For Ever (19 page)

“What?”

“You slept in your clothes?”

I look down and see my shirt from the night
before. And I’m still wearing jeans. The blood drains from my
face.

I can’t remember how I got home.

“I guess I was too tired to change,” I say
weakly.

“Must have been quite a party.”

I hug my knees and shrug as she sits down on
the edge of the bed and pats my head.

“It was all right.”

“Are you sure you’re not just disappointed
that the boy you like wasn’t there?” she smiles.

Another shockwave hits me. The very last
thing I remember from last night was staring up at Ever Casey. I
flinch when my mom waves a hand in front of my face.

“Wren? You okay?”

“Yeah, sorry. I just remembered that I left
my jacket in Ashley’s car.”

“So, I meant to tell you last night before I
left … I’m going to meet up with some people from the hospital for
brunch. Then I was going to stay at the office for a bit to catch
up on paperwork. Unless you want me to stay. We could go to a
matinee.”

I shake my head. “No, that’s all right.”

“I’ll call when I’m coming home? Maybe we can
order a pizza tonight,” she smiles.

“Sounds great.”

I lean over and kiss her on the cheek. She
gets up, and as soon as the door shuts behind her, I start shaking.
What happened last night? And why can’t I remember? Jumping out of
bed, I race to my desk and turn on my computer—like I’m going to
find answers on the Internet. Opening my e-mail, I see a note from
Ashley.

wren, got ur text. wht happd? call me – BIG
news! A

I chew my lip. What am I going to tell her
when I call her back? That I had to run for my life, and Ever Casey
appeared out of nowhere, and I can’t remember how I got home?
Before I can come up with a rational explanation, I see a response
to my latest car query. The seller’s note says I can come look at
the car today. Finally! Good news. I search quickly for a list of
train stations close to our house before running to the door.

“Mom! If I take a really quick shower, can I
get a ride to the train station?”

She looks out of her bedroom door.

“Yeah, hurry up.” She pauses, looking
suspicious. “Why?”

“I think I found a car. I was going to go
check it out.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“By yourself?”

A flash of running through a foggy cemetery
makes me swallow.

“Um, yeah. I’ll be all right.”

“You’ll call me as soon as you get back?”

“Promise.”

Back in my room, I suddenly know how it must
feel to have amnesia. My purse—complete with pepper spray, wallet,
keys, and cell phone—is sitting on my nightstand. I hunt around for
any memory of getting home, but all I can come up with is the same
image of Ever staring down at me. With no other information to go
on, I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt and
assume
that after saving me from the miscreants at the
party, he didn’t hit me over the head with a lead pipe or spike the
sports drink he gave me.

At the train station, my mom’s still wearing
the same worried expression. I smile and pat her on the hand.

“I’ll call you as soon as I get back. And
maybe I’ll have a car.”

Just the thought makes me grin.

“That’s what I’m worried about.”

I roll my eyes.

“Just be safe,” she says.

I jump out and walk toward the covered
benches between the two sets of tracks, stopping in front of the
ticket machine to study the large map. One side of the tracks goes
deeper into the suburbs outside of Portland; the other side goes to
the city center. Satisfied I know which stop I want, I purchase a
ticket and sit down to wait. When the train pulls up, I choose a
seat near the back and start trying to make sense of the night
before. I remember the party in vivid detail, the terror of running
through the darkness. But anything after that point is fuzzy.

I have no idea how Ever appeared
instantaneously in the middle of a cemetery. I have even less of an
idea about how he incapacitated five men. The worst part is the
fact that I have no memory of getting home. I don’t know what Ever
Casey is, but I’m way past the point of thinking he’s human.
There’s no doubt any more.

He is something …
else
.

I watch the scrolling sign as it lists the
upcoming stops. Next is Pioneer Square. I step off and look around.
There’s a Starbucks across the way. A hot beverage sounds good, but
as soon as I pull out my wallet I think about having to pay for gas
for my future car, and I resist the impulse. I study the address I
wrote down and look for the line that will take me to the right
part of town. Then I turn and watch the train I was just on. I
thought I had to transfer, but now I see the blue line would have
taken me in the right direction. There’s another problem, though. I
clearly misjudged the distance to my destination. By a lot. My
future car isn’t even in the city of Portland. It’s in a whole
other town that I’ve never heard of, way east, out by the Columbia
River. But it’s Saturday, and I figure a day on public
transportation is a small price to pay for my own vehicle.

I pull out my iPod and begin pacing up and
down, admiring the historic courthouse. I promise myself that I’ll
come back and walk around downtown soon. It’s early enough on a
weekend morning that there aren’t many people out, just a few
walking or jogging by. A man sitting a few yards away is muttering
to himself. When the next train comes, I jump on, but he remains
where he is, locked in his inner world. I look back and study his
weathered face. It’s etched by time and dirt, and his eyes don’t
even seem to register what’s right in front of him.

This makes me think of Ever Casey’s
self-imposed isolation. Like he’s been living on another planet.
And from this angle, his complete indifference makes sense—sort of.
Could it be that he’s simply marking time until he can stop
pretending to be something other than what he is? Which is
what
?

I lean back as stops stream by. This trip is
taking longer than I thought it would, and I have no idea where I
am. I’ve been on the train for more than an hour now, not counting
my detour. The next stop flashes on the screen, and I breathe out
when it matches the one I saw on the map. A blast of icy wind hits
me as I step off the train. It’s much colder here than it was at
our house, reminding me of my jacket in the backseat of Ashley’s
car.

With my scribbled directions in hand, I walk
to the nearest intersection. There’s a large shopping center across
the street filled with familiar stores. I pass it and enter a
residential area before turning off the main street. Then I walk
until I reach another main thoroughfare. Across the way, there are
more houses, a little shabbier than the ones I just passed. Several
blocks down, there’s an apartment complex and a convenience store
advertising various brands of beer.

I cross at the corner and jump back as a
large dog lunges toward me, barking furiously from behind its
chain-link fence. The lawn beyond is littered with toys. I walk for
another five minutes before I recognize the street name listed in
my directions. The house is down at the very end. Parked at the
curb I see the car that was pictured in the posting. A panel on the
right rear bumper is painted flat gray. That wasn’t visible in the
ad’s picture, but other than that it looks all right.

There are two men in the driveway. Angry
music is blaring from the stereo of the car they’re working on, and
tools are strewn all over. One of the men is bent over the hood;
the other is standing by watching. The car in progress looks faster
than the one I’m looking to buy. On the curb, yet another vehicle,
in worse condition, is up on blocks. Multiple beer bottles are
perched on the roof of the car they’re working on.

I slow down and assess the situation. I’m not
on a dark road in the middle of the night—like I was last night.
And there are people around. A few doors down, there’s a woman
taking out the trash.

And bottom line: I really want a car.

With a deep breath, I walk forward and wave
to the guy who isn’t bent over the engine. He’s heavyset and a few
inches taller than I am. He nudges his friend, and I watch as the
other man straightens up. He’s taller than his friend, but much
thinner, dressed in oil-stained jeans and a sleeveless white shirt,
despite the frigid wind. His almost-white blond hair is cut short.
Beneath the stubble on his chin, his skin is pockmarked and ruddy.
I frown. He’s also wearing dark sunglasses.

“I’m Wren. I’m here about the car,” I add,
pointing.

“
Wren
?” the guy with the sunglasses
repeats.

“Yeah. I e-mailed you,” I remind him.

He steps forward and looks me up and down
before smiling.

“So you want to take it for a drive? We can
drop off my buddy here.”

I pause to think of a polite way around his
offer. Then I shake my head.

“If it runs, I’ll take it.”

He looks back at his friend, who has returned
to reclining against the other car. Mentally I will the blond guy
to take off the sunglasses, but he doesn’t. Instead, he walks to
the driver’s side, leans through the window and turns the key. The
engine turns over with a cough.

He pulls his torso out of the window and
leans back with a shrug.

“You want it or not?” he asks.

“Um, I don’t have all the money with me,” I
say cautiously. “Can I leave some kind of deposit and come back
later?”

I suddenly want a reason—any reason—just to
walk away, no matter how much I want the car.

“Well, I’ve had several interested parties.
Why don’t you come inside, and we’ll talk about a price? You want a
drink?”

I stop when he gestures to a cooler sitting
at the foot of the car they were working on. How old do I look to
him? Taking a step back, I watch cautiously as he straightens up
and begins walking toward me, his hands raised in front of him like
he’s placating a skittish animal. I take another step back, vaguely
aware of a low hum coming from behind me. The sound keeps getting
louder until the two men forget about me, turning to stare at its
source. Finally, my curiosity gets the better of me, and I look
over my shoulder.

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any
worse. A motorcycle, shiny and black, has just pulled up behind me.
The rider steps smoothly off the bike and approaches me. Afraid
this is some sort of scam where they rob prospective buyers, I
start backing away from all three figures, watching apprehensively
as the rider removes his helmet with one long hand. My mouth drops
open as Ever comes to a stop between the blond guy and me. When he
takes off his jacket and hands it to me, I blink, realizing how
cold I am wearing only a T-shirt and hooded sweatshirt.

“Put it on,” he says in a low voice when I
remain frozen.

Swallowing, I pull on the jacket. It’s very
warm, but way too big for me. As Ever reaches back for my hand, the
guy in the sunglasses puffs up and begins moving toward us, his
friend a few steps behind.

“Listen,
buddy
, me and the girl have a
business arrangement to discuss—”

Ever doesn’t bother turning in his direction.
Instead, he guides me toward the idling motorcycle. A spare helmet
appears in his hands, and I hesitate, suddenly even more terrified
than I was a minute ago. Without asking, he pulls it over my head
and tightens the strap. The next second, he’s on the bike offering
his hand to me. Reaching out, I feel my stomach drop into my feet
when he grasps my arm and pulls me up behind him. He’s wearing
gloves, not that it lessens the shock of the close contact. Pressed
against his back, I automatically wrap my arms around his waist as
the engine revs. The bike rockets forward, and maybe the adrenaline
is making me stupid, but I’m confident that Ever won’t let anything
happen to me.

Still gripping him, I turn my head and look
back just before we reach the end of the street. The two men are
staring after us. The thin blond guy has raised his glasses to his
forehead, and an ugly torrent of obscenities is spewing out of his
head, directed at Ever. The image of metal—a knife sitting in the
glove box of the car they were working on makes me flinch.

A few moments later, we’re on a freeway
onramp. We reach downtown Portland in less than half the time it
took me to get to my destination. Ever slows down on the city
streets, accelerating again as we reach the hills separating the
city from the suburbs. My stomach suddenly plummets. Ever can’t
take me home on a motorcycle! My mom will kill me—or have a heart
attack. Or both. But soon the turns become windier, the scenery
increasingly remote, and it’s clear we’re not going to my house. A
blur of green is all that’s visible through the visor, though every
few seconds I catch sight of the valley below.

When we bank on another hairpin turn, my
heart hammers. The prospect of hurtling into the trees at any
second seems likely. Instead, Ever downshifts and pulls off onto
another road leading deeper into the hills. The road curves again,
and I see a lone structure up ahead. The building looks mostly
composed of bare metal, sheetrock, and glass. Parked in front of
the structure is the black Maserati. Of course, this is a place
where that car belongs—not in front of our rental house. The
motorcycle glides to a stop in front of the stark building, and
Ever offers his hand, allowing me to climb down. As soon as my feet
touch the ground, I lurch sideways. He steadies me before pulling
away.

“Do you
live
here?”

He nods.

“Alone?”

“Often, yes.”

“Don’t you have family?”

He pauses, almost like he’s about to say
something, but he stops. I frown. How silly of me. Of course he’s
not going to answer any questions. Still, I can’t muster any anger
or disappointment since this is the second time in less than
twenty-four hours that he’s appeared out of nowhere when something
bad was about to happen to me.