caging myself in like a lumbering beast.

Shit. I’m so freaking stupid.

“I
swear
, I’ll be talking to my mother real soon,” I plead. “That job has her horribly bogged down.” Really? That’s the best I could come up with? And is reminding Ezrina what my mother does for a living really the best idea? After all, it was my mother who cursed her to a life of servitude. “But, I promise, I’ll be speaking to her about your situation as soon as possible.”

A silver blade rotates through the air, enlarges in diameter as it speeds in my direction. A hard thud bullets through my left shoulder. I stare down in disbelief at the protruding handle as a bloom of heat radiates from my newfound wound.

I let out a whimper while staring at the metal tongue protruding from my flesh.

“I
swear
?” Marshall manifests before me, extracting the knife with a lack of delicacy. “I
promise
?” He balks, rinsing the blade before letting it drop to the bottom of the sink. “Have you learned nothing about dealing with spiritual beings? You don’t offer up a binding agreement on a whim, Skyla.”

I inspect the vicinity behind him and note that Ezrina is gone.

“So
now
you tell me.” I press a white dishtowel against the crimson geyser spouting from my body.

Marshall removes the towel and rubs his hand hard over the puncture. It feels horrifically painful and gratifying all at the same time.

“I’ve sealed you. I’ll leave the pain as a reminder.”

There’s a rattle in the entry, female voices murmur and laugh.

“Your nemesis has arrived. Do refrain from lobbing cutlery at one another. I’m afraid I’ve other affairs to tend to—healing the masses is low on my priority list for the day.” He dissolves in a thunderclap.

I’d rather play catch with Ezrina with a quiver full of knives than hang out with Chloe any day. Too bad I don’t have a choice.

***

Before I can hit the entry, the voices escalate into something just this side of a brawl.

Emily and Chloe both glance in my direction before continuing their tirade.

“I didn’t steal anybody, tell her Skyla,” Chloe demands while perusing Demetri’s wish list for the day. “I don’t steal people.”

“No, she kills them.” I’m more than happy to agree with Chloe when factual information is concerned. More so, I’m finding this whole tell the truth thing rather addictive. I’m sure Tad will label it a disorder like everything else, especially after I tag every sentence I utter to him with,
you moron
. There are some truths I’d love to espouse.

“And what about Brielle?” Chloe scoffs at Emily. “You tried digging your claws into the father of her child. That makes you a monster in my book.” Her dark hair pops in contrast to her pink sweater. Chloe in pink is like dipping a cockroach in chocolate and trying to pass it off as wholesome. There’s something innately wrong about the combination in general.

“Oh really?” Emily crosses her arms, unable to capture Chloe’s full attention.

Emily has a butch way about her. It scares me enough to know to stay the hell away. But Chloe never shows fear, she owns it, makes it sing to her like a lullaby.

“Let’s see,” Emily continues, “Just around Christmas everyone thought Skyla here was having Gage’s baby and that didn’t stop you from becoming a level five cling on. Everyone knew he was into her. You must have had some major dirt on him to make him stand by your side like your new gung ho boyfriend. Only he wasn’t so gung ho, he was sulking. Did you pay him to hang out with you? That is your specialty, right? Buying people?”

“It was Dudley’s baby,” Chloe’s voice booms across the marble expanse, reverberates off the stone like the clatter of a rattlesnake. Chloe owns up to nothing else but the supposed error in Emily’s condemnation.

Marshall appears in the adjoining room, relaxing in an armchair. I’m sure he’s lapping this up with his feet on Demetri’s antique furniture while visions of our lovechild dance in his head.

“Skyla was involved with
Dudley
, still is,” Chloe insists. “You saw the evidence. Don’t make me sick trying to throw Gage in my face. He has feelings for me.” Her lips tighten as she scans the to-do list one more time. “He told me so last night.”

My stomach sours.

Shit. Chloe is finally reaping the benefits of the hellion ways she’s been cultivating since conception. Gage is vulnerable right now, not that I believe a single word Chloe says since every other sentence she utters takes a leap in logic. I’m pretty sure the one solid feeling Gage has for Chloe is comprised of revulsion and loathing.

“The only way people have feelings for you, is if you manipulate them into having them,” Emily spits the words out laced with venom.

It’s like she read my mind.

“Skyla,” Chloe takes in a deep cleansing breath further ignoring Emily’s rant, “there’s an office upstairs, first door on the right. Mr. Edinger needs an itemization of everything in his grandfather’s desk. Emily you can assist her because, quite frankly, you make me want to vomit.” She leans in. Her eyes glow like coals as she comes in for the kill. “And Ethan wholeheartedly agrees. He said he’d rather chew his arm off than touch you. Also,” Chloe perks up, “he says you have the face of a possum.” With that she traipses upstairs.

Emily speeds up after her. I’m assuming she’s headed up to do the task at hand—

not slaughter Chloe like she really wants. Although, we are alone, and God knows I’d never rat Emily out if she happened to accidentally, on purpose, disembowel Chloe with a paperclip. However, with my luck, she’d pin all the blame on me, and with my long destructive history where Chloe is concerned, people would believe her.

Marshall is nowhere to be seen as I head up after Emily. First door to the right manages to produce an archaic looking office complete with marble statues of sleeping angels perched high above the bookshelves. The room itself is dark and cloying, devoid of any natural light. The desk is smooth cherry with a heavy gloss, nothing but a small globe, pieced together from gemstones, sitting on top. My fingers meander over to it, and my wrist drops from the heft.

An oversized office chair, a tufted hunter’s green, beckons me. I take a seat and glide over the hardwood floor on its casters. I roll the fat globe back onto the desk, pull open the long drawer in front of me and inspect my findings—a blank note pad, about a dozen loose pens.

Cataloging, pencils, paperclips, two boxes of staples, is not the way I planned on spending my Saturday.

I used to think doing community service with Demetri would be sheer torture, that I would rather chop my feet off and walk on my hands the rest of my life but this certainly beats roadside assistance with a shovel and a trashcan. There’s no orange jumpsuit involved, so already it’s made of win.

I pull out my cell to see if there’s a message from Gage, but nothing.

It’s so deathly quiet here. I wonder what Emily is up to? Didn’t the Gestapo specifically order her to shoulder up with me in office supply labor detention?

God, what if she really is trying to kill Chloe? I bolt up and take off down the hall. The same blue glow captures me, and I head over to the overgrown library to see if the secret passage is still opened—see if the Fem Hall of Fame has any West Paragon High cheerleaders doubling as visitors or decapitated wall mounts.

A cold breeze accosts me in the library, feels like ten thousand disembodied spirits all rallied to greet my presence. I speed past the stacks of ancient texts, the air sweetened with decaying parchment. The cracked and aging hardbacks hunger for my touch. They entice me with their gilt lettering, hold the promise of transferring their knowledge in exchange for rubbing their spines. These books crave love, attention, human hands to cradle them. This is what Demetri should donate to the garbage sale, the whole damn library.