Red Hot Obsessions (67 page)

He caught me by the wrists and held me back. Jesus, he was strong.

“Stop,” he said. His voice was a quiet growl.

“Fuck you,” I said. “Who do you think you are?”

He pushed me up against the refrigerator. He let go of my wrists, but his body blocked me from moving. He rested one hand against the fridge, bending down his face so that it was close to mine. “Your father didn’t want anything to happen to you. He gave his life to keep you safe. He couldn’t have known that you were throwing your life away on a really dangerous, stupid drug. A highly addictive piece of poison.”

“Shut up,” I said.

“He wouldn’t have wanted that for you.”

“You don’t know anything about it.”

“I know the way he talked about you. I know how his wallet was filled with pictures of you, from the time you were a baby, clear up to now. You should be glad he never saw you like this. It would have broken his heart.”

I put my hands on his chest and shoved as hard as I could.

It didn’t do anything. He was as solid as Suit had been earlier. But he did back up and let me move.

I was crying again. “My father never gave two shits about me until I almost got myself killed in that car accident. Then, suddenly, he’s risking his life to keep me alive. If he would have just noticed me before that, maybe I wouldn’t have had to get so drastic.”

“Hey, I’m sorry,” he was saying. “I guess I could have said that in a different way.”

I yanked open the freezer and took out the bottle of vodka. Screw the shot glass. I went to my bedroom and closed the door.

Even the marshmallow flavor didn’t seem to taste that good right now. I clutched the open bottle, leaned up against my bed, and cried.

*

He was knocking on the door.

“Go away,” I said. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been in here, but it was dark outside, and it hadn’t been when I closed the bedroom door. Probably a long time.

“I’m sorry.”

I put the lid back on the vodka. I held up the bottle. After all that, I didn’t think I’d really managed to drink that much of it anyway. I got to my feet and opened the bedroom door. “Sorry?”

He was leaning against the wall opposite my bedroom door. He was good at leaning. He looked absolutely gorgeous. He was a jackass, but he was a pretty jackass. “It’s been awhile since I spent much time with anyone who wasn’t either trying to kill me or helping me stop the guys who were trying to kill me. I kind of forgot how to be polite.”

“You think?” I said.

“Not that I’m saying it’s okay for you to be doing coke,” he said. “It’s not. But I was out of line with what I did and what I said to you.” He looked down at his hands.

And I realized that he had blood on him. I grabbed his hands. “Is this from Suit?”

“Who?”

“The guy you killed earlier,” I said. “I called him Suit in my head.”

“Oh.” He pulled his hands back. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Now that I was closer, I could see that there was a fine bit of spatter on his arms and shirt. “You need to take a shower.”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Are you kidding? You saved me from that guy. I don’t care how tough you are, having his blood on you can’t feel good.”

He stared at the floor. “It never does.”

“So, you should take a shower,” I said. “And I think I might even have a shirt big enough for you.”

“I’ve got clothes,” he said. “I brought a pack. It’s in the living room.”

“Okay, great.”

“I don’t want to impose,” he said. “It’s obvious that you don’t want me around. I can watch over you from outdoors. I can crash in the car or something.”

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “I’m being a brat. You saved my life. I’m grateful.”

He shrugged self-consciously. “Look, I hate Op Wraith. I’d probably have killed that guy anyway.”

“But you did it for me,” I said. I looked into his gray eyes. “Thank you.”

He blushed.

Seriously. Mr. Big, Bad Muscle guy blushed. I looked away, feeling my cheeks heat up too. Why were we both blushing? “The, um, bathroom’s over there.”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

He closed himself in.

And I realized he didn’t have a towel. I went to my linen closet and got him one. I knocked on the door. “I’ve got a towel.”

He opened the door. He wasn’t wearing a shirt anymore. I gazed at his bare chest, which was rippling and taut and tan and... whoa. He was too good looking. It was distracting. My gaze swept over his shoulders and followed down over his pecks and belly...

He had a crudely drawn tattoo on his stomach. It was a circle with a cross in the middle of it.

I gaped at it. “You’re tattoo, um... what is it?”

He snatched the towel from me, covering it.

“Is that a prison tattoo?” I said.

He closed the bathroom door in my face.

*

He took a quick shower, but I felt bad about it the whole time. Here he was, this guy who’d risked his life to save me, who didn’t owe me anything but still wanted to keep me safe. And I was prying, making him feel uncomfortable.

When he came out, he wandered into the living room without looking at me.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not judging or anything . You just poured out my coke, so, obviously, I don’t exactly live by the letter of the law. I figure that the only reason I’ve never been locked up is luck.”

He turned to me. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s open minded of you.” He sat down on my couch. “But, you know, they don’t usually lock people up for possession. Unless you’re possessing a lot, and they can get intent to distribute.”

“Oh,” I said.

He sighed. “Sorry. You were trying to apologize, and I just stomped all over it, didn’t I?”

“You didn’t.”

“I might have a little bit of a chip on my shoulder about the jail stuff.” He shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “I got locked up in an adult facility when I was sixteen years old, and those guys ate me alive. I had to survive. The tattoo was just part of it.”

“It’s okay,” I said. He
had
been in jail. “You don’t have to explain.”

“No,” he said. “I do. Because there’s no other way you’re going to trust me. You’re going to be afraid of me. You’ll think I’m a dangerous convict.”

Man. Dangerous or not, he was really nice to look at. He was still a little bit wet from the shower. There was a droplet of water running down his neck. I bit my lip. “Uh, it’s okay. Seriously. It’s not my business.”

He seemed interested in the armrest of my sofa. “I did a stupid thing when I was a kid. I robbed a store with a toy gun. I didn’t think I’d get any money, but I tried it anyway.” He shrugged. “It worked.”

I had to admit it sounded like something a sixteen-year-old boy would try.

“That was armed robbery as far as the state was concerned,” he said. “I got tried as an adult.”

“Geez,” I said. It seemed extreme.

“Well, I was the idiot who did it,” he said. “I’d still be in jail if it weren’t for Op Wraith and the serum. I got beaten up real bad once—well, I got beaten up a lot on the inside. But this time it was over-the-top bad. I might not have made it. I was dying in the hospital, and Op Wraith took me and doped me up.”

I knew about Dewhurst-McFarland doing stuff like that. My father had told me. “You were a test subject.”

“Who cares what happens to a criminal, right?” said Griffin, bitter. “Especially a criminal who’s probably going to die anyway.”

“They gave you the serum to see if it worked,” I said. “When it did, they turned you into an assassin.”

He nodded.

That was a pretty horrible story. So Griffin had dumped my coke down the sink. That had been a dick move, but he’d also saved my life and was spending his time making sure no one else tried to hurt me. He was right. He was a good guy. “You weren’t a criminal,” I said. “You were an idiot kid. They had no right to do what they did to you.”

He raised his gaze from the sofa to my eyes. “You mean that?”

“Of course.”

He looked away again.

CHAPTER TWO

“I thought you were going to class,” said Griffin. He was standing in my living room, arms folded over his chest.

“I am,” I said.

“Wearing that?”

“What?” I looked down at my outfit. I had on a tiny jean skirt and a pink t-shirt that said, “I Heart Bad Boys.”

“Can you just try not to stand out so much?” he said.

“How am I standing out?” I said.

He sighed. “Listen, doll, there are people out there who are trying to kill you. Serious bad guys, all right? They know you’re a pretty blonde girl. Now, if they walk into your classroom, who do you think is going to jump out at them?”

“Should I dye my hair?”

“Can you put on something that’s a less bright color?” he said. “Something less tight? And short?”

“Go to hell,” I said. “You sound like the father I never wanted.” I picked up my back pack and slung it over my shoulder.

He rubbed his head. “I’m not going to be able to convince you to change, am I?”

“No,” I said, swinging open the front door and heading down the steps.

“Hey,” he called from behind me. “You gonna lock the door?”

“I lost the key,” I called back. “Besides, you can’t tell me those Op Wraith guys can’t pick locks.”

“That is true,” he muttered, coming down the steps after me.

I paused, opening the door to my car. “What are you doing?”

“I’m coming with you.”

“What?” I said. “But I’m only going to class.”

“I’m going to be coming with you everywhere, doll,” he said, opening the passenger door. “You might as well get used to it.”

Seriously? I sagged against the car door.

“Better get going,” he said from inside.

I ducked my head into the car. “There’s no way I’m going to be able to convince you not to come, is there?”

“Nope,” he said.

I got in the car and slammed the door shut.

He didn’t go into class with me, but he did sit outside the entire time, and I saw him pacing in front of the door occasionally. He was like a stalker or something. He did it all day. After every class, he’d be waiting outside for me. “Where do we go next?” he’d say cheerily.

He followed me across campus, from my math class to my English classes to my art appreciation class. He followed me to lunch. There was a cafeteria on campus, but it was mostly for the kids who lived in the dorms. Instead, I usually went to The Wolves Den, which was this little sandwich place that was run by the college. It was only open for lunch during classes. Griffin followed me there too.

There were a few girls from my art class that I usually ate with.

“You want me to sit at a different table?” said Griffin.

“Yes,” I said. It was really annoying to have a shadow.

But I wasn’t fooling anyone.

“Who’s that guy?” said one of my art class friends.

“He’s been following you all day,” said another.

“He’s seriously so cute,” said another.

I sighed. “He’s Griffin. My dad hired me a bodyguard.” The lie seemed to work as well as anything else.

“You lucky slut,” said the first of my art class friends.

“Oh yeah, he can guard my body any day.”

They all giggled. I seethed. He was everywhere, all the time. It was annoying.

*

By the end of the week, I’d had enough. He’d followed me to every class, chased off any of my friends who happened to come by the apartment, and insisted on going everywhere I went. I mentioned off hand that there was a band at The Purple Fiddle that night and that I wanted to go.

“What’s The Purple Fiddle?”

“It’s a restaurant. They serve beer and stuff. And sometimes they have bands,” I said. It was the most charming little pub I’d ever been to in my entire life. It was the best thing about Thomas, in my opinion.

“So, it’s a bar.”

“Kind of,” I said. They didn’t actually have a bar. They sort of had a counter.

“Bad idea.”

“Not a bad idea. A good idea. I need a night out to relax.”

“There will be too many people. I’ll lose track of you. I won’t be able to see if someone tries to hurt you. The crowd will work against me. You’ll be drunk, and you won’t be thinking properly. Overall, just a really bad idea.”

“Great,” I said. “And how long am I going to be banned from bars?”

“Until you’re safe.”

“I might never be safe.”

He took a deep breath. “Listen, doll, what’s more important? Having a few beers or staying alive?”

I glared at him. “I hate you.”

He shrugged.

But he took a shower later, and I left without him.

The Purple Fiddle was eclectic and warm and kooky. The chairs and tables inside were mismatched. There were different kinds of salt and pepper shakers on each of them. On one table, the shakers were shaped like little teapots. On another, they were black and white cats. On yet another table, they were two peas in a pea pod. They were really adorable. When I walked in, I could see a row of shelves to my right, with everything from old instruments to antique typewriters sitting in them. Behind the counter, the beer specials were written in flowing chalky handwriting on a chalk board. The guy working had a scraggly beard and a paisley shirt.

I grinned. Being here always made me feel happy.

The Purple Fiddle wasn’t a place to get fall-down drunk. They prided themselves on their family-friendly atmosphere. Generally, for a crazy Friday night, this was a good starting point. I’d get a few beers, chat with friends, maybe do a few lines together in someone’s car or in the stalls of one of the bathrooms (which were closed in with old screen doors with colorful fabric draped over them so that no one could see through them). Sometimes, we’d go up to the brewery, but they usually closed around midnight, which meant leaving when the Fiddle was still kicking. Once in a while, I went to a bar in Davis, which was a five-minute drive away.

But usually, if I wanted to get crazy, I went to someone’s house afterward.

Someone would throw an impromptu party after the Fiddle. I’d done it myself.

Even though the college I went to was only fifteen miles from Thomas, very few of the people who went there hung out in town. Lots of them lived on campus. They didn’t seem to want to leave.

I didn’t get it. I’d lived in a dorm in Boston. It had sucked.

Even as a freshman, before I could get into bars, I’d spent most of my time not on campus. It was way cooler to hang out in an actual town.

Of course, I wasn’t sure Thomas quite qualified. It was very, very small. A far cry from Boston. Still, I liked it here. There was something warm about the town, something inviting. I felt like I belonged.

There was a small group of people in town who didn’t live on campus and went to school and a group of people who’d never seemed to make it out of Thomas after either graduating from the college or from dropping out. Those were the people I hung out with.

I got a beer at the counter, and I spied Clint dancing to the band. They were some bluegrass band that I hadn’t seen before. Sometimes, there was some repeat action with bands at The Fiddle. But not these guys.

I actually liked bluegrass. I didn’t think I was going to at first. I thought it would be like that country western stuff you hear on the radio, with all the whooping and talk about cowboys and stuff. But bluegrass was high energy and fast. It sounded more like Celtic music than country. And most of the songs were about falling in love or killing your girlfriend. Seriously. They were called murder ballads. Anyway, I dug it. Who knew?

He waved at me. I went across the place to join him.

He stopped dancing. “Hey, did you bring anything with you?”

Anything meant any coke. I shook my head. “Griffin washed it down the drain.”

Clint clutched his heart. “You’re kidding me.”

“No, I’m not. He’s taking this ‘protecting me’ thing way too seriously.”

“Where is he?” asked Clint.

“I snuck away,” I said. “I’m free, and I want to stay that way. Is anyone doing anything at their houses tonight?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “But, hey, if you want to, we could go back to my place. I’ve got Red Bull and vodka.”

“Marshmallow vodka?” I asked.

He grinned. “You know it.”

“Sold,” I said.

*

Clint lived outside of town, so we’d have to drive there. Together, the two of us left The Purple Fiddle.

We bumped into Griffin on the street as soon as we walked out. He folded his arms over his chest and glared at me. “I told you no.”

I grabbed Clint’s hand. “Run!” I said, giggling. I took off down the street in the opposite direction of Griffin, dragging Clint with me.

We ran all the way to Clint’s car.

“Get in,” said Clint.

I wheezed, looking around for Griffin, who I couldn’t see. It seemed weird that he wouldn’t have run after me. “No, I want my own car to get home.” If not, I’d have to wait until Clint decided to drive me home, and I didn’t like feeling trapped.

“I’ll give you a ride back later,” said Clint. “Come on. Your bodyguard could show up at any minute.”

Where was he? Had we really outrun him? “Okay,” I said. “But you promise you’ll take me home when I ask?”

“Yeah, yeah, I promise,” he said. “Get in.”

Casting one last look around for Griffin, I got in the car with Clint. We drove back to his house.

I met Clint months ago when I first got to Thomas. We’d immediately bonded over our shared love for various substances, but we also had similar tastes in movies and stuff. (We both loved Quentin Tarantino and 1980s monster movies.) Clint was also one of the few guys who I’d managed to stay friends with after I broke my two-night rule. The only other guy was my friend Axel in Boston.

Generally, I couldn’t be friends with a guy if I’d had sex with him more than once. If it was only one time, I could brush it off as a passing craze. More than once meant that there was something else going on, and it usually meant that one or both people were developing
feelings
for the other. And that meant someone—probably me—was going to get hurt. I wanted to avoid that at all costs.

But Clint and I had slept together a few times, and it had never mattered. He didn’t get jealous of me sleeping with other guys. I never cared whether he gave me the time of day or not. I would have thought that made him the perfect man if I didn’t suspect that he only used me for cocaine.

“Whoa,” I said as we walked into his apartment. Clint lived in a two-bedroom that was the upstairs of an old house that had been cut up into four apartments. Usually, his place was messy. Tonight, it was straightened and clean. “What happened?”

Clint plopped down on the couch. “I got a roommate. He’s anal about everything staying clean, and he’s sort of bigger than me, so I’m afraid he’ll beat me up if I’m my usual messy self.”

I giggled. “That would suck.” I made my way through the living room into the kitchen. Clint and I hung out so much that I felt comfortable helping myself in his house. “You want a Red Bull and vodka?”

“Totally,” he said from the couch.

I opened his refrigerator. “You have Monster, not Red Bull.”

“Same difference.”

It really wasn’t the same difference, but there was no changing it now. I mixed us some drinks and brought them back out to the sofa.

“You’re so cool, you know that, Leigh?” said Clint, accepting his drink.

I settled down next to him. “Why thank you.”

“No,” he said. “I mean it. You’re a girl, and you’re really hot, but... you’re like a guy.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Excuse me?” Okay, maybe I had a tomboy phase before I grew breasts. What ten-year-old girl didn’t climb trees and go to karate class? (Not that I got past being a white belt.) But these days, there was not a shred of butch in me. I hated football, I cared about personal grooming, and I so did not belch audibly.

“I mean because you aren’t clingy,” he said. “You just take what you want. You’re like a player, but a girl.”

I took a drink of Monster and vodka. The marshmallow flavor wasn’t quite as complimentary. “Is that cool, though?” Didn’t they have a word for girls like that? It wasn’t as nice as “player,” either. It was “slut,” wasn’t it?

“Totally,” said Clint. “Because it’s awesome to know where I stand with you.” He leaned over and kissed me.

I kissed back for a second, and then I pulled back. “I don’t always just take what I want.”

He laughed. “Of course you do. You don’t think about stupid stuff like how a guy feels or whether he might want more than sex. You just go for it, and if he doesn’t like it, he has to deal with it. It’s really great.”

It didn’t sound great to me. It sounded like I was kind of a bitch, like the guy had called me the morning my dad...

I gulped at my drink. I wished I had someone to talk to about my dad’s passing. But I couldn’t tell anyone that it had happened. It would open up too many questions. Was I going to his funeral? Where was it? And I couldn’t afford to draw attention, because I wasn’t even here under my real last name. If people went looking for a Mr. Dunn, they wouldn’t find him, because he didn’t exist.

And it made it worse to know that there wouldn’t be a funeral, that I wouldn’t ever see his body and get to properly say goodbye. I felt like I might start crying. I didn’t want to do that in front of Clint. “I wish we had some blow.”

“Your bodyguard is an ass,” said Clint. “That was premium stuff he got rid of.”

“You don’t have anything?” I said.

“Completely out,” he said.

I set my drink down. “I have money. Let’s drive to Morgantown and get some.”

“That’s like a three-hour round trip,” he said. “I’ve got a better idea. I know where my roommate hides his stash.”

“No,” I said. “That’s a bad idea.”

“We won’t do all of it,” said Clint. “Just a little. He won’t notice.”

I chewed on my lip. What Clint was proposing here was an impossibility. There was no doing a little coke. Once anyone started, she’d keep going until it was all gone. It was a law of nature or something. “I really don’t think...”

He was already getting up from the couch. “Don’t worry, Leigh. It’s cool.”

*

I couldn’t stop laughing. “You’re an idiot!”