Fissure - The Patrick Chronicles_Book 1 - Nicole Williams

FISSURE By Nicole Williams

Copyright © 2012 by Nicole Williams This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical without express permission from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes. Cover Image Copyright © Olly/shutterstock.com

CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN CHAPTER NINETEEN

This one’s for the fans. You, and you, and yes, you over there in the corner. For being all around fantastic people who encouraged, inspired, and threatened me under penalty of death to give Patrick his own story. I heart you all!

CHAPTER ONE

I no longer recognized the man I’d become, at least not the last time I’d dared myself to turn on a light and take a long, investigative look in the mirror. The blackness was so familiar it no longer seemed dark, making me wish there was some way to keep my damned Immortal eyes from being so efficient at adjusting and compensating to my surroundings. I craved blackness, I needed blackness. I felt black. I suppose you could say I was in something of a funk. To put it lightly. Funk was just a gentler way of saying I’d holed myself up in a light impaired room for the better part of the summer, seeking companionship from nothing or no one but the bottom of a bottle. Speaking of my little friend . . . Fumbling around the carpet until I found what I was searching for, I discovered every last slot save for one in my precious cardboard box was empty. Tilting my head back, I looked up at where I assumed the sky still hung behind the black ceiling. “I can hear you laughing up there,” I grumbled, twisting the cap off the bottle and tipping it back. To say I’d become a champion chugger as of late would be like saying I was in a funk—the two went hand in hand. Before I could enjoy the sting of the liquid making its way down my throat, the bottle was empty. I cursed under my breath, nothing I’d be proud to repeat. “Now it’s just getting insulting,” I continued my one-sided conversation with whatever deity that might be listening. “Could you tone the laughter down an earthquake or two? You’re hurting my feelings.” “Talking to yourself again, brother?” a voice teased as the door swung open. “That’s only a couple symptoms south of institutionalization.” The light cutting into the room physically pained me. My eyes burned like they were going to burst into flames. “Close the bloody door,” I hollered, launching the empty

bottle in the direction of the cursed light. “Hmmm,” Joseph mused, sniffing the rim of the bottle as he caught it mid-air. “Your preferred poison, I smell.” He took another exaggerated sniff before sailing it back my way. “Root beer.” My fingers curled around it before the bottle bounced off my forehead. I might not have been myself, but cat like reflexes to the tenth power were one of the few perks to Immortality. My senses were so fine-tuned a train could have been barreling down the tracks at me in a stone cold coma and something inside would have responded with just the right amount of cognition to stop it in its tracks. So, yeah. I was a being of a supernatural quality. Whoop dee doo. You would have thought two hundred years of service to the cause, as a Guardian protecting Mortals from the guys in the opposite corner, the Inheritors, would have earned me a get out of mental funk free card. Perhaps I should have demanded to read the fine print before I passed from Mortality to the other side, exchanging the privileged, carefree life of a twenty year old for the responsibility and duty of Immortality. Idleness was a word that couldn’t be found in the Immortal dictionary. “Thomas Kemper’s?” he guessed, propping a shoulder into the doorframe, giving me a condescending older brother look that perturbed me since he was the baby of the four brothers. Although I suppose my most recent behavior was more in line with infancy. “Dad’s,” I sneered back. “You know I don’t drink that yuppie expensive stuff. He laughed, another older brother-like response. “Why should I know that? It’s not like everything you like is expensive, right?” “If you’re trying to cheer me up or something . . .” I said, dropping the empty bottle into the empty case, feeling like I was burying a good friend. “You suck. Not suck as in a little, but hardcore, you’ve just won the Guinness Book of World Records suck.” “Nice to see you, too,” he replied, all cheery and sunny like today was the best day of his life and, to Joseph, it was. Everyday was the best day of his life. Stinking

optimists. “Especially since it’s been a solid month since I last saw your bright, smiling face. Oh, and by the way, our mission went great. Everyone’s fine. Father, Cora, Nathanial, and Abby, too,” he jabbered on, really laying it on thick. “Not that there’d be anything to worry about in a foreign country as your family plays a deadly game of hide and seek with a band of Inheritors intent on evading us. Thanks for asking,” he deadpanned, marching through the room, straight for the window. Back when I used to have this little thing known as dignity, this particularly nasty Alliance of Inheritors had decided they wanted to rule the world. My Alliance said hell no to that and put our money where our mouth was when they decided to kidnap one and nearly kill two of my brothers’ wives. We repaid tit for tat by killing their leader—I know, it’s ironic since we’re Immortal, but we can be killed one certain, epically painful way—and burned their headquarters to the ground, but a few of the more slippery ones snuck away. However, they wouldn’t stay “snuck away” with my family and our Alliance on their asses. “Don’t you even think about it, little brother,” I warned needlessly. He tore the black out shade off its roller, crumbling it into a ball and sailing it into the corner where an impressive city of glass bottles had been my only pride and joy as of late. The Empire State Building, along with several other of its sky-scraping brown bottled buddies shattered to the ground. “Hey!” I hollered, right as he tore the black out shade off of the window behind where I was sprawled out. “Let there be light,” Joseph commanded, sounding more like the host of a cartoon channel than what I imagined a god would sound like. “And fresh air,” he said, curling his nose as he hoisted the window open. The combination of the light and fresh air invaded my dark, stale habitat and performed a serious case of deer in the headlights syndrome on me. I covered my eyes with my forearm, crawling away from the streak of light. “It burns us, precious,” I moaned, quoting a line from a movie I’d seen, but would have never admitted to. The irony was kind of a kick though, considering I could relate to that little hobbit

gone bad critter. “In case you’ve gone nose-deaf,” Joseph said, moving to the other windows and opening them with just as much gusto. “You smell like a stack of stinky socks that have been fermenting in a jar of formaldehyde.” “And I thought I was the dramatic one in the family,” I mumbled, sniffing my armpits without realizing it. They weren’t that bad—if you considered I was a grown man who’d gone un-showered for a couple weeks straight. Unless you count the bottle of rootbeer I’d busted open on my head when I couldn’t get the cap twisted off—a sugary, syrupy shower was better than nothing, right? Hey, don’t judge me. I was doing the best I could with the circumstance I’d been given. Circumstance being falling in love with the girl my big brother had loved for a couple centuries and now having to spend the rest of eternity watching the two of them United—married in the language of the Mortal, but forever, not just ‘til death do us part—and all but giddy with their affection for each other. Major bummer. My saving grace these past couple of months had been William and Bryn being gone the entire time, gallivanting around the world from one mission to the next. I loved them both, more than one person probably should, but separation made things infinitely easier right now. The wound was still fresh, and I could only hope it would heal up some as time passed. Go figure that the first girl I would be happy to give up all the others for turns out to be my brother’s soul mate. In case you’re wondering, I’m well aware the universe is, to put it gently, f’ing with me. “That wasn’t me being dramatic,” Joseph said, leaning against the window sill, noticeably holding his breath. “That was me understating the stench you’ve managed to generate in Cora’s and my guest room. We’re going to have to have this whole place fumigated, if not gutted, before it’s fit for any other guests.” “Go ahead,” I sneered, curling away from the light, “keep kicking me while I’m down. It feels good.” So, yeah. I’d holed up in my little brother’s and his wife’s

house. I know what you’re thinking. I sound like a winner, don’t I? Well, I’m not disagreeing with you, but I have plenty of money to spend on plenty of houses or hotels if I wanted. If the truth set you free, here was my first step in that direction. My present address just so happened to be the same room said recently-United, former and current love interest used to lay her pretty little head in every night. I know the next thought in your assumptions string. Pathetic, aren’t I? Again, I’m not going to disagree with you. I’m a pathetic, love-sick, luckless loser. First name, Patrick —last name, Hayward. Round of applause for the stinky loser for telling the truth, laying it all out there. Here was the sucky thing: I didn’t feel free or like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. As a matter of fact, I actually felt worse than I had before thinking about her. Bryn, Bryn, Bryn. Even if she hadn’t had it big time bad for my brother, I was realistic enough to know she never would have gone for me. She was a certain type of girl that didn’t mix with my type of guy. I scrubbed my hands over my face, still not used to the impressive beard I’d managed to grow in the wake of my hygiene strike. I needed to stop this train from going any further down the tracks. Bryn was United. To my brother. My best friend. There was no happy ending for me, especially if I let my mind keep being taken over by her. “Did you guys catch them?” I asked, hoarse from the monk-like quiet in my smelly, dank temple of pity and selfdeprecation. “No,” Joseph grumbled, his fists balling. “They got away. Again. The way they stay one step ahead of us makes me think they’ve got a Finder like father in their group. It’s like they know where we’re at and when we move.” If living forever in never aging bodies, being reborn with pale blue eyes that changed to sapphire blue on the day we were, eh-hmm, United, and following so many rules and codes I couldn’t remember half of them wasn’t enough, we were bestowed with gifts to make us even freakier. Some groovy cool like mine and some mega lame like manipulating the weather. “Maybe you guys just blow at tracking,” I retorted, raising

an eyebrow. Joseph’s eyes fell on me in that older brother, condescending way again. That look was really getting under my skin. “Well, it sure would have been helpful to have a Teleporter with us. That would have made catching the Inheritor renegades a tad easier. But then again,” he said, curling his nose my direction, “they could have smelt you coming a hundred miles away in your present state.” I smiled humorlessly. “I see you’re filling in my vacancy as the funny one in the family, but maybe you’d give me a hall pass to your improv as I’m in something of a fragile state.” And with that, I reached for the comforter that was starting to resemble a frayed, toddler’s security blanket and pulled it over my head. “Oh no, you don’t,” he said, yanking the once sweet Bryn-smelling blanket away in a motion so swift I didn’t have time to react before he had it balled up in his arms. “That’s quite enough of this teenage, melodramatic behavior. You’re too old for that. Much too old,” he said with a slanted smile at the same time he flung the blanket over his shoulder and out the window. I gave him the most concentrated glower I could muster up. “As soon as I’m back to whatever normal I was”—I laughed darkly; normal was a far cry from what I’d ever been—“I’m going to kick your smiling, perfect little butt.” “Good,” he sneered back. “It would be nice to have a piece of the big brother that that I remember back and since it looks like you’re not in any hurry to conjure him back to reality, I’m going to have to help you.” He came at me with a mix of determination, despite his face still curled in disgust, and hoisted me off the ground, throwing me over his shoulder. “What the heck do you think you’re doing, little brother?” I yelled as I bounced in rhythm to his hurried footsteps down the hall as he headed for the . . . “Don’t you dare,” I warned. “It’s for your own good,” he answered as he traipsed into the bathroom, twisting on the shower so fast he was probably expecting a fight far more impressive from our Alliance’s legendary and longest running strength instructor than the one I sparked to life. A girly punch to his side was

as intense as it got. “As soon as you throw me in that shower, I’m just gonna teleport my butt back to my room,” I said as steam began snaking through the bathroom. Apparently scalding was the only temperature Joseph considered up to the task of removing weeks worth of . . . funk from my posterior. “My room,” Joseph corrected as he tightened his grip around my legs. “And as long as I’m attached to some rank piece of you, you’re not going anywhere.” Without another word, Joseph lunged into the walk-in shower, turning his back to the stream of water so it was firing me square in the back. Nevermind that we were both fully clothed, or that I was showering with my adult brother . . . this was wrong on so many other levels. “Here’s the way this is going to go,” Joseph said, swaying me back and forth under the showerhead. “You can act like a big boy of two hundred and fifty-two years ancient and soap, shampoo, and sanitize yourself, or,”— just the way he annunciated it, I knew my other alternative was more of a threat than an option—“I can call Cora in and I’ll continue to hold you down while she scrubs you raw. I don’t want to do that to you and I really don’t want to do that to my sweet and innocent wife, but I’m afraid you’ve left me with no other option than to force clean you if you won’t take matters into your own hands,” he said, twisting his arm back in my direction with a fresh bar of soap in hand. “What’s it going to be?” My brother might have been the most annoyingly happy person to have ever beamed, but when he laid an ultimatum out there, he always followed through. Joseph’s word was gold, even through the less pleasurable circumstances. I grumbled as I grabbed the bar of soap. “I think I just hit a record low.” “There’s the spirit,” he encouraged, hoisting me off his shoulder into a standing position. “But look at it this way. When you’re in your lowest spot, there’s no where to go but up.” He grinned at me, his eyes dancing like he’d just won the victory of the decade. My baby brother, his face alight with his most recent success of all but forcing a putrid hermit into the shower, his suit drenched and plastered to

him, grinning at me like a fool. There was no other response than laughter. A fullfledged belly laugh that rocked me from head to tip-toe. “You should see your face right now,” I managed between the hysterics. “You look like a wet, smiling labradoodle.” “At least I’m not the one that smells like a wet dog,” he said, laughing with me. “I think that fancy suit of yours is forever ruined,” I said, running my eyes over it. There was something vaguely familiar about it. Italian silk, impeccably tailored . . . “Good thing it’s yours then.” He winked, dodging out of the shower before I could deliver my revenge. “Good thing I’ve got a few dozen others and am the kung-fu master of payback,” I said, peeling my undershirt off and hurling it over the shower door in his direction. My boxers followed immediately after. “I’ll have Cora burn these,” Joseph said, sloshing out the bathroom door. “If I leave you to your own devices, can I trust you to return the brother I remember?” “Here’s to hoping, little brother,” I said, more to myself than to him. “Here’s to hoping.”

CHAPTER TWO So the steam, soap, shampoo, and shave had done me a world of good. As I ran the shaver down the last scrap of mountain man beard, I felt a few of the jumbled pieces of me—the real, non shut-in me—come back together. I was still beyond looking more than two minutes down the road into my future, but it was nice to have the ghost of Patrick present back. This small step would give me the boost I needed to work on the future one. First step—forget about Bryn. At least forget about her in that way. The whole impossible thing about it was even if all my fantasies came true and she wanted me like I wanted her, I didn’t actually want that—there’s a mind bender for you. Because if I won, my brother lost, and the only person I loved more than her was him. So there it was. I loved Bryn, Bryn loved William, William loved Bryn. No one loved me. Well, at least not in that kind of way. The kind that feels so damn special because it has nothing to do with blood relation. The kind that chooses you before you chose it. The kind that embeds itself into your every last fiber until the thought of being separated from the source of it has you writhing in a ball. The kind that was rare, hard-earned, worth dying for . . . and the kind that avoided me at every turn. Okay, back it up. Step point five before first step—don’t even think her name to myself. Better yet, try not to think of one syllable words beginning with the letter B. I shook my head as I tossed the razor into the garbage. It fought valiantly in its crusade against my course facial scruff, but the battle left it useless against any future facial hair attacks. “So long, old friend,” I said solemnly. “I shall miss you.” Before I let the realization that I was carrying on conversations with inanimate objects hit me full on, I grabbed Cora’s tortoise shell comb and focused every last iota of my attention on parting my now even longer—thanks

to my blue period—longish white-blond hair down the center. I was something of a Solomon when it came to my hair. It was the eighth wonder of the world. The door twisted open, but thanks to the shower steam as thick as Bryn’s best attempts at making homemade whole wheat bread . . . I internally cursed and externally slapped my face. I hadn’t made it half a minute without thinking about her and, considering my time on this earth wasn’t finite, if I kept up this pattern of thinking about her every half a second of forever that would mean . . . That would mean I was screwed. I noticed a figure ghosting towards me and was thankful for the distraction—albeit temporary. “That you, brother?” I said, more of a statement than a question as I turned his direction. “How do I look?” I tightened the towel around my waist before extending my arms to the sides in a non-verbal repeat of my question. “Thank goodness I’m not your brother or else I’d be really disturbed by the thoughts I’m having of you right now,” a female voice poured through the steam before her figure cut through it. “And you look so good I locked the door and don’t plan on unlocking it for a few days.” The only smile Sierra had, the seductive kind, was in full form as she steered towards me. “If you catch my drift,” she added, winking one eye as the other searched over me like her internal clock just hit hyper-drive and I was the last man on the face of the planet. Few people I’d come across in life could make me squirm. Sierra was the most skilled of those few. “What are you doing in here?” I asked, trying to make my folding of my arms over my chest seem casual, although it only succeeded in moving her fixed gaze from my stomach muscles v-ing into my towel to my chest. I never imagined I’d be so uncomfortable with a beautiful woman objectifying me and thinking a string of lewd thoughts so loud I could almost hear them. But then I’d never imagined I’d become a stinky hermit, either. “Nice to see you too, sexy,” she said, doing that hair twirling thing we guys hated. “But we can save the words for later. I haven’t seen you in weeks, and either that whole

absence makes the heart grow fonder thing is true or else the gods have been shining their light down on you even more than usual.” Her eyes did another circumnavigation, like I was a piece of filet mignon she couldn’t wait to devour. “In all the right spots, I might add.” She hinted at all the right spots, some of which were thankfully covered by the plush towel. I sighed, cinching my towel even tighter, like it was a cotton chastity belt, at a loss. On paper, Sierra and I were a perfect match. You could have plugged her and my name, along with our interests, characteristics, and whatever other junk you put into one of those online dating sites, and we would have been paired together with like a ninety-nice percent compatibility score. The clincher was the last one percent. The most important percent. There was no chemistry—at least for me, although I’m sure she used chemistry and lust interchangeably—no withdrawal jitters, no thinking about the future together and feeling peace and happiness. There was no . . . spark. Ridiculous term William repeated like a séance, but accurate. You know, the spark. It could be as simple as a meeting of eyes or as intimate as knuckles skimming down flesh, but one thing it was was unmistakable. No denying it once you’d felt it and no sense in trying to conjure one up if it wasn’t there from the beginning. Sparks are beginnings, leading to middles of fireworks, finishing like blasts of dynamite. So, long story short, there were no sparks between Sierra and me. At least for my part. “Does the concept of privacy escape you, Sierra?” I muttered, holding my ground as she took a step in my direction. Her eyes were still moving like pin-balls over me. “I’m all but naked here. Give me a minute to get decent, and I’ll chat about whatever’s on your mind.” She did the pouty, sultry girl face that rubbed me in all the wrong ways. “Decent is the last way I want you,” she said, skimming her fingers over my stomach, my lower stomach. My lower lower stomach, AKA the last part of exposed skin that, had my towel been hanging any lower,

would have been considered indecent. Even at that, a drop dead gorgeous woman’s fingers scrolling a figure eight pattern over sensitive skin in my southerly regions, I felt nothing. “And I’ve got other things in mind than chatting with that sumptuous mouth of yours,” she whispered, arching her neck back just so, the lids of her eyes getting heavy. This was all too familiar territory, and before I’d been happy to accommodate every other female’s suggestive advances, although the messing around never got much farther than kissing. I was gutsy enough to play with fire in the strict world of Immortals I was a member of, but I wasn’t gutsy enough to let inhibitions run away with me. My three brothers were the smart ones, but even as the F student of the family, I was smart enough to know the only thing waiting for me at the end of following my hormones down to their preferred end—without the blessing of a Council— was an express ticket to a nameless tomb. Immortals placed purity next to duty, like we were a bunch of eternal stiffs. Fraternizing with members of the opposite sex was frowned upon, and physical contact without a Unity was expressly forbidden. For a man who idolized, and I don’t mean that figuratively, women, Immortality was a special kind of purgatory for me. “What are you playing at?” I said, taking as large a step backwards as my inseam was capable. “You know that kind of behavior is against the rules.” Her lower lip plumped out into the ugliest pout I’d ever seen on a woman. “You’re no fun,” she baby talked. I might have just vomited in my mouth. “And from the rumors I’ve heard from all too many lovely young ladies, you’ve never been one for rule abiding.” She had me there, but something had changed, and something about the intensity of it had me believing it was a permanent change. I’d ticked off two centuries swapping saliva with countless women. So many women I’d be lucky to identify half of them as former tonsil hockey partners and able to identify less than a quarter of them by name—first name. It had never bothered me before, not even close; I was

living the dream as far as I was concerned, but darn if that didn’t all change when a certain Bryn Dawson wedged her way into my life, burrowing into the very depths of my core. That hadn’t been her intent, I know that of course—she’d had it bad for my brother the second she looked into that sculpted by the hand of God face—but it was as inescapable as gravity. I’d felt it the first week I knew her, gone to every extreme I had at my command to deny it, and I ended up confessing my love for her about ten minutes before she was promised the Unity to William they’d both coveted. I was never one for timing. So now that I’d felt it, the chemistry, the spark, the I’mhopeless-without-you, call it what you will, phenomenon, I was positively ruined for any future bouts of meaningless making out. Was just my luck too—exactly when I needed a head spinning, spine tingling, hot and heavy make-out session, it was like my newfound relationship morals forbid it. Darn you straight to hell cursed morals. Whatever physical responses in my expression that were being manifested by my thoughts, Sierra picked up on them. Thankfully. “Whoa there, boy,” she said, regarding me like I was a bomb set to blow. “I’m a little forward,”—I choked on her little choice of word—“but I get you want to set the pace. You’re a take charge kind of man. That’s what I like about you.” Her eyes devoured me again. “One of the things I like about you,” she clarified, all but licking her lips. “It’s been awhile since we’ve seen each other, so I’m cool with ‘chatting’ to reacquaint ourselves so you feel less guilty about kissing me until I’m senseless.” “I don’t want to kiss you, Sierra,” I said, my voice letting out some of my impatience. Her smile pulled higher. “Just what have you got in mind then?” she murmured, her baby voice now all woman. All panting, in heat woman. “Not . . . that,” I replied, backing away from her recommenced march my way. “Yes, that,” she replied, a step away from me where I stood trapped between the bathroom wall and her bosoms

about to burst out of her two sizes too small sweater. “Now let’s see what you’re hiding behind that towel . . .” Her fingers had just hooked over the towel as I teleported out of that nightmare, the damp towel the only piece of me she’d have. Leaving me naked and searching for my next layover. It was dangerous to teleport from your point of origin before you’d pinpointed your destination point, I knew that, but what I’d left behind in the bathroom was far more dangerous than the possibility of ending up in limbo. And then, I was en route. It was the first place that popped to mind and the last place I wanted to go. The only place I needed to avoid from now until the end of time. The cursed place I found myself in half a second later. My brother and newest sister-in-law’s bedroom. They weren’t here. In fact, they hadn’t spent a single night in it since they’d been United—William’s station as a doctor had kept the both of them more busy than a couple newlyweds should be, but the symbol of that room, the significance of their bed looming in front of me, was enough to cause my insides to twist into knots. Their faces were everywhere, smiling back at me from the plates of glass holding them in their frames. God, they were the happiest couple I’d seen, and I’d swear on my life I was happy for them. Genuinely happy, not the fakey, phony kind; it was just me I wasn’t happy for. Their happy ending meant my unhappy one. The dress Bryn had worn on their Unity day was spread over the bed. It gave me shivers just seeing it again, remembering her in it. The way she’d looked as she’d sprinted down the beach, her face exuberant. She couldn’t get to us fast enough—she couldn’t get to William fast enough. “Since you wound up with the girl we both fell for, big brother,”—I was now speaking to a picture frame. Loony, kooky, hook me up to a Prozac drip now nutty—“I think the least you can offer me is a pair of pants,” I said as I wandered butt naked into their closet, imagining blinders on when I walked by Bryn’s modest collection of jeans and cotton tees. The girl was under the assumption couture was

a curse word. I pulled the first pair of pants I found on William’s side of the closet, cringing when I discovered they weren’t designer and were well worn in. The way the man dressed, you’d think he didn’t have a mutual fund that could take a dump on a small country’s annual GDP. “I didn’t know Levi’s was still in business,” I mumbled as I snaked my legs into them. “Although judging from the looks of these jeans, they could have gone out of business decades ago.” “Son?” a baritone voice that carried a tone of concern called out from the bedroom. Super, the Chancellor of our Council, also known as my father, had just witnessed me carrying on multiple conversations with myself. What’s that sour tang in the air? Ah, that’s it, demotion. If having been forced to take an indefinite vacation from my responsibilities as a strength instructor after the first and last student I’d worked with after William and Bryn’s Unity dropped me on their first day— dropped me five times—wasn’t bad enough, the man who called all the shots in our Alliance had just been privy to my decreasing mental stamina. “Hey, Father,” I called out, pulling a thermal tee off its hanger and sliding it over my head. It was a tad large, my brother was large enough you’d think he grew up by a nuclear reactor, but it would work. “I’ll be out in a sec.” “No rush,” he said, his voice purposefully calm. Yep, my father was so concerned by my fragile state he was making sure to keep his tone controlled. Take candy from the babies, shave all the puppies bald, but whatever you do, for the love of god, don’t upset the poor, mentally deranged Patrick Hayward. I slid into a pair of William’s sandals and made a conscious effort of holding my shoulders high, my head following suit. “Almost there,” I said, fastening the last fly on the hideous pair of 501’s. He smiled at me as I exited the closet, but his eyes pulsed with concern. I instantly felt worse—Charles Hayward had about a gazillion other things to worry about than a not right in the head son. With the usurping a

dominant Inheritor Alliance that adopted everything that Immortals as a whole stood against thing, father had had his hands full with clean-up duty. Plus, being all but the President of the United States of Guardians had a way of filling a man’s schedule the better part of forever. “Hey,” I offered, folding my hands into the low-slung jeans pocket. “Good to see you all back and safe. Sounds like things got a little hairy with those Inheritor slugs.” I did my best impersonation of old Patrick, hoping crazy Patrick wouldn’t burst through the fake shell. “Hairy is a good word for it, yes,” he answered, his eyes scanning over me, trying to seem unintentional about it. “Son,”—just the way he said it, all coated in apprehension, made me cringe—“what are you doing here?” I didn’t know what here he was referring to. The bedroom of my best friend and the woman I loved; Montana, when I wouldn’t have tolerated being left behind while my family went on a mission of butt-kicking proportions; or maybe my present state of mind that was fragile to put it nicely and loony to put it, well, truthfully. I went with the least complicated of heres. “Sierra cornered me in the bathroom and isn’t one of those girls that has the word no in her comprehension bank, if you catch what I’m throwing your way,” I said. He shook his head. “Let me clarify. What are you doing?” he asked, laying it all there. Not that I’d come to expect anything less from my father. Delicacies like pleasantries, beating around the bush, sweeping things under the rug, so on and so forth, weren’t in his arsenal. Chancellor Charles Hayward was a meat and potatoes kind of guy; he didn’t care how uncomfortable he made you, and he didn’t miss a thing. I suppose you could say growing up with this kind of father figure in your life, for generations no less, was a bit intense. When I didn’t offer an immediate answer, he added, “The past few months I haven’t recognized you. The son I remember, the man I know you are, is either in hiding or gone,” he said, unbuttoning his coat jacket and measuring me with his eyes. “Now, I’m fine with you needing a break, some time clear your head or renew your spirit or whatever

it is you need,”—I might clarify that I don’t think my father has the slightest idea I fell for Bryn, her Unity being the catalyst for my “break”—“but you’ve holed yourself up in a room for weeks straight, drinking more root beer than any grown man should,”—something of amusement tugged at his mouth—“Joseph all but had to force-shower you, and I know you like to try to disguise your proclivity for the fairer sex, but when did you begin teleporting in the opposite direction of a beautiful young lady?” I knew perception was considered to be a virtue, but to the son of a perceptive father, it was more like a curse. “I just need some time to sort things out. Get my head on straight again,” I mumbled, only realizing when I was done that I’d mumbled. I wasn’t a mumbler, at least the old me hadn’t been. Sure, I muttered, the smart alec I’m-going-topretend-I-don’t-want-you-to-hear-this-but-I-really-do kind of under the breath verbiage, but I’d always had more than enough backbone to stay above mumbling. Apparently, no longer. “You’ve had some time,” he replied. “How much have you gotten figured out? How much straighter is your head back on?” He asked with genuine honesty, nothing antagonistic about it, but I almost would have preferred the latter because an honest question required an honest answer, and I’d rather give him about a million other answers than the honest one. “Let’s just say I’ve only added more questions to the pile than I’ve wrangled out answers,” I said, clearing my throat. “And I can’t even remember where I left my head.” My father took that in, sorting through it before answering. He was the kind of man that defined think before you speak. “So shutting yourself away and trying your hardest to pretend the world doesn’t exist hasn’t cured you of whatever this is?” he said, scrolling his eyes over me. I didn’t respond. I knew from decades of experience he wasn’t looking for one. “Only a fool would think that continuing down the exact same path would lead to a different result, and since neither of us are fools,”—he scrubbed his hand over his mouth threatening to pull up in the corners—“I’m sure one of us can come up with another

option that is less dramatic and escapist to help the son I know you are come back to us.” I hated that reverse psychology crap. I succumbed to the inevitability of where this little father/son chat was heading, and though I couldn’t pinpoint the exact direction he was going with it, I knew it would be all downhill from here. I slouched down onto the nearest piece of furniture, acting more my biological age than my true one, as was my style anyways, until I felt the mattress molding around my body. William and Bryn’s mattress . . . My body wouldn’t have jolted harder than if I’d had power lines fitted over my head. Father ignored my insane reaction; at least, mostly ignored it. “What are you planning to do with your life next?” Nothing like a loaded question to ease a cat on a hot tin roof down. “Well . . .” I began, rubbing the back of my head and searching the ceiling for an answer of the genius quality. “That’s what I thought,” he said, interrupting my dead-end thoughts. “And since you’re perhaps too close to the situation to formulate a plan that will wield us a favorable result”—like running a Council meeting; after a century of dedication, it was hard for father to separate himself from the Chancellor role—“I’d like to suggest an option, something I imagine you’ll be rather eager to explore.” He was building it up, whatever scheme he’d come up in that mind of his. Not a good sign. “You’ve been a rock the entire time of your Immortality, carrying out your duties without a question, taking your calling seriously, becoming the most capable strength instructor in our Alliance. Everything has been done with the larger good considered, selflessness at its pinnacle.” I coughed, looking away from my father going on about me being the Gandhi of Immortals. If there was a contest for that title, my name wouldn’t have been on the ballot. I wasn’t all selfish, but I wasn’t selfless either. That was a title reserved for my saints for brothers. “All right, father,” I interrupted, not able to take it any longer. “Building me up before you bring me down isn’t exactly your thing. Come on, I can take it,” I encouraged,

waving my hands in a bring-it-on gesture. “Throw the hammer down. I promise I won’t cry.” His brows raised and I grinned. “I won’t cry too hard.” Gauging me a few more moments, he nodded, resolved. “Your brothers took a little time away from Immortality, either when they were in desperate need of something new or when their encroaching stations required it.” “Yeah, but the only times they’ve done that,” I interjected, shuffling through the memory files that all had the same red flag warning tagged to them. Red alert, red alert, red alert. “Was when they left to go to college,” I all but grumbled. “Precisely,” he answered. “I’m not the college type,” I said, that streak of Hayward stubbornness that ran in all of us rising like the tide. “That’s only because you’ve never tried,” he replied calmly. “Despite the view you like to hold of yourself, you are just as intelligent as your brothers.” “Gee whiz, thanks for the compliment there,” I said, being difficult because that was what I did. “And thanks for the suggestion. Really,” I reiterated, crossing my arms. “But I’m just fine where I’m at. Whatever it is I’m going through, I’ll be fine in a few days time. I can feel the selfish, very uncollege like me coming back already.” I plastered on an overdone smile, chancing a look at my father’s stoic face, remembering why it was useless arguing with him on anything. Charles Hayward’s word was law, father and Chancellor alike. “You’re already enrolled,” he said, not even attempting to lighten the blow with an apologetic tone. “Fall semester starts in a couple of weeks.” I groaned, the deep belly-rumbling kind. “Any chance of vetoing this ultimatum?” I asked needlessly. My dad’s fisted hand covered his mouth, hiding his grin. “That’s the wonderful thing about ultimatums, son. They’re final.” “Yeah, that’s what I thought you were going to say,” I said, feeling the respect and admiration I’d painstakingly gleaned in our Alliance running through my fingers when everyone heard I was so mental I had to be sent away to the kegs, frat houses, and textbooks of the land of Mortals. “So

where are you sequestering me and for how long am I banish-ed?” I said in my most Shakespeare worthy voice. “It takes the normal college student four years to get their degree,”—I choked on the time reference—“but since you’re anything but normal, I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see.” He turned to leave the room, judging I needed a serious moment alone to figure out the path of suck my life was heading down. “So when I get in my car, which direction should I head until I find hell?” I called out after him, wondering if I tried hard enough, if I could kill myself. Metaphorically speaking, of course. “I doubt you’ll need twenty guesses. You’ve got a whole family of alums, so there was no problem pulling a few strings and getting you enrolled.” “Super,” I deadpanned. “Said college wouldn’t happen to begin with an S, be two syllables, and rhyme with man-I’malready-bored, would it?” My father responded with a laugh. Infuriating. “Try to enjoy it, Patrick. As much as you are capable at least.” Yeah, that wasn’t happening.

CHAPTER THREE One week into fall semester at one of the top-rated universities in the nation and I had to admit, father had been right. I capitol L-oved Stanford. It was right up my alley, I guess you could say. A gorgeous campus graced by the California sun everyday, decorated with girls that genetics had looked favorably on, and professors that didn’t take roll call. If ever there was a Utopia on this spherical mass, I’d found it. I’d even added a new piece to my real estate collection, so if I wasn’t enjoying the California girls—that were, by the way, everything they were cracked up to be—I was enjoying the view of the Pacific from my swanky as hell, four thousand square foot bachelor pad. College life was the good life. Another added bonus to paradise found, Bryn wasn’t at the forefront of my mind and on the tip of my tongue. Whether it was my new surroundings, or the sunshine, or the reinstitution of regular hygiene, I didn’t care because that heart ripped out of my chest feeling was beginning to dull. I could breathe, hypothetically, for the first time in weeks. Hello, hello, my non-stop internal monologue interrupted as my baby blues detected the blur of a herd of scantily— more like barely—clad legs passing by. Incoming. “Looking good, ladies, looking good,” I said, tilting my aviators down so there’d be no mistake who I was looking at. The leggiest of the leggy, the blonde one that had more than likely driven more than her fair share of men to insanity, noted my unblinking stare and smiled one of my favorite kinds, the anything but innocent one. God I loved that smile. “Keep up the good work. And when you decide that school is for fools, come find me. I’ll be here all year.” Blondie tossed a wink my way and the look in those lidded eyes told me the bait I’d tossed out had caught the exact fish I wanted in record time. They didn’t call me the hook, line, and sinker man for no reason.

As I watched goldilocks and her co-eds hip-sway away, a shadow eclipsed my face. A clearing of the throat followed. If I didn’t have justification to be irritated because I’d been interrupted in the middle of my hate to watch you go but love to watch you leave personal experience, I had absolute reason to be ticked my mid-day rays were being temporarily cut off. This is primo California sunshine you can’t put a price on. “You know, I’ve passed you at least a dozen times this week, and if it wasn’t for your incessant cat calls that are about as creative as a paint by numbers, I’d have thought you were a statue,” the dark form casting a shadow on my morning said. Female voice, but that was about all I could identify. The way she was directly in front of the sun made her appear as a black paper cutout. “You haven’t moved from this patch of grass once.” “Observant,” I muttered under my breath. She continued, either not hearing or not caring I was trying to give her the brush off. “Just in case you missed the bulletin, this is a university. A pretty good one actually. Complete with classes, credits, and co-eds.” “The co-eds I have most definitely noticed,” I said, shielding my hand over my eyes, trying to get a better look at the blacked-out woman in front of me. “Good for you,” she replied, clapping her hands in a patronizing way. “Your parents must be so proud. You know, if you were going to do nothing but play hooky the four years of your one time chance at a college career, why didn’t you go to some state school or, better yet, a community college, and save yourself some money?” Given this girl was a stranger and didn’t have a clue about what I’d been through and that I’d all but been forced to attend here because my certifiable genius brothers attended, it seemed she was being a little harsh. “Let me save you the suspense, sugar,” I said, slipping my glasses back into place in hopes I’d be able to make out this fiery female wielding insult to add to my injury. “There are two kinds of people in the world. Those that are the college sort and those that are not. I’d fill you in on

where I fit in to those two categories, but given you’ve seen me a dozen times sun tanning during prime class time, I’m guessing you already know.” Her head bobbed side to side, causing the sun to shoot like lasers into my eyes with every bob. “And let me save you the suspense,” she repeated. “You’ll never know unless you try.” Few things catch me off guard, but I have to admit that kind of did. “You are so very wise, grasshopper,” I said, lowering my voice and making a face. “Any other proverbs for me today?” She laughed. It was a small one, barely two notes, but it was there. “Yeah, here’s one,” she said, the smile evident in her voice. “Get your suntanned butt to class.” And then she was gone, twisting away and cutting into the rest of the college sorts intent upon their next class where their minds would be filled with useless junk and impossible dreams. I didn’t catch a very good look at her, other than average height, average build, and having an impenetrable wall up to my charm, but I didn’t need to see more. From that alone, I already knew she wasn’t my type.

Another full day passed in exactly the same way, lounging in the grass, only diverting my attention from the sun to admire the stream of sorority sisters swaying by. Although, come the same time every day, the female droves thinned out to alarmingly low level. Darn those early afternoon classes, preferred by ten out of ten college students near and far. I felt like I was betraying my rebel stance, but a man’s got to take matters into his own hands at times in life. If the eye candy wouldn’t come to me, I’d have to go to it. I popped up, shuffling through my backpack that had served as nothing more than an outdoor pillow during my tour of college life. I knew I’d stuffed that course schedule somewhere in one of these pockets. Fingers scurrying over the bottom, I felt a wadded up

piece of paper and pulled it out. Just the way I’d left it. Smoothing it open, I searched over the classes. Whoever had selected my classes for me thought I was a genius or was messing with me. Since I was all but certain Joseph had taken on Patrick Does Stanford enrollment duties, I had my answer. There it was, my early afternoon class, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Intro to Psychology, complete with a hand penned note from the little brother peanut gallery:

Appropriate for a head case like you. Enjoy! I growled, contemplating teleporting my California suntanned self back to Montana to unleash a nasty noogie on the wiseass. See if he was still laughing then. “Excuse me,” someone apologized, dodging me where I straddled the sidewalk contemplating. A girl with legs that could turn a man cross-eyed if he stared too long jogged by, tripping my thoughts of revenge. Payback could wait, those legs couldn’t. Like a magnet, I was pulled after her, not sure if I was heading anywhere close to the right direction the building Intro to Psych, AKA Intro to Pseudo-Science, was held, but I didn’t care. I had to lengthen my stride to keep up with her, holding myself back from breaking into a gallop after her. I wasn’t used to chasing after a woman, literally or figuratively, and if I was going to break tradition, I wanted to do it right. She shoved through the door leading into a brick building, and it was all I could do to hang onto whatever dignity I still had and not break into a run after her. I flung the same door open she’d gone through, not even ten seconds behind her, and scanned up and down the halls, keeping my gaze low because I couldn’t tell you the shade of her hair, but I could draw an exact likeness of those legs. Nothing, nowhere, and nada. Disappearing as instantly as she’d appeared. Who knows? Maybe I’d made the whole thing up in my deranged, sick, screw-loose mind. I was positively mental. Intro to Psych, here I come. “Hey, man.” I grabbed the shirt sleeve of the closest passerby. “Can you point me in the direction of . . .”—I

flashed my schedule in front of him, pointing at the location because it was three seconds faster than saying the dastardly long name—“the place where they teach you about the id and the ego, killing your mother and macking on your father thing.” The boy who looked like he’d graduated primary school a year and a half ago looked at me like I was a whack-job. Intuition was right on par. The kid was going to make it far. “You’re here,” he answered, steering away from me like crazy was contagious. “Ah, groovy,” I said. “Any idea where Room”—I glanced down at my schedule—“120 is?” “Down that way,” the retreating boy said, pointing down the hall to the right. “Last room on the left.” “Thanks, man,” I said, taking a breath of resolution. Time to go get responsible and learn-ed. “Hey,” I hollered after the boy. He turned, half of his face formed into a wince. “You haven’t seen a hot little minx running through here with killer legs, would you?” The boy took a circumnavigation of the student filled hall. Shrugging, he said, “Take your pick.” I could have gone into an argument that all female legs are not created equal, but I remembered what it had been like to be a twenty year old boy, an actual twenty year old boy, and women’s legs were women’s legs. As holy and sought after as the fountain of youth. “Thanks again,” I said, loping down the hall and doing my best to extinguish the woman and her legs from my mind. Other fish in the sea, other fish in the sea, I repeated to myself as I journeyed to the end of the hall. I glided into the auditorium style classroom, and I must have been early because it was only about half way full. My brothers would be so proud. The last time I’d been on time for class had been my first day of grammar school. My eyes floated through the chairs, row for row, until I made it to the front. No targets of particular interest, so this whole going to class thing was an utter waste. Oh well, I was here now, and I was always willing to try anything once. I prowled down the stairs, my eyes doing the same, figuring I might as well do the first college class thing all the

way. I walked down the front row, taking a seat dead center. Sliding my backpack from my shoulder, I glanced down the row on either side of me. Laptops at the ready, fingers cocked over the keys, eyes forward, backs straight. They looked like German Shepherds ready to pounce on the first word out of the professor’s mouth. Overachiever was the first word that came to mind. I didn’t have a laptop, nor did I have a notebook to take notes in. Not that I needed either. I had a memory like a trap. Literally. Whatever went in that I made a conscious effort to retain, stayed right there. So you’d think school would come easy for me, right? It could have if I could have kept my mind focused on school. Instead I found myself focusing on the perks of school. Namely, the women. I had the Immortal equivalent of ADD. “I don’t know whether to be flattered you listened to me or insulted it took you so long,” someone said as they slid into the seat next to me. My eyes were already angled down, so when those legs of divine origin settled into place beside me, I almost gave my arm a pinch to make sure I was awake. I was staring, I knew, and I also knew after a few seconds had ticked off without a reply or a turning of my stare somewhere else, the owner of those legs knew what I was doing. But this wasn’t one of those times where I cared about being gentlemenlike. “Hello, hello,” I said, twisting my smile into just the right place I’d found drove women nuts. Not too high, one side pulled up more than the other, and topped off with a sideways glance with an unmistakable glint in the eyes. Drove them wild. “Looking good, lady?” she said, pulling the words from my mouth and not in a particularly amused tone. “Yeah, I caught that the first million times you hollered it out on the quad.” The wince that pulled my face together was as painful as a palm slap to the forehead would have been. “Blacked out by the sun girl calling me out yesterday?” I asked, already knowing the answer as I squinted my eyes open to look into her face for the first time.

When I saw it, I don’t know what had taken me so long to get there. Her legs had nothing on that face. A face that wasn’t perfect, but a face that was compelling—compelling in a way that drew me in and kept me there. She smiled, not demurely or coyly, a real one. An honest-to-goodness, genuine smile, the rare kind humanity had somewhere along the butt-kissing, brown-nosing, sucking-up way forgotten how to form. “That’s me,” she said, twisting a little towards me. “But my friends call me Emma.” Her smile peaked higher as she extended her hand towards me. I didn’t know why the burst of perspiration had surfaced, but I made sure to wipe my palm on my slacks before sliding my hand around hers. My hand wrapped around the entirety of hers, and that feeling that runs all the way down to your toes and turns your stomach to mush hit me hard. So hard, it knocked my purchase of the English language off the tip of my tongue. “And you must be suntanned, cat-calling, god’s gift to not only the world, but the entire universe, boy who likes to play hooky,” she said, filling in the conversation since I’d been rendered speechless. First time in a long time that had happened, but I was almost as talkative as I was charming, so it came back to me quickly. Nodding, I met her eyes. “But my friends call me Patrick,” I said, clearing my throat, hoping I didn’t sound like a guy that had just been kicked in the crotch. “You look like a Patrick,” she said, shuffling a notebook from her backpack that had either been run over by a steam roller several hundred times or was as old as I was. “Thanks. I think,” I said, not sure if the reason I wouldn’t look away from her green colored eyes was because I couldn’t or didn’t want to. “I didn’t get a chance to thank you yesterday for verbally humiliating me in public, but thank you. I’ve never been the kind of guy that gets the message unless someone takes me by the proverbial head and smashes it through a brick wall.” “Yeah, about that . . .”—she tucked a piece of hair behind her ear—“I’m really sorry. I was having a bad day and used you as my personal frustration outlet. I’ve never

even talked to my obnoxious brothers like that, let alone a total stranger.” I felt my smile dropping. The only reason she’d sat next to me was so she could apologize. “If I offered a heartfelt apology, would you accept it?” she asked, dead serious, like she’d been agonizing over the stranger she’d given a hard time to yesterday and wouldn’t rest until she’d extended an apology. Incredible. I’d managed to irritate the Mother Teresa of college girls. I had a gift. “I don’t know about that,” I said, rubbing my chin, noting the perfect amount of stubble I had on display. “It was a grievous offense that has permanently scarred me. I think I can one day forgive you, but I’m afraid I’ll never be able to forget.” Her expression fell flat and color actually drained from her face. She swallowed. “I am so, so—” I would normally ride this kind of reaction to its end, but I couldn’t with her for some reason. Something about knowing she was tortured, mild as it was, went against everything I’d ever known before. “Emma,” I said, gripping her arm, looking for any reason to touch her again. “I’m giving you a hard time. No worries, you’re forgiven.” Her expression said phew before she forced her forehead to line. “So you not only delight in skipping classes that, if you were to calculate based on the exorbitant annual tuition we pay in exchange for a piece of paper at four years end, cost nearly two hundred dollars per class,”—the number didn’t hit me like it hit her. I had a dresser drawer full of boxer briefs that cost that much apiece and they were far sexier and more practical than a college education. Obviously—“you also have a sick addiction to driving the dagger of guilt deeper in a girl’s back when she feels absolutely awful already?” “Wow,” I said, keeping my hand planted over her arm. She didn’t seem uncomfortable with it, although I was as uncomfortable as I’d been in awhile. This wasn’t me. I wasn’t the guy that went all googly-eyes over a girl. I’d always thought head over heels was for chumps, but here I was . . . the newest member of the

chump club. “Either you’re a psychic or my reputation precedes me.” She laughed again, pulling the pencil holding her hair into a bun free. An avalanche of more brown than red auburn hair tumbled midway down her back. As she wrote down the date on the right margin of her notebook, I noticed that, other than me, she was the only student who didn’t have a shiny new laptop. Old school—I liked it. “But since you already have me pegged, you better be careful. Daddy will take away your black credit card and enroll you in an all girls’ school if you fraternize with bad influences like me,” I said, nudging my shoulder into hers, purposefully jolting her arm and, along with it, her pencil. She shot me the sweetest scowl I’d ever seen as she scribbled her eraser over the pencil mark streaking across the page. “Emma’s dad bailed on them when she was five,” a male voice that was three shades of pissed announced, taking the seat on the other side of her. I didn’t know his name, didn’t care if he’d won a Nobel Prize, didn’t care if he was going to find a cure for cancer. I didn’t like him. “I’ve filled the role of douchebag and jackass detection for the past six years. Along with her four brothers.” I knew he was eyeing me with that male testosterone kind of intensity, but I wasn’t interested in him and his bloated ego. This room wasn’t large enough to hold two male egos the size of ours. “Her four older brothers who could squash a little pissant like you with their thumbs.” Okay, frat boy on a head trip was starting to irritate me. Especially since Emma had pulled her arm away from my hand the moment he’d arrived like I was electrocuting her. “That’s beautiful,” I said, looking at him for the first time. Looked just like he sounded. A bulky meathead with a buzz cut and a cleft chin who thought fitted tees and loose-fit jeans were the height of fashion. “Shakespeare, is it?” “Excuse me?” he sneered, his face wrinkling. “You’re excused.” I waved my hand in the direction of the door, looking back at Emma. But she wasn’t the same Emma I’d met two minutes ago. The smile had vanished from her face, her eyes were

forward, the irises bouncing from side to side, and she was so tense I could have broken her if I grazed her with my hand. “Is this your personal body guard or something?” I asked her, trying to lighten the mood because that’s one of the few things I did best. When she stiffened further, her eyes growing wider, I knew I’d only done the opposite of lightening. “Try her boyfriend, metro,” he said, and while I guessed he meant the name-calling to be an insult, I took it as a compliment coming from someone like him. Whatever he was, I wanted to be the opposite. “Also known as Ty Steel. Ask around. You don’t want to mess with me.” I gave him a salute and would have given him much more had the professor not decided to get class rolling. “Eager young minds, time to end your captivating conversations and open your gray matter to something even more captivating,” he said, pausing for dramatic effect. “Pavlov’s Law.” There was a communal groan, giving me my window. “Boyfriend?” I whispered over at her, scanning Ty head to toe as he logged onto his laptop. “Desperate much?” She choked back the snicker surfacing, covering her mouth with both hands. I swear I would have cut off my right arm to watch her eclipse from the dark to light in the frame of a few seconds, but her face gained all its former composure back when Ty glanced over at her. This guy had territorial boyfriend written all over his unibrow topped forehead. The moment the professor started going off, something about a bell and dogs salivating, she began scribbling down notes furiously. Like she was writing down every last word of his bore-fest. She was a lefty, and I took full advantage of her recessive gene trait. I folded my arms over my desk area, scooting them over far enough so her elbow was continually rubbing against mine as she continued on her note taking warpath. I’d never enjoyed being elbowed by someone more. “Do you mind, lefty?” I whispered, grinning at her from the side when Ty was distracted by his malfunctioning

computer. He looked like a caveman trying to beat it into submission. I didn’t care if he caught me conversing with his girlfriend, but it obviously made her uncomfortable. “I’d appreciate it if you’d respect my personal bubble and keep your elbows to yourself”—one of the biggest lies I’d told to date—“I’m not that kind of guy.” Her eyes rolled to the sky and, taking a sideways glance at the caveman beating his laptop and scratching his head, scribbled something down in the margin of her notebook. Moving her arm aside, I read, That’s not what I hear. Every word was underlined. So Emma had a sense of humor. I felt the smitten setting in so deep it would take some serious digging to weed it out. So I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t help it. Flirting was like white blood cells—I couldn’t survive without it. Since I didn’t have a notebook to scroll flirty little notes in, I leaned in closer, having to restrain myself from brushing the hair covering her ear to the side. “Would you like to find out for yourself?” I whispered in my lady killer voice. Before I could gauge her response, a crumpled piece of paper hit me dead in the nose, bouncing onto my desktop. I didn’t need twenty guesses to know who it’d come from. I flicked it off my desk, plastering on my most unimpressed face. If the best effort Ty could muster up was rebounding paper off my face, he was a more immature boy than I’d taken him for. Another forty-five minutes, or hour, or something must have passed because before I’d nearly gotten enough of watching Emma absorbed in her note-taking, the professor was excusing us. Unlike everyone else, I wasn’t in a hurry to get up and out the door. It felt like Emma was stalling as she concentrated on putting her notebook away and twisting her pencil back in her hair. I was definitely stalling, and Ty was glowering. “I’m on the volleyball team and we’re playing a big game tonight,” Emma announced suddenly, looking at me. “You should come. I’m sure you’re the kind of guy that loves a girls’ volleyball game.” I grinned, not able to keep it in check or adjust it. She was going out of her way to invite me to something with her

boyfriend sitting a seat away. “Emma,” Ty hissed his warning, throwing me a look of challenge. Too bad the boy didn’t know I never backed down from a challenge. “Now that sounds like my kind of Friday night. What time?” “Seven,” she answered, crossing her arms nonchalantly when Ty reached out for her elbow. The movement inched her sleeves up, revealing a smattering of bruises on one of her arms. “Whoa there, killer,” I said, letting out a low whistle. “You moonlight as a mixed martial arts fighter or something?” I trailed my fingers over her forearm, ignoring the further clenching of Ty’s jaw. Tugging at her sleeves, she pulled them back into place and laughed a few notes. “Volleyball isn’t exactly a sissy sport,” she said, shouldering her bag. “It keeps me freshly bruised the majority of the year. I look like a purple spotted Dalmatian whenever I go to the beach.” A flash of heat ran through me when my mind went there. “Now that’s a sight I wouldn’t mind beholding.” “All right, if you’re done shamelessly hitting on my girlfriend, I’ve got to get Emma to her next class,” Ty said, pulling on her elbow. “I wasn’t, but I guess I’ll be able to pick up where I left off tonight,” I replied, grinning like the smitten fool I’d become as I watched Emma and her soon to be ex climbing the stairs out of the auditorium.

CHAPTER FOUR Volleyball night at Stanford was like fight night in Vegas, minus the glitter and plastic, light-up heels. The campus was packed, nowhere to park, barely anywhere to walk, so I entrusted my first baby—my cherry red, vintage Mustang—to a valet at a swanky hotel nearby. I gave the attendant a bill to ensure nothing happened to one of the few loves of my life and used this handy dandy mode of transportation, known as teleportation, to land just outside of the auditorium. I couldn’t have timed it better. I had the cover of twilight to shield me and I was ten minutes late, so other than the inebriated frat boys staggering into the auditorium, no one was around to witness my space bending gift. Jogging up to the doors, I narrowly missed the worst of the staggering frat boys folding over and heaving violently. Had I been two steps farther, my designer shoes would have been a lost cause, but no harm, no foul. “Keep up the good work, soldier,” I said, saluting as I weaved around him, making sure to give him a wide berth. My attempts at humor were lost on Drunk of the Night Award guy, as they had been more often than not here. I wasn’t sure if it was the California or the college student in them, but this place didn’t find my staggering humor as humorous as the whole world had before. Not a good thing for a guy who eats sarcasm for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. “Ugggghh,” a voice that screamed its owner had her nose curled called out. “You’re him, aren’t you? She said you were a hottie-patottie. However, she failed to mention you were fully aware of that genetic superiority.” Hottie-patottie? Who talked like that? Unable to resist, I turned to find out. The girl tapping her fingers over crossed arms inspired a discreet lunge backwards and then another one when her eyes narrowed as she took a step in my direction. She looked like a thrift store had thrown up on her, had that

emo, black cracked nail polish look that screamed femininity at its finest, and to top it off, a look in her eyes that was so neurotic I couldn’t tell if she wanted to kill me or just bite my head off after mating with me. I suppose eccentric was a nicer way of putting it. “I moonlight as a hottie-patottie, but by day I’m an ogre named Sven,” I said, fighting instinct and crossing the space between me and the bra-burning, man-hating president of the women’s lib movement. A tugging on one side of her mouth erupted. “You too? I thought I was the only one with the fairy tale curse. I’m a princess in pink by day and a black wearing bitch every night,” she said, rolling her eyes over princess or pink, I wasn’t sure. It was probably both. I could tell from ten seconds with this girl she’d never been a Cinderella wannabe. “And here I was under the impression that, in addition to genetic superiority, I also had fairy tale exclusivity going for me here at Stanford,” I tossed her way, shaking my head. “Damn it, anyways.” “Charming too,” she said, dropping her head back. “This is not a good thing.” She continued to carry on a conversation with herself for a few more seconds before dropping her head back into place and appraising me with those nutty eyes again. I was rarely uncomfortable around a woman, or at a loss for words, but this one had the gift. Not in the good way though, not in the way Emma had inspired it. “Julia,” she offered, softening some. “Julia Grey. I’m Emma’s roommate, and I come bearing the gift of a coveted ticket to society’s way of cementing women as sex objects bouncing, twirling, and on display in a scrap of lycra for the whole of the perverted male world.” Wow, this girl’s got issues. Anger, daddy, or boyfriend issues I wasn’t sure, but I guessed it was an impressive mix of all three. “Pat—” “I know who you are,” she said, cutting me off as she held out the ticket curled between her fingertips like it was painful to have skin to paper contact with it. “Emma said

you would be the ‘adorable’ one dressed for a photo shoot ten minutes late.” “Emma said I was adorable?” “Maybe,” she said, chipping away at the remains of her black nail polish. “But if you ever repeat that I repeated that, I’ll use my jedi knight skills on you and light saber your fine little butt.” It was a funny thing to say and I normally would have laughed, but this girl was tipping the crazy scale just enough that I didn’t doubt she was serious. “My lips are sealed.” “Sure, they’re not,” she said, continuing her masochistic manicure. I never had any issues cutting to the point, so now was as good a time as any. “What’s the deal with Emma and Terminator?” She smiled the opposite of the happy kind. “You seem like a decent guy,” she began. “Wait, I take that back. I don’t know you enough to make that assertion, but I like looking at you. A lot.” To prove it, she took a full body inventory where we stood. A lesser man would have squirmed in his size elevens. “So it’s in my best interest to keep you alive and in one fine piece, so I’m going to offer you a piece of advice.” She looked me square in the eye. Even the green of her eyes was unusual, like it was radioactive. “Stay away from Emma.” Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen. “You’re a fan of Ty’s,” I stated. “You mean chump-butt?” she said. “No way, Jose, but I am a fan of Emma’s, and you in her life is not a good thing while Ty’s—” “Still her boyfriend,” I interrupted. Her eyes drilled into mine harder. “Alive,” she finished. This girl was putting a serious damper on my Friday night. Enough with the mood stifling already. “Thanks for the tip, but I can handle myself against your stereotypical, college meathead.” She rolled her eyes. “Sure, you can’t.” This conversation was going nowhere. Fast. “Thanks for the ticket. It was nice . . .”—what was the right word? —“chatting with you.”

She laughed one hard note that rocked her body. “Hey, Top Gun? One more pointer before you head in there,” she called out as I headed towards the gymnasium. “Since I doubt you’ll be flying the friendly skies in an F-14 while Kenny Loggins plays on a loop in the background anytime soon,”—she smirked at me, scanning me head to toe —“might want to loose the aviators. They’ll eat you alive if you go in there looking like a pretty boy version of Ice Man.” I’m sure to her that was a way of showing her concern for someone she liked, but what she didn’t expect from me was that I loved me a little roshambo. I kept the glasses firmly in place, grinning my response. “Aren’t you coming?” I asked as she stayed planted by the doors. She did an exaggerated shudder. “No. I have a strict no mixing it with the jocks policy ever since a pack of them made my life hell in high school. Enjoy,” she said, kicking open the door behind her with her shiny purple military boot. “Try to stay alive. I’d like to undress you with my eyes at least a few thousand more times.” Objectification. If this is the way I made the women I did it on (with the purest of intentions, of course) feel, I was going to have to ease up. The crowd exploded to a roar suddenly, as I guessed the teams were making their appearance on the court. Which meant Emma was just a room away. Putting resolutions on hold, I jogged into the gymnasium, handing my ticket to the attendant while I craned my neck, searching for her. I couldn’t tell you if the ticket taker was male or female, I was so absorbed, but they did rattle off directions to my seat. Sounded like Emma had scored me a sweet ticket. Center court and a few rows back. I all but pranced down the bleachers, simultaneously searching for my seat and Emma. Since I was more interested in finding one over the other, when I found it, I put on the brakes. She’d found me at almost the same time I’d found her. She was sitting in a metal chair on the sidelines, her cheeks flushed and her hair pulled back into a high ponytail. She smiled. I beamed.

Even when she turned her attention away to retie her shoes, I stood smitten like I’d just been injected with a potent poison of love potion. I was oblivious to everything and everyone. At least until a wad of paper aimed at my head neared its destination. I let my body do what it did, snatching the threat—small and insignificant as it was—from the air before it had a chance to serve its intended purpose of humiliating me in front of hundreds. The temptation to fire it back at the owner was overwhelming in so many ways, but a handful of spectators were already looking at me like I had mad ninja skills. If I unleashed my speed ball with dead on accuracy, the questions in their heads of what I’d just done might flicker over to conclusions I didn’t need them to draw. Especially now that I’d found a reason to stay firmly planted in the land of Mortals. So instead, I finished my journey to my seat which, lucky for me, was right next to the paper wad’s owner. “I think you lost something,” I said, like I was as happy I could reunite a couple pieces of trash back together as I would have been bringing a little boy’s lost puppy home. “Keep it,” Ty said, his eyes already in full glare mode. “As a reminder of the only thing I’ll ever lose to you.” So we weren’t going to waste anytime picking up where we left off. “If there’s only one thing you’ll lose to me, how about I return this to you,” I said, stuffing it into the pocket of his jacket, “and I’ll keep my eyes open for something else I’d rather take.” Sliding my glasses off, I let my eyes scan the room first before they fell on the prettiest back of a head I’d seen. Ty’s fists balled as he began to rise. Were we going to do this here? Right in the middle of hundreds of smashed together bodies? If I’d known, I wouldn’t have worn my nice jacket. The person sitting next to him clamped a hand over his shoulder and shoved him back down into his seat. It was a fellow meathead, who glowered at me at the same time he shook his head. “You’ve got some serious balls showing your face here,” Ty seethed, “and then disrespecting me in front of my boys.” He tilted his head to the side, where not one, but

three similar looking, green eyed pit bulls sat glaring at me. Super, Emma’s brothers. I was scoring impressive points with all the people in her life. I gave them all my most unimpressed look before glancing back to the gym floor. “I’m not comfortable talking about my anatomical manhood with another man, but I hear there are a bunch of wonderful clubs and support groups where you can do just that.” Ty’s arm barely had time to flinch my direction before the guy next to him pinned it back. “Ty, enough,” he ordered. “He isn’t worth it. And Emma would be pissed.” “I don’t care,” Ty said, grinding his jaw. “You start a brawl in here, it could threaten your spot on the football team,” his friend said, sweeping in front of Ty and pushing him over into his former seat. “Patrick Hayward,” I said, extending my hand and acting like the meathead quartet didn’t loathe me. “And trust me, of all the potential dangers out there in the big bad world, I’m the last one you should be worrying about for your sister,”—he was ignoring me, so I glanced down to the court where my eyes targeted on a pair of bare, insanely hot legs—“especially when your sister’s running around in her underwear,” I said, well . . . I screeched. A surge of conflicting interests attacked me. In one corner I had virtue wanting to search for a blanket to cover her up in, and in the other corner I had hunger. The kind that still had me thinking about blankets, but disheveled with sheets and pillows on a bed. Imaginary face slap. “I know who you are, douchebag, and before I put you in a headlock for mentioning my little sister and underwear in the same sentence, I’m trying to figure out if you’re talking about her uniform or if you’re actually visualizing her in her underwear right now. Either way,” he said, making slow work of popping his knuckles, “it’s not looking good for you.” I watched her throw her windbreaker top over her head, revealing a numbered jersey. I couldn’t decide if I was more relieved or disappointed. “You’re telling me those black,

next-to-non-existent boyshorts are part of her uniform?” It was too good to be true. Especially as I watched with unblinking interest as she loped onto the court to finish her warm-up with the rest of the team. “Is this your first volleyball game or something?” “Well, yeah. It kind of is,” I answered, incapable of anything more intelligent as I watched Emma. “But I can tell you I’m planning on making up for my lapse in attendance at women’s volleyball games by becoming Stanford’s most recent season ticket holder. How much do you think it would cost for a lifetime membership?” I laughed at my private joke, finding no company in it. “I bet they’ll strike you a great deal since your lifetime membership will expire in two minutes if you keep looking at my sister like that, Rapunzel.” His voice wasn’t quite murderous, but it was close enough to gather he was serious about facing a life sentence to end mine. “So, the nicknames are inspiring. True masterpieces,” I said, not sure if I was trying to diffuse or exacerbate the situation. “You boys have a study hour where you get together and come up with these labels that showcase your bigoted intelligence?” He grinned, just barely, but it still qualified. “No. It just comes naturally when someone like you tries to weasel his way into my sister’s, who’s too sweet and innocent for her own good, underwear.” Great. He said it, so immediately I was thinking it again. I didn’t want to think about her that way, like I had so many of the masses before her, she was better than that and better than me, but I didn’t exactly not want to think about her underwear either. It was the trickiest kind of situation to be in. Imaginary face slap. “So you’re all right with Ty doing much more with her underwear than thinking about them why? Because he’s your football buddy or something? Some sort of bros before hoes thing?” “Watch your step,” he warned, his fists clenching in and out with such concentration I could see the tension releasing from them. “You don’t know jack crap about

Emma or any of us. You got that?” Had I been Mortal, I knew I would have been signing my death certificate if I smarted him back, but I wanted to. I was tired of the macho act and we were still in pregame warmup. But there was something honest, something relatable, about his hardcore protection of his sister. It reminded me of me. The way I would have been if Elisabeth—the youngest Hayward sibling who’d died with the rest of us, but hadn’t joined us in Immortality—had made it into her teenage years and boys came knocking on our front door for her. I would have murdered them where they stood, no question about it. Emma’s brother was giving me more leniency than I would have given to someone if I was in his shoes. I sighed, reminding myself why I wasn’t a proponent of empathy in times like these. “Hey, you’re right. I’m being a dick,” I offered, not adding on, but you’re being a bigger one. “Let’s just rewind to three minutes ago and start over. So, how ‘bout those Yankees?” This time, when I extended my hand, he shook it. “Dallas, and those Yankees suck.” I had to bite my cheek from saying something in defense of his insult to the titans of baseball and put us back at square nothing. “That’s my older brother Austin next to Ty, and the one on the end is Jackson. He graduated last year, but can’t miss a single game of his baby sister’s. Especially when Ty calls us and tells us some new rich boy’s trying to get into our sister’s pants.” The killer notes in his voice were gone, although I knew one misstep by moi would bring them back in heightened quantities. “I thought there were four older brothers who could squash me like a bug?” Dallas smirked. “Tex’s somewhere up there in the nose bleed section,” he said, tipping his head behind us. “He and I are twins, and he wasn’t happy about drawing the seat short straw since Emma gave his ticket to you.” Sounds like Tex and I were off to an even better start than I was with Emma’s other brothers. “Jackson? Austin?

Tex? Dallas?” I listed. “What’s with all the city names?” Dallas huffed. “My parents thought they’d be all original and name us after the places we were conceived in.” “I’ve never heard of a city named Emma,” I said, shuffling through the memory bank. “Nah, Emma wasn’t named for a city,” Dallas said. “By the time she came along, dad had his four strapping boys and couldn’t have cared if mom drowned their premature daughter. Dad was something of a dick,” Dallas said, his fists clenching again. “That’s why I’m so good at detecting other ones.” He looked at me in about as pointed of a way as a person could. “Listen, I get Emma’s got a serious boyfriend and four older brothers serious about committing a first degree crime if someone like me tries to screw with her, but I can promise you I want nothing more than to be friends with her,”—yes, I knew lying was a sin, but so was lust, and I’d had my fair share of that my whole existence and I had yet to be struck down by lightning—“so you’ve got nothing to worry about with me. Scout’s honor.” “Brother, if I thought you were a boy scout, I wouldn’t have to worry about eagle scout nerdiness working its way into my sister’s fragile, often misguided, heart.” He shot me a sideways grin as the buzzer went off. “And just so you know where Ty stands with us, if he were thinking, touching, or trying to remove Emma’s underwear, we’d happily waterboard him to death, football teammate or not. It just so happens right now he stands with us against d-bags coming on to Emma. He’s with us until he’s against us, and if he’s ever against us, he’s as good as a Scarlett boys’ punching bag. And believe me, he knows it too,” Dallas said, watching with something that looked a lot like pride as Emma took her place on the court, adjusting her knee pads into place. Just then she looked up at the five of us staring at her with a mixture of emotions and beamed, waving before turning her attention to the opposing team as they prepared to serve. Something that felt dangerous pitted into my stomach right then, something that felt a lot like it was all over. I’d

found the girl. The girl. I still wasn’t sure if I even believed in it, but instinct didn’t give a fart about belief. It did what it wanted to. She had a boyfriend and four brothers who wouldn’t rest until I was worm fodder if I screwed this up. Why did I have to fall for the girl who was more heavily guarded than the pope? Ah, that’s it. I momentarily forgot the world has a vendetta against my happiness.

CHAPTER FIVE Stanford won. Correction—Stanford annihilated. Large thanks due to their star sophomore Emma Scarlett. Silence was something I didn’t observe unless I was hiding in wait for the enemy or sleeping—even then I snored—but for most of the game, my vocal chords got a recuperative rest. I was awed, no other way of putting it, as I watched her on the court. Graceful, aggressive, fearless. Very little of the sweet, smiling girl was left on the court from the first buzzer to the time the last buzzer went off. Between the five of us and our cheering that sounded like a bunch of rabid gorillas pounding their chests and stomping their feet, Emma had her own cheerleading squad of imbeciles. I caught her blushing her acknowledgment a few times during a time out, but when she was playing, she was ignorant of everything except for that ball. Her eyes stayed fixed to it like mine stayed fixed to her. And despite what most might assume, my eyes hadn’t drifted south of her face since the game had started. Her face wasn’t classically perfect, but that’s what made it beautiful. It was unique, all her own, all I could think about. I’d surrounded myself with beautiful women for generations, so many that beauty had become nothing but the standard. Somewhere along the way, I’d discovered beauty isn’t beautiful anymore when there’s no uniqueness to it. Emma’s fuller upper lip, the freckles smattering her nose she didn’t feel the need to layer makeup over, her eyes that were too large for her face, all those “imperfections” were what made her beautiful. Unique. Different. She reminded me of what beauty was. It wasn’t in the uniform, cookie-cutter, surgically cut, molded, and shaped to perfection bodies and faces of the women before her; it was the quirks and definitions that made her different from every other woman out there. There was no one else like her. No one all but identical to her I could find to replace her

when she was gone. That scared me. More like terrified me. I knew I should be fighting the way I was feeling; I knew I should turn and walk away now. I didn’t want to let myself get to a point with Emma like I’d gotten to with Bryn, stumbling through the days together until one morning I woke up and knew I couldn’t live without her. Emma was Ty’s, and as much of a crusty, stinky jockstrap as he was, it wasn’t my place to kick him to the curb. That was her honor, and I didn’t want to take that joy away from her when she finally realized what a slimeball he was. I could wait. I had nothing but time. Here was what put the terror in terrifying though. What if, after waiting around for Emma for weeks, months, years— whatever it took—at the end of the line, she decided to walk down the aisle towards Ty? The waiting for nothing, my efforts in vain, my heart shattered. Was the possibility of losing the girl to another guy—again—worth it? When an auburn ponytail flipped around to reveal a face that had a smile that was aimed right at me, timidly followed by glowing green eyes, I had my answer. Hell yes, it was worth it. Girls like Emma Scarlett came around once an eternity, and I wasn’t going to spend what was left of mine without her.

I purposefully arrived to class a few minutes late on Monday morning, after spending a tortured weekend thinking, dreaming, and . . . well, shamelessly fantasizing about Emma because I knew I couldn’t go another hour without being close to her. I didn’t want to take the chance if I arrived first that she might not choose the seat next to me again. I was a man who believed in carving my own fate. When I spotted her down front and center again, no sight of Ty-guy anywhere around, I couldn’t believe my luck. I was darn close to busting loose a happy dance. She glanced over her shoulder, scanning the filled seats around her, trying to look casual about it. I was as accustomed to

reading people’s tells as I was winking at women, so she didn’t fool me for a second that she wasn’t looking for someone. I knew more than likely she was looking for Ty, but I didn’t let that stop me from hoping it could have been for me. I knew it was foolish, juvenile, and asinine. I also knew my father, along with every other Immortal, would give me a serious ass whooping for even thinking about what I was about to do. But Patrick Hayward wasn’t the kind of guy that cared about those things. Besides, the professor was late and every student save for the fox up front was too caught up in their weekend reports with each other to notice. I went from standing in the doorway in the back to sitting in the front row in the split of a second too short for a scientific calculator to equate. “Looking for someone?” I asked, keeping a straight face. She spun in her seat towards me, her already large eyes even huger, seeming to take up half her face. “When did you get here?” she all but shrieked, looking me up and down. I shrugged. “Just now.” I tried to make the way I was staring into her eyes seem less intense, but I’m sure my attempts made it that much more obvious. “So who were you looking for?” I repeated, guessing that if I mentioned anything about teleportation she’d slap a restraining order on me by this evening. “No one.” She did a clearing shake of her head before flipping her notebook open. The rest of the student’s laptops were buzzing at the ready. “So, two consecutive days in a row of attending class? Are you sure that doesn’t break some sort of rebel boy code?” she asked, recomposed and smiling at me from the side. “You’re speaking like you know the rules that govern our secret brotherhood,” I answered, always one for playing along. I really hoped the professor was sick, or his car battery had died, or lord, anything. I had her to myself, talking, and I didn’t want it to stop. Ever. “I know a guy,” she said, shrugging a shoulder. “That’s a capital crime for one of ours to include the

minions of this world in on our secret ways,” I said, folding my arms over the desktop and leaning as close to her as I could. “Yeah, you don’t need to tell me. Poor whistleblower was found dead the next day,” she said, lowering her voice and putting on a dramatic face. “It was a closed casket.” “We’re a merciless, brutal bunch of rebels,” I said, lowering my voice too, “so you have to swear to me you won’t tell anyone I was in class two days in a row. That’s a sin so severe they’d leave the casket open just to prove a point to everyone else.” She put on a face of overdone shock. “How about this? I’ll promise not to tell a single soul about your perfect two day attendance record if you tell me what inspired such an act.” I looked over my shoulder, then the other, secret agent style, before curling my finger at her. She leaned in, so close I felt goose bumps surface over the back of my neck, but it wasn’t close enough. I felt a hunger so deep I wasn’t sure I could ever sate it. I closed the last few inches between us, knowing I was beyond pressing my luck with her, half waiting for her to slap me, half wanting to tilt her mouth up until it connected with mine, and whispered in her ear, “I came to see about a girl.” I felt her stiffen, I sensed the tension steal over her body, right before she snapped away from me like I was toxic. She settled her hair behind her ears, then moved on to smoothing her skirt. So much for my world-renowned smoothness. It went over with her as well as silk over sandpaper. When she started tapping her pencil over her desk, I couldn’t take anymore of her spastic releases of discomfort. Especially knowing I was the idiot who’d induced it. When all else fails, I’d learned this great trick called changing the subject and acting like nothing had happened. Was a godsend. “So where’s Ty today?” I asked, facing forward in my seat and putting my voice back together. She cleared her throat, throwing me a quick look from

the side. Super, I’d taken one step forward only to take about a hundred back. “He’s not feeling well,” she answered, pulling at a thread dangling from the sleeve of her sweater. I was going to mention something about a weekend of binge drinking generally equating to waking up Monday morning with a not-feeling-well result, but a blotch of purple kept poking to the surface each time Emma would pull the thread. Without thinking, I reached for her wrist and slid the sweater sleeve up to her elbow. She automatically recoiled, pulling the sleeve back into place. “More bruises?” I whispered, knowing my hackles would be rising if I had any. “Maybe you need to take a multivitamin or something.” She chuckled, but I wasn’t joking. I’d never seen a girl as bruised as her. She had to have some sort of vitamin deficiency or something. Either that or she was a magnet for bruises far and wide. “What can I say? Volleyball’s a killer sport and I’m not the kind of girl that dodges a ball when it’s firing at me.” She sounded proud of herself. I was about to reply that I hadn’t seen her take any balls or hits to the forearms at Friday night’s game when the good professor decided that late was better than never. I happened to believe in the other way around. “Sit down and shut up,” he hollered, grabbing his temples and grimacing at his own voice. Looked like students at Stanford weren’t the only ones that liked to have a good time during the weekend. The room went from a dull roar to Sunday morning silent. The man had skills of persuasion, I had to give him that. “I’m not in the mood to give out a lecture today on Freudian theory and, from the grimaces I just detected on your faces, you’re not ready to hear it either,” he announced, his voice barely making it through the room as he snapped his briefcase open and began rummaging through it. “So I’m going to give you the details—the brief details—on your semester project that will account for half of your grade.”

Professor Camp grimaced, reaching again for his temples as a communicable groan vibrated the room. He twisted open an aspirin bottle and tipped it to his lips, shaking it back until two, three, or twenty went down the hatch. “Love,” he said, letting us simmer over the topic a minute as he tore open an alka-seltzer packet and tipped its tablets into his coffee cup. Emma snickered, beating me to it. “Love,” he repeated. “The most controversial, most sought after, men die over, women faint over, biggest piece of monkey crap to ever be conjured up by mankind.” You could feel the jaws dropping around us, the reaction was that strong. “Just joking,” he said. “Kind of,” he added as he tipped his cup at us before chugging it down in a single gulp. Emma’s pencil was primed at the ready, nothing more than Love scrolled under the date. “Love is emotional, love is physical, love makes you mental,”—I tried not to laugh at the personal relevance —“but love is most definitely psychological. And, in case you weren’t aware of the class you were in, that’s just what we are supposed to be studying,” he went on, yawning. “Myself and my other peers in the Psychology department hold to two schools of thought. Since I’m the teacher and you’re the students paying fifty grand a year and will pretty much do anything I ask you to for an A, you’ll be my guinea pigs to put love to the test.” He was the poster child for the kind of teacher that should have retired twenty years ago and probably shouldn’t have ever chosen teaching as a career since he hated youth, but he had a keen sense for holding his students captive. I hadn’t heard so much as a one word whisper since he’d stumbled into the room. “Is love meant to be? You know, love at first sight, true love, soul mates,” he droned, waving his hand around, “all that mumbo jumbo load of crap?” Emma’s pencil screeched to a halt. “Or can it be forced to the surface over the course of time? Could you”—he pointed his finger at several gape mouthed students—“fall in love with absolutely

anyone if you spent enough time and life experience with them?” He braced his arms over the lectern. “I know, but you’re about to find out.” I guessed the edge in his voice and the bitter smirk used when discussing love had to do with the tan lines framing a white ring of skin where I guessed a band had recently been. “I’ve paired you up and, while I’m a man of the times and have no problem with same sex, multi sex, whatever sex marriages that float your ding-dong, for our purposes—and so I don’t get a mountain of complaint mail from your rich, conservative, right wing parents—I’ve paired you into male/female groups.” He shuffled through his briefcase, pulling a sheet free from a binder. “This will be your partner for the rest of the semester, and who knows? Maybe the rest of your lives, and I can retire as a professor and move on to match-making?” A few laughs came from the class, but they were the forced kind. The throw-the-poor-bitter-professor-a-bone kind of laugh. “Some of you may be in committed relationships already. Good for you,” he said, making a whoop-dee-doo twirl of his finger. “Let me offer you some advice. Break up with the love of your life. Call it quits with your soul mate, at least if you care about getting a good grade in this class. If you are so moved, you can always pick up right where you left off at the end of the quarter.” This time a sound broke the silence. It was Emma’s gasp. I couldn’t believe my luck. I knew Emma and Ty had been together for awhile, but she struck me as the kind of girl that followed her teacher’s orders. The kind of straight A student that didn’t know how to get a B. And here was our professor all but demanding that we break up with our girlfriends and boyfriends. Was it on the up and up? Probably not. Was it legal? I doubted it. Would the school hesitate in firing him if they heard? Definitely not. But was he serious? Abso-flippin’-lutely. I had a new favorite teacher. “There are assigned dates every weekend, but you need

to spend more time than a few cutesy little dates together. Much more time. If I walk into the cafeteria, I want to see you together. If I sneak into the dorm halls after hours, I expect you all to be breaking curfew with your partner like any self-respecting college student in love.” More laughter. This time, the real kind. The only person who did not seem into this whole mad scientist experiment was Emma. She couldn’t have looked more uncomfortable if she’d come to class naked. “I need to stress that in order for this project’s findings to be accurate, I need you to spend every other waking minute with your partner. The only way to prove or disprove if love is nothing more than a result of time and familiarity is to . . .”—his eyes circled the room—“you guessed it, spend time with each other. Simple enough? Any questions?” he asked, eyes on his sheet of paper and wasting no time, obviously unconcerned if there were any questions. I didn’t need air, so it wasn’t any big deal that I was holding my breath, but when I started to feel dizzy, I knew it wasn’t a result of the lack of oxygen. It had everything to do with the anticipation of hearing my name called out with Emma’s. In a class close to one hundred, it was what I suppose you could call a forlorn wish, but those were the best kind to hope for. The absolute unlikelihood of them coming to fruition made the personal angst that much more intense. I could feel it pulsing through my blood. I leaned forward in my seat as Professor Camp called out the first pair while Emma seemed to slink so far back into her seat it was like she was melting into it. What was she so uneasy about? The assignment itself, being told to break up with Ty the bonehead, who she’d be paired with . . . wondering, hoping, guessing it could be me? Or praying it wouldn’t be me? I couldn’t tell, and I knew I shouldn’t ask, but I did anyways. “What’s wrong?” I whispered over to her as the announcement of names continued on at an agonizingly slow pace. She waved me off, working her tongue into the side of

her cheek and wringing her hand in her skirt. I felt something then. Seeing her so uncomfortable, but it went beyond seeing. I could feel her discomfort, with such clarity it could have been my own. It was jarring and intimate . . . and a first. Setting all of myself aside, nothing else was on my mind but easing hers. I was just reaching for one of her hands and searching for the right words of comfort when I heard her name called out from down front. “Emma Scarlett, your partner is . . .”—I sucked in a breath; she did too. I had just enough time to send out another prayer into the waiting universe before the good professor finished, “Patrick Hayward.” And then, I did something I had no control over. Something that had the whole class busting a gut. I leapt from my seat, threw both arms in the air, and screamed, “YES!” When I realized what I’d done, I didn’t blush, I didn’t sit back in my seat and duck my head like anyone who had a shred of self worth would. Too late to worry about my delicate male ego. Way too late. Instead I turned around and gave a bow, which was followed by another round of laughter with some applause tossed in. “Glad to have made your day, Mr. Hayward,” Camp said, trying his best to look irritated. “Happy love making . . . errrr . . . finding,” he edited before going on to the next pair on his sheet. I’d been so caught up in the moment I hadn’t noticed Emma’s reaction, and now that I was thinking about it, I wasn’t sure I wanted to look because I knew if she was grimacing or shuddering or anything that indicated she was dreading what I was dying for, I would have melted where I stood. The bad kind of melting, the water doused Wicked Witch of the West kind of melting. I sat down first, giving myself a few more moments to let it all simmer in. Chancing the shortest of glances her way, I didn’t see any lines of dismay or eyes narrowed in aggravation, so I mustered up some courage and did a fullon body turn so I could look at her straight on. She kept her face forward, not allowing me to read

anything in her eyes. Her face was expressionless, as unreadable as an empty book. Her shoulders were relaxed, as was the rest of her. No more hands wringing the hell out of her skirt, no more looking so uncomfortable she could have been seated on a hot burner. She could have been elated, she could have been devastated. I didn’t know. I didn’t think there could have been anything worse than finding her cringing at the thought of spending the quarter together, but I’d been wrong. This was worse. She was so still and flat faced she could have been a mannequin. “Emma?” I whispered, contemplating reaching over and shaking her a little. When she didn’t respond with even a blink, I did just that. “Emma?” I repeated, wrapping my fingers around her arm. “Partner? What’s going on up there?” I tapped her temple, eliciting a reaction from her this time. Her eyes blinked a few times, followed by a few shakes of the head, like she’d been caught in a dream and had just woken up. I only hoped she didn’t leap to the conclusion she’d woken up to a nightmare. “Are you all right? I think you blanked out on us for a few minutes.” I was genuinely concerned. I didn’t need to have the framed certificate on my wall like my M.D. brothers did to know this wasn’t normal, or healthy, behavior. Clearing her throat, she ran her hands through her hair in quick fits. “I’m fine. Sorry. I was just getting caught up on my meditation. It’s been awhile and since I just found out I’d be spending the semester with you,”—the corner of her mouth fought the upward movement—“I figured I’d need as many moments of calm as I could get.” She tore her fingers through her hair a few more times before twisting it into a fat bun and stabbing it through with the pencil held between her teeth. The woman was a pencil welding, bun stabbing samurai. “Why, Miss Scarlett,” I said, flicking my ear at her, “was that an attempt at humor I just detected coming from you?” “No,” she said. “That was my attempt at honesty.” I put on my most injured face. “That was an attempt at

humor.” “Yes, it was,” she said, grinning. “Thank you, thank you very much. I’ll be here all week,” she said, bowing her head. “From what I hear,” I said, leaning in again. Pressing my luck, but that’s what I did. “You’ll be here”—even closer. She didn’t back away—“all quarter.” Her cheeks colored. Not instantly, but a beautiful, smoldering journey to muted crimson. She was blushing. She was blushing at something I’d said. Something I’d done. I didn’t need to be the ladies man I was to know this was a very good sign. Girls didn’t blush at boys that didn’t make them go, somewhere inside, pitter-patter. I very nearly leapt from my desk again shouting praise to the skies. “All right, everyone,” Professor Camp called out. “Now that you know who your partner is, the first matter of business is to assign your first project. Other than spending copious amounts of time together, this weekend’s date will be—because I like to think of myself as a traditionalist on the dating front—the man’s choice.” The girls all groaned, Emma loudest of all as she threw me a look and an elbow, like boys were positively hopeless when it came to the date planning department. They were right. Boys were. Good thing I happened to be a man. “Word of advice, boys,” he said, pointing around the room, “leave the condoms in your nightstand.” “Damn,” I said under my breath, which was promptly followed by a sharp elbow to the side, compliments of Miss Scarlett. “This is a project, The Luh-ove Project, not a one night stand,” he said, letting that hang in the air. “Try to go against your hormones hitting hyperdrive at this time in your lives and act accordingly. I don’t need the blame for being the catalyst for bringing an illegitimate child into the world.” Stepping around the lectern, he tapped his head. “Fight nature and think with this, not with this,” he finished, tipping his hips. There were a few nervous laughs, but mainly just a lot of faces frozen in varying shades of red.

“Friday or Saturday night?” I asked her, wasting no time. The professor had just given me carte blanche for dating Emma Scarlett, and I wasn’t going to waste a second of it. She looked over at me with an expression that said, eager, much? I shrugged, not denying her silent accusation. I was nothing if not eager. “Friday night I’ve got an away game, and Saturday night I’m supposed to be going out with Ty to some Monster Truck rally,” she said, like she was reading from a calendar. “How about Sunday afternoon?” I didn’t need to fake a look of insult. “Sunday afternoons are for family dinners, last-minute studying, or catching up on cartoons. They are not for dates. No can do, Em,” I said, liking the way the nickname came out of nowhere and seemed just right. “In case you missed it, Professor Bitter ordered we break up with our significant bothers”—that earned me a glare—“if we wanted to get a good grade. I don’t know about you, but I won’t accept anything less than an A+.” She laughed a few notes. “I’m sure someone with your attendance record has been blessed with report cards punctuated with nothing but A+s,” she said, her sarcasm the blatant, not even an attempt at subtle, type. “And I think it was more of a suggestion than an order that we break up with boyfriends we’ve been together with for six years,” she enunciated, giving me a knowing look. I already knew where she was going with this. “Or deleting the phone numbers, addresses, and bra sizes of every sorority sister on the west coast from our phones.” Specific, no hint of remorse in her delivery, scarily accurate in her conclusion. All in all, I’d have to give her an A+. That’s just the kind of girl she was. I knew she’d settle for no less in this class. “Saturday night,” I said, no room for negotiating in my voice and expression. She rolled her eyes. “Fine,” she relented. “But Ty is going to be really, really . . .” She fumbled for whatever the right word would be to describe him, so I saved her, guessing there weren’t enough descriptors for a butt-wipe of that level.

“I’ll pick you up at seven,” I said, not bothering to hide my elation. I’d fought a lot of battles, won a lot of wars, but I’d never felt the victory in my veins, or tasted it on my tongue, like I was this one. “I can’t wait.” When she smiled back at me, its tip echoing my sentiments, I almost wished Ty had gotten his hung-over butt to class to witness the first wall of their relationship fall.

CHAPTER SIX I hadn’t talked to Emma since Monday when we made our original plans to confirm we were still on for tonight, but I wasn’t going to let a two hundred pound amoeba get in the way of a first date with Emma Scarlett. He might have been under the impression that his macho man crap would be enough of a deterrent to keep me away from Emma, and maybe it would have for some guys. But I’d never fallen into the category of some guys. I rolled up to the curb outside her dorm ten minutes early, having no problem with parking in the fire lane. If a man trying to convince the woman he was falling for to join the free fall wasn’t considered an emergency, I didn’t know what was. I grabbed the bouquet and the shiny silver box and walked-slash-jogged up the walkway to her dorm. My stomach felt like a family of angry chimpanzees were tearing it apart from the inside out. My palms were wet, long surpassing the clammy stage. I was jittery, anxious, expectant, and about ready to burst from the cacophony of emotions eating me from the inside out. Basically, I felt like a virgin on prom night. Walking down the hotel hall. This was crazy. This girl, in barely one week’s time, had managed to take the smooth out of my game, the gusto out of my sail, the confidence out of my stride. She’d rendered my bravado useless at exactly the time I needed it. The one time for decades past that I’d needed to show up with every last soldier in my firing squad, I’d shown up to the front lines with a pubescent drummer boy. Attempting to put a lid on the negative self talk, I reached for the door handle, ready to launch myself inside with all the smooth, suffocating swagger of which I knew I was capable. My fingers hadn’t even wrapped around the handle when the door thrust open, slowing only after it collided with my face. I was pretty sure the sound I emitted sounded anything but smooth. Or manly.

“Patrick?” a familiar, sweetest sound I’d ever heard after being slammed in the face, voice shrieked. “Oh my goodness gracious. Are you all right?” She squeezed up against me, running her hands over my face, knowing something should be broken or gushing. Other than my ego, everything was just as intact as it had been two seconds ago. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” I reassured her, taking a step back and smiling with exaggeration so she could see we didn’t need to spend our first date in the waiting room of minor emergency. “However, if you promise to run your hands all over me like a nun who’s fallen off the wagon every time I get hurt, I’ll be faceplanting into every door I pass.” Her lines of concern drew tighter into an expression of amused accusation. A girl had never looked so beautiful while giving me a pointed look. And pointed, next to swooning, was the majority of looks the female masses sent my way. “You’re early,” she said at last. I could have lied as to why, but I didn’t. “I couldn’t wait,” I answered, shrugging. “And unless you were running away from Ty, you’re early too.” Shrugging, she mimicked my expression. “I couldn’t wait.” Yeah, I’m pretty sure that bang I just heard was my heart hitting the floor. “I wasn’t sure if you were going to show. Especially since the warmest interaction I had with you this week was the cold shoulder,” I said in a teasing tone, although I wasn’t really. Ty made it to class Wednesday and Friday and, with his presence, caused Emma’s absence. She was there physically, but not in spirit, I guess you could say. She hadn’t said a word to me, nor replied to any of my best attempts at making conversation. In fact, she hadn’t even acknowledged me. It was a dark form of torture. I wanted to ask her if this shell of Emma had been created because of something I’d done or because of something Ty had done, but since she wouldn’t even spare a sideways glance my way, I lulled myself to sleep analyzing

the hell out of that puzzle. But here she was, smiling at me like I was one of her favorite people on the planet. “Yeah, about that,” she said, her eyes drifting to the side. “I’m sorry I ignored you all week. It’s not that I wanted to, but Ty—” she caught herself, but I didn’t need her to elaborate. The question mark that was Ty was a one word answer. “It’s just that . . . it’s, it’s . . . it’s complicated,” she finished, looking like she’d just had a molar removed without Novacain. “Really?” I said with sarcasm, feeling bad for her. Emma didn’t strike me as the girl to stutter over her words— whatever Ty had said, bribed, or threatened her with must have been convincing. “Uncomplicate it then,” I said, once her eyes drifted back to mine and I was able to talk. The force of tongue-tying was strong with this one. She laughed. “Now why didn’t I think of that? Because uncomplicating the complicated is the easiest thing in the world.” Leaning in, I said, “Want some advice as to where you should start with your uncomplicating endeavor?” “Why not?” she said through a sigh. I leaned in closer still, so close I could feel the beat pulsing in her neck. “It’s exceedingly uncomplicated over here. So why don’t you dump the baggage and come fly the friendly, uncomplicated skies?” Leaning back from me, her eyebrows flew the friendly skies. “It’s anything but uncomplicated there,” she said, doing a full body scan as her face fell. “And I’m just now realizing how uncomplicated you’re making this for me.” Her hands pointed at me, flapping around in accusation. “Not only am I underdressed, I’m embarrassingly underdressed,” she said, looking down at her jeans and sweater combo like it had betrayed her. “Ah-hah,” I said, balancing the box in one hand as I motioned with my head she should open it. “I’m so five steps ahead of you.” Eyeing me like she knew I was up to trouble, she slid the lid off. “I didn’t take you for the roses and flashy red dress kind

of girl,” I said, handing her the so-large-it-was-almostobscene bouquet of orchids. She gave me a look while she fingered the watery silk gown in the box. I chuckled, sending a silent thanks to Cora for being such a fashion goddess. A dress this smokin’ should be illegal in all fifty states. “But this is my date, and I’m a rubber necking red dress kind of guy.” Her eyes rolled, but it was softened by a smile as she clutched the box against her chest. “Give me five minutes and I’ll be right back. Adorned in a dress that could only be conceived, designed, and selected by a man.” “Guilty on all counts,” I said, feeling my chest pulling tight as she turned to head back into the building, away from me, like she was taking a vital organ with her. “Oh, and thanks for the flowers,” she said, stopping abruptly like she’d forgotten something important. “I’ve never had a guy bring me flowers before.” She glanced down at the bouquet spilling out of her arms and a smile that was too personal to be interpreted spread. “You’re kidding me, right?” I said, not able to comprehend that Ty was an even bigger loser than I’d thought. She shook her head. “Nope, you’re the first. Besides, they’re ridiculously overpriced, an awful cliché, and their short lifespan is cut in half whenever they wind up in my care.” “Hold up,” I cut her off, raising my hands. “I’m familiar with this act. Seen it a billion times, delivered a million different ways. You’re playing the part of the girl who’s saying only what she thinks we guys want to hear. Am I right?” I asked needlessly. They didn’t call me the female BS detector for nothing. Her inability to make eye contact confirmed my assertion. “That’s what I thought. Come on, you girls were made to love flowers. You were made to sigh when your man arrives with them in hand, you were made to fret over arranging them, you were made to smell them every time you walk by them, and you were made to turn them upside down and dry them when they wilt.” I was getting a little too

touchy-feely for my own good, so I did something out of character and clamped my mouth shut. “Two words,” she said, her eyes lighter than normal. “Soap. Box.” It was followed with a yawn. Emma Scarlett could throw it back at me as fast as I could toss it. Yes, that was me just falling harder. “Hey, I’m just an honest guy. Brutally honest,” I said, because I couldn’t think of anything more severe than brutal. “You can get a reference from any one of my three sisters-in-law if you don’t believe me.” I suddenly realized that this was the first time I’d referenced, or even thought about, Bryn in days. And it was only in a round about, inclusive, sister-in-law kind of way. The Bryn bus was finally leaving the station. Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles. “I’m not going to tell you what I think you want to hear, so please don’t do that to me. Sound simple enough?” She looked a little shell-shocked from my additions to my soap box. “Sounds anything but simple,” she answered, staring at me like she didn’t know what to do or say to me. This was a predicament I was happy to help her with. “I’m wrong then,” I said, reaching for the bouquet. “I’ll just take these filthy things off your hands and deposit them into the nearest trashcan.” I’d never seen a girl grip flowers like she had a ninja hold on them, but that was what Emma did. “Mine,” she said, spinning away from me and charging through the door. I smiled from her excitement over a simple bouquet of flowers. If she reacted this way to flowers, she was going to bust something when she experienced what I had planned for the night. “You know, I really do love flowers,” she announced, tilting her head back my way as she stopped mid-stride. “I was always secretly jealous of those girls who would get flowers delivered to them in the middle of class. There’s something incredibly sexy about a man who doesn’t give a flying fart what anyone thinks about his romantic notions.” I choked back the laughter right before it burst. “Mental note posted,” I said, glad I’d put the local florist on speed dial earlier today. Better make it a favorite contact too.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, jogging down the hallway, the orchids and her hair bouncing to the beat of her stride. And I was mesmerized. Completely stupefied until she disappeared around the corner. I didn’t need an official diagnosis to know I was crossing into the land of a heartbreak that was unrecoverable. Shaking my head, I turned around to find Mr. D-bag of the Decade all but lunging up the walkway at me. “You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up on a fake date with my girlfriend with flowers that cost more than the first bill you’ll get from the emergency room after I teach your disrespecting ass a lesson.” Ty’s face was bursting with angry veins, like he was ready to erupt any second. I wasn’t worried that I’d have any problems taking him, but I didn’t want to wrinkle my tux and, in my experience, brawling with a no brains and some brawn grizzly bear like Ty was more wrinkle inducing than I cared to entertain tonight. “Whoa there, big guy,” I said calmly, hinting with my hands he should take it down a notch or twelve. “Put the anger monkeys back in their cage and give them a tranquilizer while you’re at it.” His nostrils started flaring. Not in the way you mean to when you show off to your friends, but in the anger spilling over way. “Listen, I just thought since I was her boyfriend for the quarter and you’re her boyfriend for real,” I pricked my muscles to life, realizing this next comment was going to earn me a swing, “that one of us should get her flowers.” I was right. The swing came at me fast and like he didn’t care if he nailed me so hard he went to prison for manslaughter. However, I had speed, countless battles fought and won to anticipate every move my enemy was about to make, decades of experience as a legendary (and no, I don’t mind saying so) strength instructor, and this one other little thing—Immortality. His fist caught nothing but air as I ducked. The ungrounded power sent him toppling forward—as expected, of course—and I was there waiting for him. I rose from my crouched position just as he was falling over me so

he could experience this virtue I had very little knowledge of —humility—a bit more extensively. My shoulder ramming into his gut sent him somersaulting over me, falling to the ground with such force it shook the proverbial rafters. You would have thought I’d just launched a steel ox like Nathanial over my back instead of some adrenaline and testosterone driven Mortal. “That’s your freebie,” I said, my voice just as calm as it had been pre-punch. “You come at me a second time, it’s open season on hot-headed assholes.” I glared down at him, wanting to squash him out like a smoldering cigarette. And I could have done it. What Emma saw in this pond feeder was beyond me, but the only thing that kept me from making sure he spent the rest of his days sipping his meals from a straw was her. Whatever it was, she was with him. She wanted him. It made me sick acknowledging it, but it made me even sicker to think about the pain I’d cause her if I did what instinct instructed me to do with Ty. I forced myself to take a step back and then one more just to be safe. “You catch my drift, cowboy?” I asked, staring unblinkingly at him. I wanted him to catch the message, along with the threat, beyond a shadow of a doubt. “I won’t start it with you, but I will happily end it with you if you take another cheap shot at me.” “That’s awfully tough talk for some metro in a pretty, shiny suit,” Ty said, his jaw clenching around the words. He lifted himself from the ground, holding my stare the entire way up. “And here’s a little quid pro quo for you. Keep your eyes and hands off my girl. You got that? Because if I even sense your thoughts turning in a heated direction, I won’t hesitate to show you the consequences of your actions.” His mouth twisted up, overdone so it was more comical than it was threatening. I had to work really hard on not smiling so as not to beg another raw swing to the surface from him. “No offense to your superior school yard fighting tactics,”—I made a purposeful look down his body—“but I think I can take you. Actually, correction,” I said, raising my index finger, “I know I can obliterate you.”

This time when his smile formed, he got it in just the right spot to depict chilling. So much so it made my imaginary hackles stand on end. “That may be, but there are more ways than smashing your face in that I can think of to get a message across.” “And those ways are?” I asked, crossing my arms, hoping Emma wouldn’t choose this moment to charge through the doors. I didn’t want her anywhere near this monster and his chilling to the core expressions or his vague threats. “To be revealed,” Ty said, his eyebrows wagging as he turned and began lumbering into the night. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, pretty boy. You try to take my girl, I’ll get you where it hurts.” He laughed to himself, the kind that wasn’t meant to be heard by average ears, but since mine weren’t, I heard every last note of his private laugh. “Cryptic much?” I said under my breath, wondering if his threat was all bluff or if Ty really had an idea of what could hurt me. One thing I did know was that I didn’t want to find out, but I also knew given our situation, I’d probably be finding out just how proficient a bluffer he was sooner rather than later. I didn’t even have one hot minute before the door opened and a flash of red confirmed who was approaching. I forced myself to calm down and push the Ty incident aside. I wouldn’t let him ruin another second of this night. Turning towards the red flashing my way, my mouth opened to say something or drop to the concrete—I wasn’t sure—but it was the kind of predicament I wouldn’t mind finding myself in mouth deep again. Soon. “Speechless. That’s a first,” Emma said, her hands fretting over the corset boning of the gown like she could make it disappear if she rubbed it hard enough. “However, I’m not certain if that’s speechless in a good way”—her fingers pulled next at the neckline, but neck-line was a stretch. The top of the dress covered nowhere near her neck—“or in a bad way.” She snuck a glance my way, no doubt as stupefied by my silence as I was. “Care to elaborate, or is this going to be one of those silent dates?” I could have gawked at all the wrong places (or right

places if you’re a being of the XY chromosome) or stared at the aforementioned areas long enough to get slapped, but the moment my eyes connected with hers, there was nowhere else I wanted to look. And I’m saying that with a woman who has the body of a 1940’s Hollywood starlet in front of me. Curves—God I missed a woman’s body. I curse the day starvation became a commonly accepted diet for women. Shaking my head and giving each of my cheeks a slap, I answered, “That was speechless in a hot-damn-womanthere-are-hearts-breaking-around-the-world-tonight good kind of way.” She laughed, doing a quick spin. “You have such a way with words, fake boyfriend.” “Fake boyfriend?” I repeated, twirling my finger for an encore twirl. As expected, she didn’t cooperate. “You’re not exactly my real boyfriend, but you’re not an ex-boyfriend either, so what else is there? Forced boyfriend, maybe. Do you like that better?” From the tilt of her brows, I knew she wasn’t expecting me to answer. “Fake has such a negative connotation, though. And as far as this project entails, we’re to act as real as it gets.” Her mouth opened, her eyes already objecting, when I stuck my arm out for her. “So, real girlfriend, are you ready to get this date on the road?” Anticipating another objection was at the ready, I said, “I’ve got a night planned that I can guarantee you’ll be gushing to your girlfriends about on Monday.” “Would it matter if I answered ‘no’?” she asked, flicking an eyebrow. “Of course not.” I smirked, wagging the arm she’d left hanging. She did the girl look of which I’d seen my fair share. The what am I going to do with you half eye roll, full head shake, look. This was the first time I’d seen that look without getting nauseated. She sighed as she wrapped her elbow around my arm. I stood measurably taller. “We aren’t in Kansas anymore,” she breathed, running her eyes down her five figure gown before scanning my one figure less tux.

That was a first, too. Not buying a woman a gown. I’d bought hundreds, thousands probably. The first was caring so much about someone that nothing but the best would do, nothing substandard, mediocre, or even expensive would work. This little thing called selflessness was trying to crawl its way into my heart. “Stay close, Dorothy,” I said, leading her down the walkway. I felt like the night was ours, the world was ours. “My land of Oz is as paved with landmines as it is with yellow bricks.” “Don’t let my girl next door innocence fool you,” she said, glancing over at me. “I love a good adrenaline stimulating adventure as much as the next daredevil.” “Would it be premature if I proposed right this minute?” I asked, only half joking. I understood it now, or at least I was understanding it. When you met the one, you knew. It was beyond a shadow of a doubt, the most certain thing you’d ever known, the easiest, least scary decision you’d ever make. When you met the one, what was the purpose of ticking off months and years with anything less than a band circling a certain finger on a certain hand? She laughed, but it was a nervous one. “Maybe just a tad premature,” she said, clearing her throat. “You should probably at least wait until the end of the date.” “Patience, real girlfriend,” I warned, “is not one of my few virtues, so no promises.” Another laugh. “Fair enough.” I’d left the car idling along the front curb. Probably not the genius IQ choice given one of only thirty ever made vehicles would be hard to replace, but I loved making an entrance, and the only thing sexier on the road than the car growling in front of us would be Emma and me speeding down the highway. “If I was a total cheese-dick, I’d say something like your chariot awaits,” I said, motioning at the Zeus of RPM’s, “but since dick of cheese I am not, how about if I keep it sweet and simple and just open the door for you?” I swept the door open, beckoning her in. “What in all-things-excessive-and-could-feed-a-third-

world-country-for-a-month is this?” she asked, whipping to a stop and surveying the car like it was guilty of a capital crime. I shrugged at the special occasion car I coveted. “It’s a Maserati,” I answered, keeping it simple. Girls, other than my sister-in-law, didn’t care about the nitty-gritty details in the car world. “A Maser-what-i?” she said, curling her nose at it. I would have felt insulted for the car if it was anyone but Emma roasting it. “It’s a car. A mode of transportation,” I said, my over-simplification only expunging a crossing of the arms from her. “Will you be getting in it any time soon?” I asked when she took a step back. “If you’re looking for a means of transportation,” she threw back at me, “I’ve got this really awesome late 80’s Honda Accord with about 500,000 miles on it we could use”—I had to keep my expression from grimacing—“or this other wonderful thing known as public transportation we could make savvy use of too.” I moved my mouth, popping my jaw to release tension. This girl was driving me crazy. In every sense of the word. “What’s your price?” I asked after a couple satisfactory snaps and pops. “Excuse me?” she said, taking a step forward. Confrontational as it was, at least it was a start in the right direction. “Your price,” I repeated. “For getting in the bloody car so we can get on with our date. Name your price.” Her eyes drilled through mine, confirming my seriousness. Silence and a stare was the only thing we shared for almost a full minute—every bit as awkward as you’d think it would be when a gorgeous woman was staring you down while passers-by looked on like we were the latest and greatest reality show to hit the airwaves. Finally, a smile curled up the corners of her mouth. “If you want me to get in that hunk of junk”—I winced like a bandaid had just been ripped off one of the more tender areas of my body—“I want you to donate as much money as that thing cost to some charity—any charity—by the end of the week,” she finished, smirking at me like she had me

and was only waiting for me to pick my poison. And if forced to make the choice, I didn’t know which one I’d rather drink: a rice rocket on its last leg created in the worst decade for cars ever or sitting sandwiched between the snot and stench lurking in a public bus. Little did she know, money I had. More than I needed, more than I wanted, more than I knew what to do with, but had it I did and agreeing to donate a million of it to charity was an easier decision than chocolate or vanilla at the ice cream shop. “Done,” I said, reaching for her hand. “Can we get on with it now?” “You’re bluffing,” she accused, although she let me guide her into the car. “I never bluff when it comes to money,” I said, tucking the train of her gown in when she sat down. “And did you miss the conversation we just had a few minutes ago about honesty?” I shut the door after her, feeling a small victory that I’d succeeded in getting her in the car. As soon as I slid into my seat, she was already mid-way into her sentence. “You’re really going to donate one million dollars this week?” she said, the tone of someone who wasn’t sure if they were dealing with someone who was a royal nutter or a habitual liar. I sighed, punching the Maserati into gear. I’d feel better once we were in motion and the chances of her throwing herself out of the car if I said the wrong thing were diminished by cruising at some impressive MPHs. “Would you be satisfied if I show you the check first?” She paused, something she seemed to do as infrequently as I did. It was apparent neither of us was like saint William who thought everything out before he said it. Something about wanting to avoid verbal diarrhea at all costs, he’d attributed it to. “That’s all right. If you say you’re going to do it, I believe you,” she said, her words deliberate. “I trust you.” Three words. Three syllables. Insignificant in the scheme of the billions we hear during our lifetime, but to date, the most significant words I’d heard. They hit me with the weight of a dozen different responses. I wanted to grip her

to me and never let go, I wanted to slam the brakes and kiss her until the windows were coated in steam an inch thick, I wanted to wrap her in a bubble of protection and never let anything bad happen to her, I wanted to make her happy in every way a man could. Trust was a simple thing, or at least so it seemed at face value, but the thing about living two centuries of existence is that one learns that trust is rarer than love. True love, even. I couldn’t count the number of couples, families, and friends that professed undying love to one another, only to find their unions fractured when this little underestimated thing known as trust was broken. You fell in love, but you earned trust, and for whatever reason, Emma trusted me. I don’t think I would have been more moved if she’d just said she loved me. And without realizing I was saying it, I responded, “I trust you, Emma.” So much for playing it cool, keeping my cards to myself . . . I’d found myself sickeningly sweet profession deep in a Hallmark card. “Good,” she said, running her fingers over the dash. “I can always use a good friend.” I knew friend was generally the label of death for any man hoping to work his way into a woman’s heart, but I’d never let the odds stop me before. Friend was better than acquaintance, classmate, or enemy. Friend could work itself into something else, especially with me at the helm steering our friendship boat in the right direction. “So, friend,” I began, letting the Maserati loose once we hit the freeway on-ramp. “Just so I know for future reference —are you going to be so difficult about everything?” I could feel her grin light up the car. “I could ask you the same question.” “Yes, you could,” I said, smiling the real kind I so rarely did. My smiles were generally more constructed depending on the situation and the outcome I wanted to elicit. “And the answer would be yes.” She laughed as I threaded the car through an endless line of red tail lights. “Well aren’t we just two peas in a pod?”

Just as I was about to say something profoundly witty, my phone went off. “Sorry about that,” I said, freeing it from my pocket. “I forgot to silence it.” Taking a glance at the screen, I saw who was responsible for the interruption. If it wasn’t already a truism that little brothers are annoying, this confirmed it. Joseph knew I was on a date, on a date where I actually dug the girl and didn’t want an interruption, and the little goober probably thought it would be great fun to pepper me with prank calls all night. I’d never punched ignore faster. “You were saying?” I said, turning the phone off so I wouldn’t be distracted by the dozen and a half more calls that were surely coming. “Something about us getting all snug and cozy inside a pod?” “You’re as optimistic as you are difficult,” she said, staring out the windshield like I wasn’t driving like it was the last lap of the Indy 500 and I was in second place. “You’re just handing out the compliments tonight, aren’t you?” I replied, missing the bumper of some mini hybrid when it decided to hit its brakes when it saw me coming. “Okay, so give me the sixty second Emma Scarlett spiel,” I said suddenly because, while I felt I knew her on a hey-youwanna-be-my-soulmate level, I had very little knowledge of the everyday details that made her who she was. “Sixty second spiel?” she repeated like it was a foreign concept. “I’m not familiar with that lingo. Mind giving me an example?” Sure, I’d play. I knew this was just her way of deciding how much she’d divulge based on how much I did. Women were cunning creatures; that’s part of the reason I was enamored with them. “You know. Hi, I’m Patrick Hayward,” I began, “twenty years old, born in Charleston, split my time between here and Montana. I have three pain in the butt brothers I freaking worship. Three of the sweetest women for sisters in law that were all on some mission from God to marry my brutes of brothers. One father who’s the opposite of wearing his heart on his sleeve—although he’s got a large one—and my mother died years ago.” “I’m sorry,” Emma interrupted, resting her hand on my

shoulder. I continued, not wanting to encourage any pointed questions about my past. “My favorite color used to be the color of the Pacific at sunrise, my fav food is my sister-inlaw Abby’s biscuits and gravy. I’ve got an addiction to those that there’s no cure for yet.” My mouth watered at the mention. “I want to be a kung fu master when I grow up. I can’t remember the name of the first girl I kissed, but I do remember her being an insanely great kisser—by ten year old boy standards that is, which are no standards.” I grinned over at her, guessing I’d been specific enough without digging into the baggage file to satisfy her. “You know, that kind of thing.” “What’s your new favorite color?” she asked, redirecting the inquisition on me. “The color of the California sky on a warm summer’s morn?” Her voice was as sarcastic as it comes. “Although I know my attempts at masking my sensitivity are epic, I’m still something of a tender creature,” I replied, sticking out my lip. “And no, I happen to be digging that green color of your eyes at present.” Those eyes rolled away from me. “Wow. Now that’s a line,” she said, clapping her hands. “Is that your home run, grade A, top notch, go to line when you’re hoping to woo a woman out of whatever she’ll give you?” This girl was busting my chops. Hardcore. Had this been any other girl, she would have been mine a week ago, but she was nothing like any other girl. This was Emma. This was a girl as sweet as she was sardonic, as gentle as she was strong. She saw through my crap and had no problems calling me on it. This was a girl I never dared to dream was out there. “Sure, that’s been a line. Before, anyways,” I admitted. “Not my top-notch line, nowhere close, but this time it wasn’t a line. Just the truth.” Emma laughed one hard note. “That was a line,” she said knowingly. “Sadly, no. Just me bearing my soul to you,” I said, remembering why this whole conversation tangent had been taken. “All right, spiel me, Emma.”

I waited for it, making use of the silence to practice my patience. “This whole driving like a maniac thing,” she said finally, twirling her finger around the windshield, “doesn’t impress women. I know this might tip the fragile scale of your male ego, but I can push the accelerator to the floor with my foot too.” I sighed, but I wouldn’t push her. Forcing a woman to open up when she didn’t want to was like trying to break open a clam with your bare hands—Mortal bare hands, at least. “Did you see that?” I asked, turning and looking behind me, letting her change the subject. “That was my ego just falling away. Do you think I should go back and get it?” She looked over her shoulder, playing along. “Nah. Something tells me you’ve got plenty of reserves.” I shot her a cock-eyed grin. “Lucky for me.” She landed a soft punch in my arm. “And here’s what you girls don’t get. We guys don’t drive like lunatics to impress you. We drive like this because we like it.” I shifted down, punching the gas at the same time. “Correction,” I said, our heads slamming the headrests. “We love it.” “Great,” she said through her teeth, her hands grasping whatever she could. I slowed instantly. I might have loved driving fast, but I wanted her to feel safe more. I wasn’t worried about wrapping us around a cement barricade—driving came as naturally as flirting to me—but she didn’t know that. “So where are you taking me?” she asked, her fingers loosening their grips as she relaxed in her seat. I made note of the highest speed I could attain and still keep her comfortable. I was happy to see it was just north of the triple digits. “Are you putting me on a private jet and flying me to the opera?” she asked out of nowhere. Private jet wasn’t that far from the truth, but the opera was my kryptonite. At least, one of the many. “No.” I drew out my answer. “What made you guess that?” “The red dress, you in a tux, the fancy car,” she listed off

like I was supposed to be catching on to something. “I’m having a very Pretty Woman moment right now.” Ahhhh, now I got it. “How about this? I’ll promise you a private jet to a private opera—I’ll even buy some diamonds for you and clamp the box closed on your hand when you reach for them—if . . .” I said with a tone of expectation, “you promise to wear those shiny, black, over-the-knee stiletto boots.” That earned me another punch, although this one was a little harder and more deserved in my opinion. “I might not bruise as easily as you, but I’m going to be sporting a purple right arm if you keep up at that rate tonight, Rocky Balboa,” I lied, rubbing my arm. “What? With that little love-tap?” she said with fake innocence. “And besides, you deserved it.” “You’re going to tell me diamonds, gowns, and Learjets aren’t worth wearing some trashy boots for a few hours?” I asked, whipping across three lanes to hit the off ramp. “It wasn’t what you suggested, it was how you suggested it,” she said, turning in her seat towards me. “Explanation, si vous plait,” I said, turning in my seat as much as I could towards her. She huffed, like she didn’t want to explain, but I knew her enough to know she would. “You know,” she said, “you got that dreamy, far-off look on your face when you said it. Like you were picturing me naked in them, licking a lollipop or something.” I choked . . . on nothing. The impact of what she’d said hit me that hard. Partly because that’s not what I’d been picturing at all, but mainly because that’s right where my mind went. And I liked it. Too much. “That’s ridiculous. You were eating a bag of pork rinds and you had on a jumpsuit,” I said, keeping a level voice. “A skimpy jumpsuit then,” she said under her breath, “and I was probably eating those pork rinds all sexy-like.” “You know me too well, Miss Scarlett.” I laughed, taking a hard left into the parking lot. “The beach?” she asked, surveying the area. “You took me to the beach dressed in a formal gown?” I had to work hard to keep a straight face. “You don’t like

the beach?” I asked. “Scared of getting a little sand in your shoes?” “No,” she answered with irritation. “I love the beach. I’ve just never experienced it in formal wear before.” “Well you’ve never lived then,” I said, swinging my door open and hurrying around the front of the car so I could get her door before she did that twenty-first century thing girls did now of opening the door themselves. Sometimes, progress wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. I got there just in time. Opening the door, I lowered my hand to meet hers. “But we’ll save that for another time. Tonight we’ll be merely taking in the view of the beach from . . .”—my eyes pointed down the dock where a gleaming yacht towered a good ten feet higher and twenty feet longer than the rest of the shabby-by-comparison yachts around. It was the kind of boat that might make someone think to themselves, do you think he’s compensating for

something? Good thing for me I knew I was compensating for nothing. Especially that. Emma’s mouth dropped so violently it was audible. “Is that cruise ship yours?” I shut the door, grabbed her hand, and tugged her along in her stunned state. I didn’t want to deal with another half hour debate over getting on the ship like I’d had to with her getting in the car. “Given the way you reacted to the car,” I said, leading her down the dock. “I’d like to plead the fifth on the boat,” I understated. “Let’s leave it at that and just enjoy ourselves. Sound manageable?” “Something tells me you’d throw me over your shoulder and tie me to a gold plated chair aboard that thing if I said no,” she said, giving in to my pulling encouragement. “Gold plated?” I huffed, feigning insult. “That’s just tacky.” Grinning over at her, I added, “I prefer platinum.” She rolled her eyes all the way towards the boat, where one of the handful of stewards was waiting with an outstretched hand to guide us aboard. “How’s it hanging, Jacque?” I greeted, shaking his hand before boarding. But not before I tossed Emma in my arms.

Before she could protest like I knew she would, I hopped aboard and set her back down. Grinning like the devil, I asked, “You were about to say?” She made an event of checking and adjusting her gown to make sure everything was still covered and in its proper place before answering. “You know exactly what I was about to say. I’m not about to verbalize it as the only thing that will accomplish is an elevation of your smugness levels.” I tucked my hands in my pockets. “This is the most memorable date I’ve ever been on,” I admitted, checking my watch. “And we’re only thirty minutes in,” I said, offering her my arm. “Oh, and by the way, when the nice man welcoming us aboard addressed you by your last name, your pleading the fifth as to boat ownership was useless.” Shouldering me, she reached for my arm. “Nice boat.” I wrenched my face into confusion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, so maybe we should stop talking and move onto . . .”—I winked, making her eyes widen —“dinner,” I said, motioning behind her. She spun around, but not before I detected the color bleeding through her cheeks. “Whoa,” she whispered to herself. And whoa it was, as I’d intended. I knew it was a generally agreed upon adage that less is more, but it was one I’d vehemently been against my entire life. More was more as far as I was concerned, and in holding to this excessive tradition, the dining area prepared before us fit the bill. Jewel toned oversized pillows, Moroccan lamps flickering with sandalwood scented candles, and a canopy of turquoise silk with a jasmine garland blew in the breeze, transporting us into another time, another world. A world where there was no one but Emma and me, and when she looked over at me, hard and purposeful, I knew she felt the same thing. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, moving towards our little piece of Morocco. “Yes it is,” I said, staring at her as she fingered the silk rippling off the canopy.

When she looked back at me, her face was glowing, like she was two minutes into finding Neverland. “Thank you,” she said, her face happy in a way I hadn’t seen it before. Happy like she had no bad memories to taint it. “You’re welcome,” I said, fighting off the urge to shrug it off like it was no big deal. Because it was a big deal. I’d lost count decades ago, this could have been my tenthousandth date, but this was my first date with someone I cared about. Truly cared about. Trailing her fingers along the silk, she said, “What? No witty comeback? No word play in return?” she asked, giving me a knowing look. “Nah,” I said. “I figured you’re properly aware of how incredibly funny and downright comedic I am by now. It’s time to get to the meat and potatoes of our relationship.” Her face dropped a little. “Meaning?” “It’s question and answer time, baby, and since this is my date,”—I wagged my eyebrows at her—“I get to be the questioner.” The skin between her eyebrows creased. “Sounds painful. Excruciating even.” “Nah,” I replied, chancing a hand on the curve of her back before weaving us under the canopy. “I’ll go easy on you.” She took my arm as she sank into one of the oversized pillows surrounding the table. “That would be reassuring if your ‘easy’ was like everyone else’s ‘easy,’” she said, a grin flickering over her mouth. “Meaning?” I asked, lounging into the pillow across from her and moving the centerpiece to the side. Nothing was going to impair my view of her tonight. Her eyebrows twitched upwards. “Your easy is everyone’s hard. It’s like you live your life looking for the next great challenge. The next Everest to scale. The next city to conquer,” she said, staring at me like she’d got me all figured out. “What people look at and say ‘impossible’, you say ‘bring it on.’” Just as her stare was about to bury me where I sat, her shoulders lifted in time to the corners of her mouth. “Your easy is my hard.” “That was deep,” I replied in my lightest tone, though I

was still reeling from her words. “And scary accurate, so the first question I was going to ask you tonight will have to be superseded by this,”—I raised my index finger—“do you come from a long line of psychics? Mind readers perhaps? Voo-doo mamas?” She put on a face that I suppose she meant to be cryptically mysterious, although all it did was make me grin. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” I leaned forward. “I’d like to know everything there is to know about you,” I said, hoping she couldn’t hear the thoughts running in the back of my mind. “Including the first and last name of the first boy you kissed.” Her head tilted to the side. “Question number one?” she asked. “Of all the questions in the universe to ask, you want to know who was the first boy I kissed?” “You better believe I do,” I answered immediately. She took a sip of water before answering, “Brent Cooper. Fifth grade, at the water fountain outside of Principal McKay’s office.” I narrowed my eyes in jest. “Lucky bastard.” “Maybe for all of two seconds until Dallas shoved through Principal Mckay’s door after his every-other-day reprimanding and busted the water fountain after busting Brent’s face through it.” She laughed, shaking her head. “It was a two visit day to the principal’s office that day for Dallas, and Brent never so much as looked at me again.” “Yeah, your brothers are protective of you,” I said. “I picked up on that.” She nodded. “Yeah, overprotective is probably the most accurate description, but they mean well. It’s like they made some sacred vow that they’d never let another man hurt me the way our dad did when he left us.” I almost replied back with a smart ass comment about Ty making it past their radar, but her eyes shifted to the side, focusing on nothing in particular. Like she was hoping the movement would keep whatever tears that might be forming inside. My hand found its way to hers, my fingers twining between hers before my mind caught up. But she wasn’t pulling away. Her fingers curled around mine like I was the

only thing holding her above water. “I’m sorry your dad left you,” I said, wishing I could siphon away the pain coursing through her right now. “If I had a daughter like you, I’d need a damn good reason to leave. And I’d be thinking of you every second of every day if I did.” The words fell out of my mouth before I knew they were there. One of the tears she was trying so hard to keep contained fell. Damn my must-say-the-first-thing-thatcomes-to-mind straight to hell. “Em, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m saying,” I said, tightening my grip on her hand. “Just pay no attention to the idiot sitting across from you.” “It’s fine,” she replied, and thankfully I repressed replying with whenever you girls say “it’s fine,” it’s anything but fine. “You’re a good man, and that’s what a good man would think,” she said, her eyes glassed over, somewhere else, before she whispered, “but my dad wasn’t a good man.” Silence was my reply. My only reply. Nothing I could say or do could counter, cancel out, or comfort that bombshell. How does one come back with a reply when a daughter tells you her dad wasn’t a good man? I guarantee you the shrinkiest of shrinks doesn’t have a good answer for that one. Thank the heavens the captain chose the moment before I was about to scoop Emma in my arms and carry her off to a private island where she could never be hurt again to fire the engines to life. The water churning broke both our silences. “Question two?” she asked, visibly bracing herself. “I promise,”—I crossed my fingers over my heart—“they won’t be as . . . emotional as the beginning of our Q and A.” “Like I said, your easy is everyone’s hard,” she said as she wrestled the heels from her feet. Tossing them to the side, she folded her arms over the table and leaned forward, fixing her eyes on me. “Bring it on.”

CHAPTER SEVEN She loved porcupines. Yep, the oversized rodents that blow-dart needles at you if you look at them the wrong way. At least, that’d been my impression of the ugly as snot species until Emma set me straight. She claimed they were misunderstood little sweetie-pies that were so affectionate and loyal God had to give them needles or else everyone would want a pet porcupine. For all that tough exterior, they were nothing but softies inside, she’d said. No, I didn’t miss the irony that her favorite animal was the four legged equivalent of moi. She was born not so far away and had grown up in the same house she was born in, was going to be twenty in May, loved singing almost as much as she loved volleyball, but she said Stanford offered to give her a full ride scholarship to any other school but theirs when the admissions committee heard her sing. In addition, she liked bluegrass music—it made me reach for the nearest vomit bag. She loved mornings—I was a night owl. Her favorite season was winter—mine was summer. She was a dog person—I was a car person. So on and so forth. We couldn’t have been more different. I was glad the courting, match-making, and arranged marriages of my times had evolved into it being acceptable for a couple to choose one another because, on paper, we were about as compatible as oil and water. But, the big but, in every other way that couldn’t be made note of on paper, we were perfect for each other. The energy zapping in the air, the bottoming out of my stomach when she made any kind of movement with her mouth, the ache and emptiness I felt when I was away from her, the nonexistence of everything else when I was with her. It was powerful stuff. Destiny uniting our paths together, powerful stuff. She just didn’t know it yet.

“You’re being uncharacteristically quiet over there.” Emma’s voice broke my shameless daydreaming. “Did you finally run out of questions?” I heard the I hope insinuated. “I just so happen to have a question for you of such utter importance that I’ve been mentally formulating how best to deliver it.” Something that registered like panic flashed over her face. “Yes?” I made the smallest nod of my head and, right on cue, a platter—platinum plated, thank you very much—extended between us. “Crème brulee or strawberry and whipped cream covered funnel cake?” I asked, staring at her like I had her in an interrogation room and this is the all important didyou-or-didn’t-you question. She played right along, only moving her gaze from mine to review the dessert selection. Her eyes slid back to mine, and by this point I can tell we’re both close to losing our composure. “Funnel cake. Any day of the week.” “My God, woman,” I said, aghast, “quit being so perfect.” She laughed, for at least the hundredth time tonight. And like her smile, it’s real. No high notes of phony, no perfectly tapered chuckling to completion. Just raw, real laughter. “It’s funnel cake for the lady, Albert. You know what I’ll have.” Albert was already sliding the powered sugar dusted funnel cake in front of Emma. Her eyes reminded me of a little girl’s as he scooped the strawberries and homemade whipped cream deliciousness onto the deep-fried mound of dough. Her attention diverted, I didn’t waste an opportunity to stare at her, but then I noticed her arms were speckled with goosebumps. I muttered an internal curse for being so wrapped up in Q and A I neglected to consider the chill in the late night air. I slid out of my tux coat in one seamless movement and was already tightening it around her shoulders before she noticed. “Oh, thanks,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at me. “I was all right.”

I slid the jacket deeper over her shoulders, just for an excuse to be this close awhile longer. “What was that little agreement about honesty we had earlier?” I mused, tapping my chin. “Okay, fine. I was a little chilly,” she admitted, followed by a sigh. “Thank you.” “You’re welcome.” I grinned victoriously all the way back to my seat where Albert was just putting the finishing touches on my funnel cake extraordinaire. “I would have taken you more for a crème brulee kind of guy,” Emma said around a mouthful of whipped cream. Flames—the good ones—erupted in my gut. The woman could make eating carnival food sexy. Unbelievable. “And why’s that?” I asked. She picked at another bite. I foudnd myself both hoping and not hoping it would be more whipped cream. “Because girls from lower class, broken families like funnel cakes, and boys from rich southern families eat cream brulee. For one, because you know how to say it the right way without embarrassing yourself, and for two,”—she shrugged —“because it’s the best.” She just managed to draw a parallel between food preferences and socio-economic classes. No wonder she’s at Stanford. “Emma, I don’t choose the best because it’s what everyone else thinks is the best. In fact, I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks.” “Sure, sure,” she said, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Why would you be the kind of person to choose the best? It’s not like you drive the best, or sail the best”—the twitching was advancing into a smile—“or wear the best,”— her eyes scanned my tux, ending at my watch, which, although it was pretty darn blingin’, wasn’t my “best”—“or that you—” “So I have a taste for the finer things in life,” I interjected, sensing her just getting started up. “What’s wrong with that? I like the car, the boat, and the clothes because I like them, not because I care what anyone else thinks. If some secret society of rich stiffs decided to declare that Kia was the

best car out there, I can assure you I wouldn’t be putting along in a hunk of junk more plastic than metal.” “Touchy,” Emma replied. “I must have hit pretty close to the mark.” I shot her a give me a break smile while I restrained myself from shoveling a third of the cake into my mouth. Chewing through a respectable, but date-appropriate sized bite of funnel-licious, I considered the quickest way to end this debate before we launched into an argument. In my experience, women liked being right (even when they were wrong). I mean, really liked being right. The one good thing about being the last single brother was I’d gleaned invaluable experience by watching my brothers with their wives. The quickest way to end an argument was to concede and, while conceding was something I wasn’t known for, Emma had proven to me how even the deepest rooted habits I held could be tossed on their butts. “So you’re right,” I admitted. “I do like the best. The best of the best. Why do you think I’m here with you?” Her face was as equally pleased as it was surprised. And something about that expression made me shove the dessert plate away and come around the table toward her. “Dance with me?” I asked, reaching for her hand. Like the pro he was, Jacque made sure the music started just then. Emma snapped her head behind her. “A mariachi band?” she exclaimed, staring at them like they couldn’t be real. Like a five member mariachi band astounded her more than the car, the boat, or anything else tonight. “Who are you, Patrick Hayward?” she asked, looking back at me slowly. “Who do you want me to be?” I said, praying she’d tell me, knowing I’d be whatever it was she wanted. “You,” she answered, slipping her hand into mine. “Good thing for both of us that’s who I am best.” Folding my other hand over hers, I half-guided, more-pulled her towards the band, feeling like if I had to wait one more heartbeat to have her in my arms, I’d keel over from the anticipation. “The last woman I danced with told me I’m pretty much a

lost cause,” I said, hoping she couldn’t hear my heart thundering like I could. “So don’t say I didn’t warn you.” “I happen to be a dancing queen. The kind that inspired the ABBA song,” she said, trying to keep a straight face. “Try to keep up.” With a flick of my wrist, I spun her before twisting her into my arms so close I could feel the beat of her heart against my chest, and on a scale between hummingbird and sloth, Emma’s was trilling more along the lines of the avian species. In fact, it was almost keeping up with my own erratic beats. The clashing sensations hit me harder than I knew how to manage. Feeling her skin heating through to mine, the scents that were all her own, the innocent smile lighting up her face, it was like a brigade of assassins attempting to kill my restraint. I was going to kiss her. I knew I shouldn’t, I knew I couldn’t, but you know what desire tells your inhibitions when it’s at full throttle? Screw you. I do what I want. I could feel the sting from the slap I’d likely be dealt, the drive of it was that strong. Grasping at whatever fate would throw me, I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth, and prayed this would dim the kissing autopilot. I opened my eyes, right into hers, very possibly the most beautiful eyes I’d ever looked into—certainly the most captivating—and wanted her more than I had a moment ago. I wanted her to be mine. Forever. Here was the slap to the face I needed just then, although I’d be cursing it from here on out. She wasn’t mine. She was Ty’s. She’d been his and she’d continue to be his if I couldn’t get her to see reason. Reason being Ty was the bad boy fathers had been warning their daughters against since the time of Abel. “So you’ve been with the boy of Steel for six years, huh?” I said, clearing my throat and my mind at the same time. She didn’t look amused by my attempts at humor. She rarely was when it involved Ty, whereas I thought those were the crème de la crème of my comedic aptitude. “Six years next month,” she clarified. “You ever mistaken your life for purgatory?” I asked,

keeping my arms locked around her, not able to let her squirm away. Now that I had her where I wanted her, I wasn’t sure I could let go. “Only recently,” she threw back at me, her eyes sharply pointing right at the guilty party. “So that’s—Ty, I mean,” I said, “what you want?” This time, there was no undercurrent of teasing in my voice. I wanted to know. And while I’d be anything she needed, if it was a person like Ty, I just didn’t know if I could contort myself into a similar mold. Staring over at the band unseeingly, she answered, “It’s what I know.” I waited for something else, but after a full chorus of silence passed between us, I knew that was all she was going to say. “I know cream of wheat, but I don’t want to wake up to it every morning,” I said, not sure if I was more flabbergasted by my reply or her lack of reply earlier. Her eyes stayed fixed in some far away place that only she could see and, from the looks of it, it wasn’t a place where visitors would want to frequent. “Sometimes the devil you know is better than the one you don’t.” “Okay,” I said, flabbergasted, “do you realize you just compared your boyfriend to the devil?” She looked back at me, her eyes refocusing. “You know what I mean,” she said in that attempt-at-patronizing tone I was growing familiar with. “Are you going to marry him?” Nothing like cutting right to the heart of the matter. If she said yes, what hope did I have in pursuing her? What kind of man would I be if I did? Something deep inside answered my rhetorical questions. For her, I didn’t need hope, and I didn’t care what kind of man I became. “If he asks,” filling in the lines with a shrug, she said, “probably.” The only thing that overshadowed my shock was my relief. “Six years together and he hasn’t asked you?” I said. “A little risky, isn’t it?” “Risky?” she repeated. “If I had a girl like you who, by the grace of all things holy,

loved me in return, I’d slap a ring on your finger faster than you could say DeBeers.” It was the kind of profession that would have left most chumps fidgeting, but I’d left my chump-hood behind decades of humility bolstering lessons ago. “DeBeers?” she asked like that was the only thing she’d picked up on, although the great thing about a fair-skinned woman was a blush. Even the slightest tinge of color could be detected by the non-Immortal eye. “Oh my goodness, woman. The ways I could spoil you,” I said over the music. “Just lose the baggage,” I hinted, and from the line her mouth drew, I knew Emma hadn’t missed it. “And you call this not spoiling?” she replied, glancing around the boat. “Why do I need to drop the baggage when I’m not even your girlfriend and you’re rolling out the red carpet?” “This is just an appetizer, not even the main course,” I said, wondering if I’d be out of line if I ran my fingers down her arm. If I was questioning it, it probably was. “And let’s not forget dessert.” “I’m guessing you never do,” she played along. Compromising with myself, instead of giving her a firstbase skin skimming, I suddenly dipped her low to the ground. She held my eyes the whole way down. “You’re a good guesser.” Settling her back into an upright position, she grinned. “I’ve always wanted to do that,” she said, “but Ty isn’t exactly what you’d call a fan of dancing—” “Or flowers,” I said under my breath. She continued, only narrowing her eyes at me, “And even if I did manage to persuade him onto the dance floor, I’m sure his clumsy hands would have dropped me on the floor if he tried that.” “That man of yours never fails to amaze me.” I grinned innocently at her, as the band transitioned into something slow and sultry. “You’ve got some moves, I’ll give you that, Patrick,” she said. “You must have been with more women than any girl would care to know about to have perfected them.”

Honesty, honesty, honesty, I reminded myself. My past was my past, my present my present, and Emma my future. While admitting to her I’d developed something of a “ladies man” reputation didn’t thrill me, I also knew if she ever did grow to love me one day, I wanted her to love me for me. Swallowing, I replied, “I suppose you could say that, up until recently, I was more of a quantity versus quality kind of guy.” Probably the gentlest way I could put it. Her expression didn’t change as I’d expected it would. Her eyes held no judgment in them. “Sounds like you’re living the dream.” I wrinkled my nose. “I used to think I was, but it’s my brothers that are living the dream,” I said, wondering why it’d taken me so long to see. Maybe it was because it had taken this long to find the woman I could feel I’d been created to find. “They get to crawl into bed every stinkin’ night with the women they flippin’ worship. Women they’d swallow a grenade for.” “Flipping worship?” Emma repeated, mulling that over. “As demented as that sounds, I think that’s exactly the way I’d want someone to feel about me. I wouldn’t mind being flipping worshipped.” “That’s what you deserve,” I said, insinuating something in my tone because I didn’t need her to confirm that the only thing Ty flipping worshiped was himself. “You’re close with your family.” It wasn’t a question— something in my voice or in my words made it obvious. “Closer.” “A family man,” she said, studying me. “I like that. It’s a dying breed.” “It’s not if you’re a member of my family. There’s this link of genetic code known as heart of gold that runs in all Haywards, born or married into the family. It’s impossible not to love their guts. However, that string of DNA missed me.” “I wouldn’t say it missed you,” she said, looking at me like she saw past all my secrets. “So you have three brothers, and your dad who lives in . . .” “Montana,” I answered. “With my brothers and their families.”

“How many nieces and nephews do you have?” This was why it was going to be dead end followed by dead end if I let myself talk about my family or past with Emma. Clandestine was lurking around every corner in my past. “None,” I said, looking out at the water. “With three married brothers I’m sure you’ll have plenty before you know it,” she said. “You’d be the kind of uncle that’s everyone’s favorite.” “Uh-huh,” I mumbled, spinning her in hopes of distracting her from the conversation at hand. “So four boys . . .” Emma said, shaking her head. “Your poor mother.” “And one girl,” I replied before I could insert my size eleven into my vortex of a mouth. “You have a sister too?” I shook my head. “Does she live in Montana with the rest of your family?” “No,” I said quietly, not allowing myself to travel back in time to the day I’d watched her die in front of my eyes. “Where’s she at?” she asked, giving my arm a few squeezes. “As far away as she can get away from her brothers who I’m sure never gave her a hard time like mine do?” There wasn’t a gentle way to put it. “She’s dead.” Emma’s body went stiff in my arms, her feet cementing to the ground mid dance. “Patrick,” she whispered, a hand covering her mouth. “Oh my god, I’m sorry.” “It’s all right,” I said, unable to look anywhere but at the dark water. “It was a long time ago.” “What happened?” she whispered, her frozen form cracking as she weaved her arms tighter around me. It was the most comforting embrace I’d been graced with in lifetimes of existence. “That’s a story for another time,” I said, knowing sometime down the road I’d have to tell it if Emma became a part of my life in the way I hoped she would. I wouldn’t let secrets separate us. Just then, the boat shuddered to a stop. Still trapped in Emma’s arms, knowing I’d fallen into a place there was no

escape from and no hope of rescue, I couldn’t think of a time I wanted to delay the inevitable more. Incapable of words, I kept one arm curved around her and led her off the boat, not able to reconcile why I felt this would be the last time she’d step foot on it.

CHAPTER EIGHT Despite adhering to the speed limit on our return trip for no reason other than having more time with her, our return trip to Stanford seemed as instant as if I’d used my teleportation to transport us. I’d never considered time my enemy before, but after two hundred and a handful of years, it had made a spiteful enemy out of me as Emma’s hand reached for the handle when we pulled up to the curb outside her dorm hall. As I considered teleporting right outside her door to vanquish her damn twenty-first century feminism, she stiffened. “Not good,” she said, biting her lip as she looked out the window. I zoned in on what she was referring to. “Super,” I said under my breath. “I think you’ve got yourself something of a possessive boyfriend, Em.” Arms crossed, eyes narrowed, jaw set, Ty loomed in the center of the walkway like he was a bull ready to charge. I wanted to kick his controlling, girlfriend-stalking ass, but more than that, I wanted to spend more time with Emma. “Let’s just get out of here,” I said, cranking into gear, but for once in my life, I wasn’t quick enough. Emma threw open the door and was out of the car before I could mutter a profanity I never thought I’d utter in front of a woman. “Let me handle this,” I said. “Stay in the car.” Emma glanced at me, shouldered up next to her, and gave me a look I’d been expecting when I decided to use my gift to get to her as quickly as I knew how. But it didn’t last long. The disbelief slanted in her eyebrows was erased as soon as she glanced back at the waiting bull. “He’s drunk,” she stated, swallowing. Her face was blank, but I could feel the fear pulsing through her. “Aren’t you just the regular college slut?” Ty said, making his welcome as he staggered our way. His words were as

impaired as his walk, but not rip-roaring drunk impaired. Impaired just enough to have lost inhibitions and, in my experience with guys like Ty, that made them their most dangerous. “Get in the car,” I said, trying to guide her back into the car. He was fast, I had to give him that, and threw a punch like he wasn’t landing anything short of a TKO on his opponent. I barely had time to get Emma out of the way before I dodged Ty’s fist pounding into my temple. “Keep your hands off my woman,” he yelled right as the realization his punch hit nothing but cool night air registered on his face. However, mine did not. I drove my fist into his stomach harder than I’d intended, but not nearly as hard as I was capable. It was powerful enough to knock him a couple body lengths away from us. “Patrick!” Emma shouted, throwing me a look that screamed I’d done wrong in defending her, as she rushed over to where Ty adorned the Stanford lawn. “Ty,” she said, kneeling down beside him with shaking hands. “Are you okay?” “Get off of me.” Ty shoved her hands away as he sat up. “You cheap slut.” “Watch your mouth,” I seethed, one word more from him away from grinding his head into hamburger. “Or I’m going to have to teach you a little respect.” Emma had reassumed her crouched position beside Ty, running her hands over him like she was hoping to calm him. I had to fight every instinct not to grab her and run away. Ty regarded me like my threats, hits, and nearing explosive demeanor were amusing. Keeping my stare, he grabbed Emma’s shoulders and shoved her so hard to the side she let out a burst of air as she crashed to the ground. “Teach me some then,” he challenged, arching a brow in expectation. I charged, fists, knees, and elbows ready to teach him respect all the way into his next life when a streak of red threw herself in front of me. My right fist was about to

makes its debut on Ty’s cheekbone when a set of delicate hands wrapped around my other arm, trying with all her Emma might to keep me from landing my much-deserved punch. “Enough,” she yelled, her breaths coming in short bursts. “Just leave.” It took me a few moments of awkward realization to grasp she was talking to me. Looking at her, I knew the hurt on my face was as easy to read as the fear on hers she was trying to hide. Fear of what, I couldn’t pinpoint, it could have been of the fight escalating, one of us getting hurt, her getting suspended for her involvement, I didn’t know, but one thing I did know was that I wasn’t going to leave her alone with Ty in his present state of rage. Pulling the thoughts from my mind, her eyes begged me in time with her words, “Please, Patrick. Please go.” It was a combination I was incapable of overcoming, I knew it, but I had to try, despite knowing I was doomed to failure. “He just threw you on your butt and took a cheap shot at me,” I said, pointing at the scum in question. “Why are you defending him like he’s the innocent one here?” Lifting one sagging shoulder, she stated, “He’s my boyfriend.” Not nearly a sufficient explanation. In fact, it only heightened the anger I was biting back. “Oh, my bad. I forgot that gave a man an excuse to shove his woman on her ass.” She glared at me, but her glare was undermined by the hurt moving the corners of her mouth. “She’s mine,” Ty said, trying not to sway as he rose to a stand. “And therefore mine to do whatever I want with.” Whatever was hidden deep beneath the surface that brought the malicious flicker to his eyes would have been enough to invoke a squirm from any lesser man. Turning his attention to Emma, his jaw set. “Get yourself out of that tramp-stamp dress,” he said, a half smile cutting into his cheek. “I’ll deal with you later.” “Ty,” Emma called out as he turned his back to her and walked away.

I was a fool to hope it was for good. “Great,” Emma muttered, weaving her fingers into her hair. “Thanks for a lovely night.” Her heels start clacking down the walkway after Ty, and it became too much. I’m not sure if it was her going after him or her leaving me, but my cocktail of emotions found its outlet verbally. “Why are you with him?” I asked, not wanting an answer. “Are you a glutton for punishment? On a mission from God? So insecure to think that’s the best you can get?” I was short of a yell—I knew because my hands were joining the verbal explosion. “Or are you just another dumb girl with daddy issues who’s not content until she’s hooked up with the lowest piece of crap she can find?” A hand clamped over my mouth, and then the other. The pain carved into Emma’s face went so deep I wasn’t sure it could ever work its way out. I couldn’t remember wishing I could rewind ten seconds more. “That’s right, good for you,” she said, working her tongue into the side of her cheek, but it didn’t stop a tear from falling. “I do have daddy issues. Thank you so much for the reminder.” And then she was gone. Turning away from me like the toxic piece of sludge I was. She ran off into the night, in the same direction of the man I’d just become before I could say sorry for something that was unforgivable.

CHAPTER NINE Sunday was a blur. I couldn’t recall what I’d done other than self-flagellation and internal—and external—Patrick bashing. By Monday afternoon, I was eager and anythingbut-eager to walk into Psychology. Getting curious looks from everyone I passed in the hallway, save for one twelve-year-old looking boy with his nose all but glued to his scientific calculator, I zipped my leather motorcycle jacket up, double-checking my fly to make sure that zipper was all the way north as well. Stupid jeans. I don’t know why I’d let Cora talk me into them when I’d begged her last night to help me come up with some way to apologize to Emma. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in public with anything of a denim nature adorning me. This was a first, but I’d become someone else when I’d said what I had to Emma. Someone who said mean things to nice girls. I didn’t deserve anything better than an eternity of jeans— cheap, department store jeans—for what I’d said, so I suppose this was my way of imposing a smidgen of punishment on myself. Instead of a thousand hail Marys, I wore jeans. I could think of few worse self-inflicted punishments. I knew before I opened the door she wasn’t there yet, the connection I’d forged with her was that strong, but that didn’t stop me from putting on my best game face. Shuffling down the aisle, I ran through my play-by-play of the apology I was about to deliver. Mainly a lot of groveling for forgiveness, putting myself down, promising to never, ever say something so idiotic again, and the rest was a lot of fillin-the-blanks as I saw fit. I’d rehearsed it all last night, it was ingrained in my head, so why did my palms feel like they were sweating? I slid into my seat, wiping the fleshy parts of my hands on my jeans since that’s all they were good for. Why was I so nervous? I knew it didn’t have to do with the apology per se.

If I had to interrupt Professor I-hate-the-world’s riveting lecture I didn’t care. I didn’t care if the class, or the entire student body caught it on youtube, and I certainly didn’t care if Ty witnessed it. Hopefully he’d take notes. No, my nervousness had nothing to do with the environment surrounding the apology or the words weaving it together. My knees were bouncing like a methhead’s because of what I had to lose if it wasn’t accepted. I had, for melodrama’s sake, everything to lose. This wasn’t a hey, sorry I left the toilet seat up for the millionth time apology to one of my sisters-in-law, this was one of those apologies that could upend my world if it went shunned. So, round of applause, I’d identified the source of the nerves. It didn’t make me feel better. “Sit down. Shut up,” our esteemed professor called out, our cue to take his daily greeting as a time to do just that. Bitter as he was, and I was quite certain he wouldn’t let me squeak by with anything better than a D just on principle alone, I kinda liked him. I sensed the door about to swing open in the back, so my eyes were already trained on the spot before a pair met my gaze, narrowing and darkening. Ty slid into the back row, flipping me off. Taking the moral high ground—eye for an eye style—I flipped it right back. Emma wasn’t with him, and it wasn’t like her to be late. Women may be a mystery to men, but they weren’t to me, and Emma was one of the easier ones to translate. Except, of course, for the way she felt about me. If she felt anything at all. Other than annoyance. She wasn’t with Ty. She wasn’t here on time. Logical string of thought was to conclude she wouldn’t be in class today. Therefore, neither would I. No offense to Professor Camp, but the only reason I came to class was to see Emma. I was out of my chair and down the aisle before I could let the responsible fraction of my consciousness surface. And by fraction, I mean next to non-existent. So fractional it was

incalculable. “Stay,” I instructed the mass of meat in the back row in passing, raising a hand. Steam was all but pluming from his nostrils, but I couldn’t miss the cherry on top. “Good boy,” I said as I shuffled through the door, receiving the second hand gesture that would have earned him a night out in the barn had my mother still been around to see it. I didn’t possess the dignity left to jog towards Emma’s dorm room. I ran. Ran like it was the only prayer I had left of saving my life. Ran like a wanted man. Ran because I wanted a woman and I wanted her bad. Earning a gaggle more curious looks by the time I reached the dorm’s front door, I made my best effort to look out of breath. After the look the next girl gave me in passing —something that said, you’re certifiable—I’m sure I looked more like a panting monkey. I cut the act altogether, attacking the three flights of stairs with equal fervor. I wasn’t exactly sure how I’d explain to Emma how I knew what dorm room she lived in, she’d never given it to me, but I knew confessing I’d teleported into each room in the middle of the night until I’d landed inches from her smilingin-her-sleep face wouldn’t be the top runner. Although honesty was my policy, I didn’t think she was ready for that. I’d have to scrub the truth with a little white lie about someone I’d passed on my way up telling me what room she was in. Walking down the third floor hall, I was again stupefied as to why I was worrying myself about explaining how I’d known which room she was in. She might not care or even remember she’d never given it to me. She might not even be there. I ran two once again clammy hands through my hair before rapping on her door, not having to guess which side of the door she’d decorated, even if her name hadn’t been put up in cut out pictures of her making funny faces. The other side was black, cryptic, and I felt like I might get cursed if I touched the welcoming, cheery artwork. Instead of Julia’s name, it said, “Death is the best we can expect from life.” Somebody forgot to tell Julia that she’s no longer a

sixteen-year-old drama queen. The door swung open, well, it banged open, and the spreader of sunshine and cheer straddled the doorway. Her face didn’t give anything away, and that manic look in her eyes that confused the hell out of me was still there, so I didn’t know if she was going to invite me in for hemlock and frogs’ legs or if she was going to tell me to eff off. “Go away.” The door slammed in my face. Okay, that was the eff off expression. I’d have to make note of it for future reference. A whisper so soft if I was a normal boy I wouldn’t have been able to hear it told me all I needed to know. “Who was it?” Emma was here. Julia’s instructions be damned, I wasn’t going anywhere when two inches of man-made material separated me from her. “Like you don’t know,” Julia replied in standard volume. Emma hissed a shush at her. “Don’t you shush me,” Julia said, hissing her own. “I’ll shush you right back.” “Why did you tell him to go away?” Emma whispered, completely unaware I was listening to every word. “Because he’s so good looking he’s got to be trouble. And trouble is something you don’t need,” Julia replied, lowering her voice a decibel. “And there was this other thing he did, what was it?” I didn’t have to see her to know her face was screwed together in a searching expression. “Ah, that’s it,” she said, snapping her fingers. “He said something that made you cry. That’s a death sentence where I come from.” I didn’t want to know where someone like Julia came from, but a few possibilities jumped to mind, the least bothersome of them being the land of brimstone and Beelzebub. Emma stayed silent for a second, long enough for Julia to get another word in. “Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot you had a thing for assholes. I’ll just invite him in and inform him it’s open season on your heart.” Julia’s boot clomping feet came at the door, but a scuffle ensued before the door opened.

“Wait a minute,” Emma whisper-laughed at Julia. “I haven’t brushed my teeth yet. Do you have a piece of gum or something?” “Get your nasty breath out of my face,” Julia said, as things toppled and turned over inside the room like an earthquake was taking place. “Here, take this before you decimate our room,”—I was listening so intently I heard every note of the piece of gum sliding from its container —“although I’m now questioning just exactly what kind of tongue thrashing you had in mind for our man behind door number one. Because the kind he deserves doesn’t involve gum, frantic hair brushing, or deodorant.” “You’re a lifesaver, Jules,” Emma whispered. “Grab the door and stall a minute. I’ve got to put a bra on.” My brain heard everything she said, but my body only heard the word bra. When the door opened for the second time, I was blushing like a girl. Julia slid the door open a crack, blocking the space with her black and violet clothing wrapped form that managed to be rather imposing for someone as tall as what I’d been when I was eight. “Hey,” I offered lamely, my vocal chords playing the puberty trick on me. All thanks to the bra word floating around in my subconscious. “You hurt my Emma,” Julia greeted, folding her arms one over the other. “I know.” My voice was back to its manly self. “Do it again, and I’ll rip each and every appendage from its socket. Starting with your dick.” It wasn’t an empty threat —this was the full meal deal. Clasping my hands in front of me, down in front of me, I cleared my throat. “It won’t happen again.” “Of course it won’t,” Julia said, casting a look behind the door. “They’ll promise anything if you threaten their manhood. That’s all they care about.” “I promised that because I care about Emma.” It slipped out before I recalled the girl in question was hiding behind the door working her way into a . . . Dammit. Red face alert. Again. Of course the door thought this would be the ideal time to

open all the way, revealing the lovely, bra-ified Emma. “Hey,” she said, a small smile capping her greeting. “Hey,” I answered back all witty-like. I felt Julia’s eyes rolling in a big way. Before I could mess this up with any more comments of the “witty” variety, I unzipped my jacket, revealing the t-shirt underneath. Emma gave me a look, waiting for me to say something, but that took away the whole point of the t-shirt. Taking an exaggerated look at my chest, I knew she’d taken the hint when she choked on a laugh. “’I’m an idiot,’” she read, making a concerted effort to keep a flat expression. “Obviously,” Julia mumbled. Keeping my lips zipped, I raised my index finger, hoping the peanut gallery would repress further comments until my message had been delivered in its entirety. “Although idiot’s a bit of an understatement,” Julia continued, establishing that, like her roommate, neither of them did what I hoped they would. Sliding out of my leather jacket, I spun around and shoved my hands in my pockets to flatten out the second half of my message. “’Forgive me,’” Emma finished, although I’d posed it as a question, not as a demand. Actually, if you read between the lines, I was more like begging than asking. “Nice view,” Julia said. “And I dig the t-shirt, too. I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that’s your slogan.” “Jules,” Emma said, her tone of reprimand quite possibly the least reprimanding I’d heard. Pulling me into the room and closing the door, she said, “You’re forgiven. And you’re not an idiot.” My jaw was hanging open, I knew this, but what other response could a man give when a woman forgave him after the first attempt? “One more thing,” I said through the awe. I gathered her hands in mine, not caring that the man-eater in black was a witness to my male vulnerability. “I’m sorry. Really, really sorry,” I said. “More sorry than anyone in the history of screw-ups. And I promise I’ll do everything in my power to

never hurt you again.” Emma appraised me and, from the look of her face, my apology plan had worked. “I like that,” she said. “When Ty does something stupid—” “Hourly.” Julia continued to add her one word interludes. Ignoring glum motif girl, Emma continued, “He always promises to never do it again. But how can you promise with absolute certainty something like that?” It didn’t look like she expected an answer, but I gave her one. “You can’t.” “Exactly,” she said at the floor. “Don’t make me promises you can’t keep.” “I won’t,” I vowed. Now that was a promise I could keep. Something of a moment was being shared between Emma and me, I knew it from the way the world around us blurred and slowed just enough to make me take note. The slamming of a coffin-shaped clothes chest made sure to cut us off. Glancing over at Julia, I made an effort not to glare. “So the flowers are impressive, I’ll give you that,” Julia began, stalling her nail-polish chipping to take a quick inventory of the room that had been transformed into a greenhouse thanks to the no-limit account I’d opened at the local florist. “Acknowledging his wrongness—has to be a first in man history,” she continued, peeking up at Emma to make sure she was paying attention. “And he apologizes. Which may be only the second time in man history.” As she peeled off a chunk of witchy purple polish, I waited for her to exaggerate. Most people, after noting a laundry list of personality traits, drew a conclusion. Julia wasn’t most people. Breaking the bloated silence, I said, “When was the first time?” I didn’t know how else to reply, and I was intrigued. Shrugging, she said, “The time I kicked my ex in the balls for cheating on me. I threatened if he didn’t apologize, I’d strap on my steel toes and have another go at them.” That would have been funny if I didn’t have balls and knew what it felt like to be kicked in them. I withheld the wince at the memory. “Weren’t you just heading to the library to study, Jules?”

Emma broke in, subtle hinting obviously not one of her strengths. Ceasing the nail polish massacre, Julia grabbed a ruck sack in her very favorite color and shouldered it. “If by the ‘library,’ you mean the graveyard,” she said, plugging ear buds into place, “then yes, I’m going to the library.” In any other company, I would have laughed, but with the steel-toe-ball-kicking image fresh in my mind, I vowed to never piss Julia off in person. “You study at a graveyard?” I asked, genuinely curious because I’d seen a lot of things in my days, but this was a first. “It’s quiet,” she answered simply, pulling a hoodie that was five times too big over her head. There were about a dozen follow up questions to this, but I knew I didn’t want to unravel the reasoning of a madwoman. Julia studied at the graveyard. Good enough for me—case closed. “Oh, real quick,” Julia said suddenly, snapping her fingers. “Could you turn around for a moment? While you’re still feeling generous?” Going with my two prior mental notes regarding Julia, I did as commanded, not having a clue as to why. “This what you had in mind?” I asked, spreading my hands to the side like I was about to be frisked. For all Hades knew, I could have been. “Damn,” Julia said finally, sounding like she’d just run a few miles. “You should wear jeans of the butt hugging variety more often.” I’d never enjoyed being objectified less. “I feel a bout of inspiration. Should make for some particularly dark poetry.” “Dark poetry and a graveyard?” Emma said, clucking her tongue. “Jules, you’re too predictable.” I caught Julia flick a wink back at Emma right before she grabbed a handful of my right buttock. “Bon Appetit.” Julia’s goodbyes were just as warm and conventional as her greetings. The door slammed shut—one befuddling woman down, one more to go. “Sorry about that. She can be a little rough around the edges, but she’s got a heart the size of Africa,” Emma said, tucking a leg underneath her as she plopped down on her

bed. “Sandpaper’s rough around the edges. That girl’s a frickin’ Sherman tank plowing you over. And then she puts it in reverse just to make sure she got you good and flat,” I said, looking for a place to sit. I wanted to sit next to her on the bed, but knew this would make her uncomfortable, and I most definitely did not what to sit on whatever voodoo witch magic was infecting Julia’s bed, so I did what I rarely do and took the middle ground. I hooked the computer chair with my leg and scooted it towards Emma. “You weren’t in class today,” I stated, the fact that she was wearing a pair of boxers that were made for someone twice her size, coupled with a Stanford Football sweatshirt, hitting me. It was a mix of emotions, seeing what she wore to bed at night, but realizing these were Ty’s. “You noticed,” she said, fidgeting with the hem of the tent sized sweatshirt. “It’s my job to notice,” I said. Her eyes flashed to mine, something unreadable in them. “As your Love Project partner, that is.” The warmth flooded over the unreadable in her eyes. Crash landing averted. “Thanks for checking on me. I just wasn’t feeling well enough to go to class today.” “And you’re the kind of girl who wouldn’t skip a class even if she woke up and discovered her arms had been sewn to the carpet,” I said, scooting a couple inches closer because I couldn’t help it. I was magnetic and she was metal, or maybe she was the magnet and I was metal. Whatever I was, I was drawn to her on a subconscious level. “So I’m not buying you woke up this morning and had a scratchy throat so you decided to skip a Monday’s worth of classes. Spill your guts.” “Not feeling well doesn’t only relate to the physical you know,” she said, grabbing her pillow and folding it into her stomach. I was thrown by her sudden flash of vulnerability. Emma showed the least vulnerability of anyone, man or woman, I’d ever known. So of course that meant she was likely the most vulnerable.

“Don’t I know it,” I said, following her lead down vulnerability lane. “I’m so mental I was the test subject for half the psychology books on the market. My ‘sick days’ are what my brothers like to call mental health days.” Actually, they called every day a mental health day when it came to my life, but I didn’t feel the need to elaborate on that. She threw me a sympathetic smile, but even that was rimmed in sadness. There was a story, a long, detailed one, behind why the never-seen-a-B-on-a-report-card girl was hiding in her dorm room on a glorious California fall day. However, I was smart enough to know if she wasn’t going to elaborate, I wasn’t going to push it. “Thanks for everything,” she said finally. “The flowers, the shirt, the apology. You’re kind of special, you know that?” she said, unable to meet my eyes. “Special ed, right?” I said, beating her to the punch. “No,” she said, “special, special.” She continued, clarifying everything, “you have a gift for drawing people to you—it’s like everyone you pass has to look.” “It’s my mad fashion sense,” I said, never one for deflecting a compliment, but the sincerity of Emma’s words and the tilt of her brow as she struggled to get it out had me squirming in my chair. “I can see that,” she said, staring at my present attire. “But I think I understand it now. Why people are drawn to you without even knowing why.” “Care to enlighten me?” “It’s because you’re this giant, warm fuzzy,” she said, grinning at my expression of disbelief. “It’s impossible to not feel better when you’re around. Positively hopeless. I mean, I was feeling crappy. Like, crappy day of the decade award glum. And then in you stroll, smiling that one you’re sending my way now”—she thrust her hands at me in accusation—“and you’re acting all sympathetic, and understanding, and apologetic, and, well . . . perfect.” “I’m not perfect,” I emphasized, raising my hand. “A far cry from it, in fact. A perfect guy wouldn’t have made you cry.” “I made myself cry,” she replied. “You didn’t say anything that was untrue or overly harsh. I cried because I made

myself cry.” I couldn’t take the martyr thing any longer. I’d never been a fan of the whole taking-the-weight-of-the-world on my shoulders thing. “You cried because I acted like a dickhead. I wish I could say that my actions and words Saturday night were selfless, only brought to the surface because I had your best interests in mind, but that would be a lie,” I began, wondering why, after a lifetime of striving to tell the truth, it was so darn hard right now. “When I lost it on Ty, and then lost it on you, I was focusing on my anger, my frustration, what I wanted. I wanted to believe I was doing what I was to help you, but I was only helping myself. And when he put his hands on you and threw you down, I saw red. I wanted to kill him right there, and I could have,” I continued, despite her eyes widening with each sentence. “But you know what was the number one reason I wanted to cease his existence?” I didn’t expect her to answer, but she did. “Because you thought he hurt me?” Her voice sounded small, fragile. Like I could break it if I touched it with my pinky. “No,” I admitted, shame slumping my head down. “If I was this special, perfect guy, that’s what it would have been. That’s what it should have been, but at the forefront of my mind, my primary justification for wanting to kill him was because I didn’t have a rat’s right to order him to never put his hands on you in that way again. That right belongs to a boyfriend, or a brother, or something else that I’m not.” I didn’t want to look up. I was sure I’d perform hari kari on myself with the scissors sitting on her desk if I found her looking down on me with pity, or disappointment, or disgust. Although I knew I deserved it all. “So that’s why I lost it. There’s the boiled down truth. I saw the red door and wanted to paint it black because I had no rights to demand you be treated with respect, no rights to protect you.” Her hand found mine, weaving its fingers through mine. Warmth flooded me, the kind that made it impossible to remember what cold felt like. “You’re my friend, Patrick,” she said, squeezing my hand. “That gives you every right.” This whole conversation was beautiful, as intimate as I’d ever had with a woman, and, despite her assurances

threatening to make a joke of my real-men-don’t-cry policy, I realized I’d skirted the real issue by not admitting that I didn’t only want the right to stand up for her, I wanted all of her. These were two somewhat similar and very different things. “I’ll remember that the next time Ty tries to throw you on your derriere again,” I said, reverting to lightheartedness when I felt anything but. “Wait, what am I talking about? There better not ever be a next time,” I growled, trying to block the image of Emma falling shock faced to the ground. “There won’t be,” she whispered to herself. “Wait,” I said, too good at interpreting the unsaid for my proverbial blood pressure’s sake. “He hasn’t done this before has he? Pushed you around?” I didn’t want to ask it because I knew if she confirmed he had, I’d be facing murder charges in about half an hour, but that was a secondary concern. When she didn’t give me an immediate answer, I tilted her chin up with my hand until she was forced to look at me. “Emma?” “No, never,” she answered. Her eyes didn’t dart to the side, she didn’t bite her lip, she didn’t run her fingers through her hair; nothing said she wasn’t telling the truth, and I would know. Being a strength instructor the better part of forever, I’d taught “Truth Detection and Lie Evasion” only about one thousand times to about ten thousand students. It was ingrained. “He was just so drunk Saturday night, drunker than I’ve ever seen him. He wasn’t acting like himself.” “All due respect, Em,” I said, moving my hand from her chin because it was what I was supposed to do, not what I wanted to do. “But in my experience, alcohol doesn’t create a monster out of nothing. It only lets it off the chain.” She sighed, folding herself around the pillow deeper. “Listen, could we not talk about Ty anymore? And by anymore, I mean never again. He’s my boyfriend and you’re my friend, but the two of you can’t tolerate each other, even in conversation, so I’m officially invoking my right to not discuss either of you in the other’s company because I

refuse to forfeit either of you.” The cell phone on her nightstand vibrated, earning a nervous glance from her before she turned it off without sparing a closer look at the caller ID. Chances are she already knew who it was and chances were the same I did too, but only seconds following her Ty-talk-off-limits ultimatum, I wasn’t going to say anything. “I want to keep you both,” she finished, a corner of her mouth lifting like she was guilty for wanting this. I was nothing short of elated that she wanted to keep me in any way, so I tried not to agonize over her wanting to keep Ty too. A loser like that would dig his own grave eventually—he didn’t need any help from me. And from the look of his girlfriend’s face, he was one misstep away from hanging himself. And guess where I’d be? Right here, waiting for her. For as long as it took because, as hard as Emma tried to front that she didn’t feel it, the link tying us together was as undeniable as it was inescapable. That might have been a cocky thing to assume, that this supreme specimen of a woman who was “officially” off the market had a gravitational pull towards me, but I knew few things better than women, and moments like this, when her eyes flitted away from me as quickly as they flickered to me, like she didn’t know where to look without giving herself away, told me what I needed to know. Friends didn’t have a problem looking into each other’s eyes. “Em, I’m yours to keep. I’m not going anywhere,” I said, contemplating rolling the last few inches to her bed. “So this is the last I’ll say about your soon-to-be ex,”—her eyes did a half roll—“I was in the wrong Saturday night, but so was he. One of the gazillion lessons my mother pounded into my brain was that it’s never okay to lay your hands on a woman in an angry way, so I’ll do my darndest not to badmouth him in front of you anymore, but fair warning that I won’t be able to control myself if he lays his hands on you again. I don’t care if it’s a rumor I hear in passing, I’ll throttle him.” I was giving the fanatic a little too much leash, so I reined him in, softening my threat with a smile. “Those are my terms. If those are acceptable, please make your mark here,” I said,

tapping my cheek while flashing her a wicked grin. “With your lips.” “My lips are off duty,” she said, wielding her pillow as a weapon. “This will just have to do.” The pillow grazed my face like she could hurt me with a feather stuffed rectangle of fabric. She could have cold-cocked me over the head with a duffel bag full of bricks and I wouldn’t have been phased. “Did you just throw the opening swing in what is surely to become a world war of pillow fights?” I challenged, playfully grinding my fist into my other hand. “I’m not the kind of man to retreat from an attack, you know.” Shoving the chair back towards the desk, I grabbed the black satin pillow off Julia’s bed. “Don’t. You. Dare,” Emma warned, pushing back into the corner of her bed. “Nothing can save you now,” I said, wielding the pillow like it was Excalibur. “Any last words?” I asked, already mid-swing. “Yeah,” she said as I suddenly found myself half-spread over her bed with her straddling me in the most chaste way I’d ever been straddled. Emma was wicked fast. And strong. “You shouldn’t mess with girls who grew up with four older brothers who served wet willies for breakfast.” Her brows popped twice as she grazed me again over the face with her pillow. I didn’t even make an attempt to stop her. Immortal instincts aside, I don’t think I could have. Having her hovering above me, smiling the one only Emma could, pinned to the bed by her knees, the scent of her sheets—and these were only a few of the sensations that were intoxicating me—I laid beneath her like an old man on his death bed, happy to go out with his boots on. But as soon as Emma moved to position herself off of me, my state of frozen drunkenness evaporated. Before she could right herself, I had her pinned back to the bed, although I took the chaste high road and only trapped her with my hands over her shoulders, despite my chest aching to pin her a few other ways too. She looked as surprised as I had moments ago, but managed to laugh through it, rolling side to side, trying to free herself.

“And you shouldn’t mess with the boy who weighed twenty pounds less than his three brothers who liked to use whatever limb they could to take out their internalized jealousy at me for being the good looking one in the family,” I said as sternly as a man could as he was being prodded in the sides. My laughter mixed with hers, until I was certain nothing could ruin this moment. That was, until a thunderous rapping sounded at the door. “Emma!” an equally loud voice shouted through it. “Let me in! If that little girl who’s got a hard on for you is in there, he’s going to catch a beating.” Emma went stone stiff, her face blanching. I wasn’t sure what she was so terrified of, but it seemed her boyfriend almost catching her playing around with her, eh-hmm, friend didn’t warrant a quarter of the emotion flashing over her face. “What do you want me to do?” I whispered, hoping she’d tell me to open the door, deck the loser in his face, and then get back to what we were doing. “Just pretend we’re not here,” she whispered back, her eyes darting back at the door. “Emma, dammit. Open the door. I know you’re in there.” Ty was in the boiling over stage—I didn’t need to see his red face to ascertain this. The door took another beating as he attacked it with both fists. “You’ve got ten seconds to open this door or else I’m taking it down.” “Like hell he is,” I said, shoving to a stand, my fists balled as I headed towards the door, ready to show this redneck how to show a woman some respect. “No,” Emma hissed, grabbing me by the hand and whipping me around. “Please, you promised you’d behave.” I closed my eyes, focusing on unclenching my jaw. “I promised I’d try to behave myself. This”—I tilted my head back at the door where Ty continued his assault on it—“is making good behavior impossible.” Making another attempt at the door, she stalled me again, coming into the area that was all personal space. Her warmth crept across the sheet of air separating us, making its way against my skin. Looking up at me, she

rested a trembling hand on my cheek. “Be the man I know you are,” she whispered, her eyes begging me to find whatever restraint she was sure I had, although I was anything but. Restraint wouldn’t be something I’d say I had in vast amounts, or any amounts for that matter. Feeling like it was going against every natural fiber in my body, I sighed. “Does that window open?” I glanced at the window above the desk. She nodded her head, giving me a look like she couldn’t understand what that had to do with anything. Rushing in the opposite direction of where I wanted to go, I lifted the lock and whooshed the window open. “We’re three floors up!” Emma whisper shouted. “Don’t you dare.” Crouching over her desk, I sent a playful smile her way before launching myself out the window. At least most of the way. My fingers still curled over the sill, not able to resist the expression on her face when she rushed to the window. Raw terror was probably the best way to describe the flattened planes of her face. “What the heck do you think you’re doing?” she gasped, glancing from the hard ground below us back to me. Managing to shrug in my hanging position, I answered her, “Being the man you believe I am.” Shaking her head, a tiny smile formed. “Of course. You’ve finally become him two seconds before you break your neck.” “Three floors? I got this,” I assured her, the entire world gone again when she looked at me the way she was now. “I’ve leapt out of many a maiden’s chambers floors higher I’ll have you know.” She shook her head like she couldn’t believe I was making jokes at a time like this. “I do have to say, if it wasn’t for the extenuating circumstances,” she said, her head tilting back at the door, “I’d probably find this whole hanging out of my window, making sweet little looks at me thing rather romantic.” She ran her fingers over mine. “It’s got Shakespeare written all over it.” Taking another look at the ground, she cast an anxious look my way. “Are you sure

you’ll be all right? That’s a long ways down.” “I promise.” She gave me a look I didn’t need clarified. “That’s a promise I can keep,” I said, answering her silent question. “See you in class Wednesday?” She nodded, looking like she wanted to say something more, but she leaned back, already resolved to moving on from us to soothe Ty’s delicate sensibilities. “Hey, Em,” I called out right before dropping. “He hurts you, I’ll kill him. Maybe those should be the first words out of your mouth when you open what’s left of your door.” “Thanks for the tip,” she said, looking away before I jumped. Like she couldn’t stand by helpless while I fell. I got it, though. I’d never been one to be able to stand by and watch someone else crash to the ground without a net in place.

CHAPTER TEN

I’d had two tireless days and two sleepless nights by the time I stepped into class Wednesday afternoon. I’d waited to run into her on campus yesterday, expected I’d at least catch a glimpse of her, and hoped for a call letting me know she was all right. I received none. Three strikes—I’m out. I could have teleported into her room last night, but that seemed like cheating. I couldn’t carry on a one sided relationship by using supernatural gifts that she wasn’t aware of. Of course I could have knocked on her door at anytime to check on her too, and I almost did a hundred different times, but some egging thing that felt a lot like instinct told me showing up unannounced at her door could make things worse. I’d never gone against my instincts yet, and for my acquiescence, they’d rewarded me by saving my butt on at least a semi-annual basis for a couple centuries. Maybe she needed time, maybe she was crazy busy catching up from her day of playing hooky, or maybe she didn’t feel like there was any need to check in with me, but whatever it was, if my gut was telling me to lay low, that’s just what I was going to do. It was the single most difficult thing for me to follow through on. Diving into my front and center seat in Psych, it felt like I was breaking through the finish line at the end of a marathon. I’d obeyed my internal compass, did my time, and now it was time to reap the reward of seeing Emma. My stomach did a twist when I realized she might pull a repeat of Monday’s no-show. If that was the case, guts be damned, I was going find her and harass her until I got my Emma fix. Professor Camp was already a few snide comments into his lecture when the auditorium door screeched open. I didn’t need to look to know it was her—I felt her an instant

before the door opened, and while I probably didn’t have to look to see if Ty was leeched to her side, I did. They were sliding into the last two seats of the back row when I turned in my seat to steal a glimpse. Emma was dressed like she was ready for winter in Montana instead of a cloudless Indian summer day in California. If that wasn’t cause enough for concern, her face was a tomb. It wasn’t just expressionless, it was dead. Like an emotion would never play over it again. Sagging a meat-hook arm around her shoulders, Ty’s eyes shifted my way. His face was so lined with smugness it might get stuck that way. Well, stuck that way more than it was most of the time, at least. I knew he was waiting for me to be the first to look away, but I didn’t want it on my permanent record that I’d been the first to tap out to Ty Steel in anything. I returned his stare, holding it long enough several of the other students took notice. The attention increasing, Ty flipped me his favorite finger as his stare left mine to settle over Emma. Giving her a head to toe, he managed to convey ownership, supremacy, and downright creepiness with one once over. Emma stayed zombie-fied, ignorant of the guy molesting her with his eyes next to her and the guy down in front staring at her like she was everything he wanted and could never have. The poor girl didn’t deserve either stare. I turned forward in my seat to relieve her of one. Class was hell. A solid fifty minutes of gibberish of which I didn’t process a lick. Every student in class would have a strong opinions that I had a serious tick after today’s class. I tried to keep my head forward, eyes locked on some arbitrary point, but as soon as I’d find it, they’d head off target and boomerang to the back corner of the room. My eye seizures were bad, but Emma’s state of stone nothingness was far worse. I was half convinced Ty had arrived with a mannequin look alike until I detected her pencil moving across that ratty spiral notebook she loved so much. She never once looked my way.

“All right, everyone. Time to wake up now that class is almost over,” Camp hollered, clapping his hands like a cymbal monkey. “As there are no classes this Friday, I want to remind everyone that the big second date for the Love Project is scheduled for this weekend. I don’t care what day or time you choose, but as last week was guy’s pick, this week it’s girl’s choice. Choose well, ladies, but make sure you make him pay.” The soprano grade laughter was drowned out by the baritone wave of groaning. “Have a groovy long weekend. Work easy and play hard,” he continued on, but the roar of laptops snapping shut and backpacks zipping close muffled his closing comments. Shouldering my bag, I took quite possibly the thousandth glance towards the back of the room, not sure what I was going to say or do. Just knowing I had to say or do

something. Turns out, I wouldn’t be able to do anything because the formerly occupied seats in the back corner were empty. He was clever, I had to give him that, but that was about all I would give him. However, his grand scheme of arriving late and skipping out early would only keep me away from Emma for so long. About another ten minutes, I figured, or however long it took me to walk across campus to her dorm where I was banking on the theory that Ty hadn’t moved her to some undisclosed location. I didn’t put it past him to do just that. I jogged my way across campus, not able to shake the feeling that I’d find myself knocking on the door of an empty dorm room. Shuffling through a stream of bodies bounding down the stairs off to their next classes, I took the stairs by twos as I headed to the third floor. Halfway down the hall and I had my answer. I didn’t need to knock on the door to know it wouldn’t open. But I did anyways. No answer. Big surprise. Like the good stalker in love I was, I’d memorized her schedule days ago, so I knew she didn’t have another class after Psych and volleyball practice didn’t start for another couple hours, which led to one

conclusion. Ty was making sure he kept her away from me or, I guess the truer way of putting it, is he was trying to keep me away from her. I didn’t want to admit that, after a halfday of Patrick dodging, Ty had unsettled me, but he had. If keeping the girl I had it bad for just out of my reach when I’d waited forty-eight hours wasn’t enough, seeing the shadow of nothing on Emma’s face had been more than enough to unhinge me. I couldn’t imagine anything less than the death of a close member could twist the joy that had been Emma on Monday afternoon to the shell of herself she was today. Whatever it was though, I was going to find out. Ty and his covert ops couldn’t foil me. I’d uncovered rogue Inheritors halfway around the world—I could find a beautiful woman on the Stanford campus.

Maybe I couldn’t. My confidence, along with my sanity, had hit empty late last night after a second night of sitting in the shadows outside her dorm, watching, hoping, and praying she’d pass by. She never had. After a second night of staking out, I was expecting campus security or even the police to pay me a visit and possibly slap me with a warning or a restraining order to stay away. Of course, I would have heeded neither, but no one seemed to pay me any attention, like I was invisible or unworthy of their attention. Or maybe pathetic, lovesick guys hanging outside the dorm halls of the girls they loved was a regular thing here at Stanford. Cutting the Mustang’s engine in the black saturated night, I knew I couldn’t stand by as an inactive party another night. I was knocking on that door until someone answered —I’d teleport in if I grew really desperate, although that was a last resort. Ever notice how desperate men tend to go with their last resort as Plan A? I was hoping I’d gained enough mental fortitude and sheer willpower over generations of walking the earth to at least save teleporting for Plan B.

It was easy enough getting in the building, despite the outside doors locking after dark. Everyone was either on their way to get drunk or already there, so no one noticed or cared who dodged inside when the door opened. I don’t know how I ended up in front of her door so quickly, but I knew I hadn’t used teleportation only because I’d ended up outside her door. I would have put myself dead center in her room if I’d employed any supernatural powers, no question about it. My heart was in my throat; I finally got what people meant when they said that, and it wasn’t a figurative use of the expression. I was certain if I reached a finger past my tongue, I’d find a beating organ blocking my esophagus. I rapped on the door, but in the silence it echoed through the empty hall like I was pounding on it. Soft footsteps padded towards the door, and my senses were on such high alert I could sense the air being disturbed as a form cut through it. I was so focused on these minute details, I didn’t process that the person twisting the doorknob open was not the one I’d come searching for. Opening the door a sliver width and a half, Julia’s nuclear green eye popped through the space. I took an involuntary step back, which was rude I knew, but it was better than lunging back like I’d wanted to do when that unsettling eye latched onto me. “You,” she said, heaving the door open the rest of the way. Typical Julia greeting: succinct, sharp, and psychotic. “Me,” I answered back cryptically. She nodded once, like I’d just given her an answer to a silent question. “Is that a good or bad thing?” I asked, not even about to guess what she was thinking. “Depends,” she answered, lifting a shoulder as she turned and headed towards the back of the room. Taking her not slamming the door on my face as an invitation to come in, I took a few steps inside, but since this was a dorm room we were talking about, I was already halfway inside when Julia’s head got lost behind a mini-

fridge. “You want a sparkling water?” she asked, already pitching one my way. “Eh, sure,” I said, snatching the green bottle somersaulting through the air. “Thanks?” Tilting the bottle she was holding at me in acknowledgement, she took a chug. “And here I thought I was the goth,” she said, surveying me toe to head before taking another swig. “You look like you’ve been dead for the past hundred years.” I came close to spewing the sip of water I’d just taken. Despite knowing Julia was attempting to be amusing, the trueness of her statement wasn’t lost on me. Knowing her, I could tell her every last nitty gritty detail of my world and she’d shrug an unimpressed shoulder and get back to sacrificing small animals or brewing vex potions or whatever else she did on a Friday night. “Keep the compliments coming,” I mumbled, twisting the cap back on the water of nasty bubbly origins. “You’re a misogynist pig,” she said, like it was on the tip of her tongue, relieving me of the disgrace-to-water bottle. “Now that actually hurts. Why would you say that?” I asked, making myself comfortable on the edge of Emma’s bed. I wasn’t sure what the antonym of misogyny was, but that’s what I was. I was possibly the most devote lover of woman out there. “Because if you cared anything for Emma’s peace of mind, you wouldn’t be here right now,” she answered, leaning into the mini-fridge and appraising me with those nutty eyes. “I just needed to know if she was all right,” I admitted, transparency coming naturally in Julia’s presence, or maybe she was a bonafied witch and was forcing me to spill my guts. Not that I’d come across an actual witch in my existence, but as a being of supernatural quality, it seemed hypocritical to believe Immortals had the market cornered on all things paranormal. “I don’t think all right are words I’d ever use to describe Emma’s state of being,” she said, talking into her bottle. “But she’s still breathing.” I smiled humorously. “Where’s she been? I’ve been

looking for her.” “Really? I haven’t noticed you lurking like a creeper in the shadows the past couple nights.” Julia had perfected the tone of sarcasm. You see, anyone could season their statements with it, but it took a true pro to be able to make each word burrow itself under your skin. “She’s holed up at jerkwad’s bar and brothel. Also known as his frat house,” Julia finished, curling her nose. I put the lid on the shot of pain that was blooming into a grimace. I knew Emma wasn’t the frat house cockroach type, so either she was doing her best to avoid me or doing her best to cater to Ty’s overbearing ways. It made me feel like a bit of a dirt-bag to hope for the latter. “You know,” Julia said, shifting her eyes at me. “You don’t have to hide the way you feel about her with me. I saw amore in your eyes the first night I met you, but I suppose that’s to be expected with someone like Emma.” “Yeah, she kind of crawled into my heart and stayed there,” I admitted, rolling with this whole transparency with Julia thing. She nodded. “If I believed in angels, I’d believe she was the bloody gold star one of the bunch,” she said, kicking off one of her purple boots and sailing it into the wall across from her. “She doesn’t deserve to be dicked with.” Another thud against the wall as the other boot landed beside its mate. “I know, I know,” I said, trying to roll the tension out of my shoulders. “I’m not trying to . . . dick”—I wasn’t brought up to use crass language in front of a woman, but Julia transcended the gender into something else entirely —“around with her. I swear my intentions are pure.” Julia arched an eyebrow. “Well, ninety-nine percent pure,” I confessed, the implied meaning in Julia’s face and slouching into Emma’s bed forcing a scorching heat to my face. “Thanks for the confession, my son,” she said, crossing herself theatrically. “But the slime I was referring to ‘dicking with Emma’ was the turd she believes is her boyfriend,” she said, practically snarling before smiling at me for the first time. “You, I like.”

I was stunned stupid by the compliment. Something told me that a girl who believed black wasn’t a color, but a state of mind, didn’t hand out compliments readily. “Why?” the genius inside me asked. “Hell if I know,” was her immediate answer. Roundabout as it was, I’d take any compliment aimed my way at this time in my life. “Thanks for that, Julia. Really. But how do I get the other girl to like me?” “That’s the easy part,” she replied, taking a final chug of her sparkling water and launching the empty bottle under her bed. The garbage can was less than a foot away from her. “The hard part is getting her to admit it to herself.” “Hold up.” I leapt up and squared myself in front of Julia. “Are you saying that Emma . . . likes me?” My bad day was threatening to take a turn for the best. “Of course she does,” she answered, doling out a look like she thought I was the worst kind of clueless. “She just doesn’t know it yet.” That jostle in my gut I just felt could have been my heart breaking loose. “Perfect,” I muttered, combing my fingers through my hair. “So she ‘likes me,’ she just doesn’t know it yet,”—I wasn’t muttering anymore, although I’d decided to add pacing to my emotional roller coaster—“and you know what? She’ll never know it because she has a boyfriend, she avoids me like I’m a walking freshman twenty, and as if those things aren’t convincing enough,” I said . . . I yelled, throwing my hands up in the air, “we have nothing in common.” “You know what I hear when people say they have nothing in common with the person they want to be with?” she asked, her voice as calm as mine was crazed. She paused long enough for me to catch she was waiting for an answer. I shook my head, not trusting myself to open my mouth again. “A coward making chickenshit excuses.” This conversation just pulled a brody on me. “She’s got a boyfriend, she avoids me,” Julia was repeating my words in the same volume I’d employed, peppering it with a whiney voice. “We have nothing in common. Boo hoo,” she continued, wiping at the absent tears in her eyes. “Quit your whining and grow a pair.”

Under most circumstances, I would have had an insane comeback to this accusation, but arguing with a hardcore goth girl while Ozzy droned on in the background wasn’t normal circumstances. “Her boyfriend is a tick that burrowed in six years ago and won’t go away,” Julia said, her hands flying about like she was juggling imaginary daggers. “She avoids you because she likes you—” “She just doesn’t know it yet,” I said under my breath. “And, and . . .” she repeated in a fury, searching around the room. Her eyes finally narrowed in on something and she was across the room after it in two lunges. “And sparkling water,” she shouted, throwing a heater straight towards my . . . pair. I was taken by surprise, which was becoming a regular occurrence for me. Not by the bottle sailing at my man business, but by the violent change in conversation. Had I not already confirmed it, I would have said Julia was crazy. Bad crazy, not the cute, semi-amusing crazy. “Wow,” I said, sliding my full-except-for-a-sip bottle into my jacket pocket, removing one weapon from her reach. “Detour much?” I asked, looking up at her. She was the picture of calm now, arms crossed loosely and shoulders back. “Connect the dots much?” she threw back at me, trying on my voice for size. She must think I sounded like Sean Connery getting kicked in the nuts. I opened my mouth, an automatic response to such a question, but no words came out. I tried again—still nothing. This thing with women striking me speechless was becoming a regular occurrence. “There’s your one thing,” she said, thrusting her hands at where the bottle peeked out of my pocket. “You both hate sparkling water.” I massaged my temples. “Life changing.” “You made a claim that one of the reasons you two couldn’t be together was because you had nothing in common. Well,” she said, “I’ve proven that a lie. And who cares about how much they have in common when they love someone, tell me that? Do you think Mark Antony fell in love with Cleopatra because they both liked the color green?

Did Tristan fall in love with Isolde because they were both morning people? Do you think Lancelot divided the freakin’ Knights of the Round Table because Guinevere shared his love of roast duck?” she continued on without taking a single breath, and I wasn’t going to interrupt. Don’t mess with a woman on a mission. I learned this lesson the hard way. “Do you think Emma’s going to fall in love with you because you both like old movies?” she paused, sucking in a hard earned breath. “Well, do you?” I knew I should tread lightly with Julia in her present scarycalm state, but I didn’t do what I knew I should very often. And this was one of those times. “Let me take a three prong approach to my answer. One,” I listed, lifting my index finger, “those three lovely couples you aforementioned all died sad, miserable lives without the one they risked everything for as they gurgled their last words. And two,” I ignored Julia’s death glare and continued, lifting another finger, “are you implying that’s the bar Emma and I should strive for if, by some miracle, we end up together? And three,”—ring finger up to accompany the other two—“how does any of this help me?” Clasping her hands in a prayer position against her face, she blew out a slow breath. I’d seen this nonverbal response dozens of times in my presence. “Listen, I know you’re not a coward, but you’re scared of something,” she said, keeping her eyes closed and hands clasped. “Something is keeping you here when you should be charging through the doors of that Future Eunuchs of America clubhouse and carrying her off into the damn sunset.” Opening her eyes, she graced me with a second smile. “Or whatever it is you normal types do.” Returning the sad smile, I answered. “I’m here—I’m scared,” I clarified, “because it’s like what you said earlier. If I care about her peace of mind, I need to leave her alone.” My head hung lower admitting it, but I knew she was right. Peace of mind and Patrick Hayward were mutually exclusive entities. “That’s right, I did say that,” she said, walking towards me. “If you care about her peace of mind, you’ll leave her

alone,” she said again, an undertone in her voice, some meaning I was meant to pick up on, but hadn’t yet. “But if you care about her best interests you’ll get your persistent little butt back to following her around like a little puppy.” Julia was like the Buddha of clarity. Everything she’d said made sense and had cleared the fog that had been stalling me. I felt something for Emma, and she could avoid me as much as she wanted, but I wasn’t going away until I told her just how it was for me. I was done making chickenshit excuses, as master Julia had so eloquently put it. “Which frat house is it?” I asked, my hand twisting open the doorknob. Layering her hands over her heart, she fluttered her eyes. “There’s the man I’m going to still be doing dirty things to in my dreams fifty years from now.” “Lucky me,” I said, not letting my mind go anywhere near that cringe fest. Julia was off in some daydream or, maybe in her case, a nightmare, so before things got all hot and heavy with her and imaginary me, I cleared my throat. “Jules, focus,” I said, clapping my hands. “Where is Emma?” She did a clearing shake of her head. “Just head out of the main road, and when you find the freshmen with water balloons for boobs puking in the front yard, you’ve found the place. Make sure you wear latex gloves if you touch anything. It turns out some new-found STDs devised in that house can be passed from surface to skin contact.” My stomach clenched envisioning Emma in a place like that. I was halfway down the hall when Julia called down at me. “You called me Jules,” she said, her voice girly like I never imagined it could be. “Only my truest friends call me that.” Sticking two fingers in the air like a thin peace sign, she said, “There’s two things you have in common now.” “Hey, that’s got to be better than one, right?” I called back to her, continuing down the hall, in a hurry to get to Emma. Before I hit the stairs, I remembered my manners. Or at least what few I possessed. “Jules?” I hollered. Her dark head popped out the door. “Thank you,” I said, my tone of sincerity hopefully

demonstrating what two meager words couldn’t. She grinned down at me. “I’m going to break tradition and make an expected, contrived response.” Pausing, she cleared her throat. “You’re welcome. Now, shoo,” she instructed, shooing with her hand as well. “Watch your back in there, Hayward. They’re animals,” she added as I charged down the stairs. “Good thing I’m a hunter,” I said to myself, wrapping my fingers around the Mustang’s steering wheel a wink later.

It took me all of thirty seconds to hear the place once I’d pulled onto the main road off campus, but it was another thirty before it came into view. I shook my head, realizing that if these were the Ivy League youth of our future, I was going to be kept busy as a Guardian. Julia had under-exaggerated. The front lawn was smothered with the puking “girls” like she’d said, but even more were passed out cold and, thankfully less, girls having clothed sex with guys spewed over crippled lawn furniture. I was tempted to snap a picture and forward it to father to thank him for insisting I be put through the whole college experience thing, but calling upon a vast amount of willpower, I refrained. No father of a daughter should have to see another father’s daughter in such a state of disgrace. Classy joint. I wouldn’t have left my Mustang anywhere within a drunken mile of this place, but Emma was in there. My stomach twisted into an advanced yoga contortion when I pictured her in a place like that. Against every car worshipping bone in my body, I punched the Mustang over the curb and rolled it up on the grass since there was nowhere to park on the street. A fire marshal would have had a heyday if he’d been invited. I couldn’t get out of the car fast enough and, once I made it through the maze of girls whose makeup had melted to Joker-scary, I bound up the stairs in one leap. The kid who was supposedly admitting would-be party goers was passed out cold on his stool in the doorway. A few phallic-

esque caricatures had been sharpied on his face. Poor guy was going to wake up with more than a headache. Squeezing by him, I took a survey of hedonism on earth. I couldn’t even imagine Emma squeezed into this seedy joint that was vibrating from the tasteless music and the bodies more-pounding-than-gyrating to the music. I had to find her and get her out of here, the mission impossible trained part of my mind repeated. This wasn’t going into a country of hostiles armed with semi-automatics and desperation, this wasn’t infiltrating the world’s most dangerous Alliance of Inheritors, this wasn’t even going up against a man twice my size in a hand-tohand battle, this was weaving my way through a blearyeyed brood of Stanford’s finest and escorting a woman I cared about away from here. This should be the easiest mission I’d undergone—in fact, it was laughable to consider it a mission, but something about the electric edge surging through me— like I was ready for a bullet to be fired at me from twenty different directions—was roaring to life. I tried to coax my fists flat, my muscles smooth, my mind calm, but I was unsuccessful at any calming endeavor. If anyone tried to mess with me tonight, they’d be wearing a body cast for the better part of the year. Tucking through the entry and into the room where most of the fumbling bodies were congregated, I wished I would have heeded Julia’s warning and worn gloves or, better yet, a radioactive resistant body suit. The place stunk of vomit, that goes without saying, but vomit that had been baking in the sun during the apocalypse and right alongside the tantalizing scent of puke was a tangy scent of undeodorized armpits. The hideousness of this stench would haunt me to the end of time. Realizing my white-blond surfer hair, chiseled by the hand of God physique, and outfit that took a dump on the mall store jeans and branded t-shirts around me stood out, I knew I needed to make an effort to blend in with the rest of the genetically-impaired. Plus, I didn’t doubt that however drunk Ty was at this time on a Friday night, he’d have no trouble picking me out of the crowd.

Grabbing an un-manned red plastic cup teetering on a windowsill, I plucked a red Phillies baseball cap off a guy who was college boy bouncing his head to the wrong beat of the music. I was already halfway across the room when I heard him holler out, but I knew even despite the hat’s overt color, he wouldn’t be able to identify the thief. I was the Dalai Lama of blending into a crowd when I needed to be. Not finding Emma in the main room, I slipped into a dark hallway. Between the coupled bodies and choppy breathing, I saw her. It was like the dark hallway was pointing at her, as if I needed any other hints that I needed to get her out of this place. She was sitting on a sofa arm, legs crossed, hands twisting around each other like they didn’t know what to do, shoulders slumped, eyes in that faraway place again. I didn’t need a psych degree to diagnosis her with a bad case of get-me-the-hell-out-of-here. I’d shoved my way through most of the bodies when an arm snaked around her neck. An arm I wanted to dislocate from its socket. Ty handed her a red cup. “Here, drink this.” Perhaps the only good thing about having heightened senses in a room like this was that I was able to zone in on his voice through the deafening drone surrounding me. “Is it too much to ask that you try to look like you’re having a good time? These are my friends, you know. Maybe you could show them the same amount of enthusiasm you like to show your asswipe friend.” Emma took the cup from him, but made no other show of acknowledging him and, to my relief, he made no more attempts at acknowledging her presence. In fact, he turned to the girl glommed a little too close to him given his relationship status, the epitome of girl-you-don’t-takehome-to-mama, and bent his mouth down to her ear, whispering something in it that made her flick a wink his way. Through this entire trash hits on trash transaction, Emma played oblivious, but Emma was not one of those oblivious girls. She was choosing to ignore it, for lord knows what reason, but it made me want to claim her girlfriend rights that she wasn’t and bitch-slap one and knee the other in the

balls. Ty got pulled a few feet away into another stimulating conversation on the finer qualities of beer pong, or where you could find a size xxxs-near-non-existent jockstrap, or whatever lame brain things his brand of losers gravitated towards, and I took full advantage of his distraction. Crouching against the wall at the end of the hallway, I slid my hand between her fingers and the cup that turned out to be empty save for a swig. The jackhole handed her a cup of backwash. She looked at my hand, a smile already in its early stages when she looked up into the face of the hand’s owner. Her eyes bulged when she saw me ducked in the shadows, but the smile stayed in place. Taking a nervous glance Ty’s way, she leaned towards me. “What are you doing here?” she asked one level above a whisper. Returning her grin, I pulled at her hand. “What are you doing here?” She didn’t budge from the sofa arm, like she’d been crazy glued to it. “Having a great time,” she answered. “Sure looks like you are,” I said, giving her hand another tug. I’d pick her up and carry her out of here if I had to, but it would be a helluva lot easier if she’d work with me. “Why don’t you keep the good times rolling and come with me?” She stalled, biting at her lip. Throwing one more glance at Ty’s back, she set the cup on the ground and ducked into the hallway next to me. She was pressed against me so close, we took up no more space than one person. “Well, are we just going to stand here?” Emma whispered against my neck. Holy goosebumps, Batman. “I flew the coop with the promise of good times to be had.” I angled my face down towards hers, so close my nose was skimming her forehead. I lost purchase of the comeback I was prepared to deliver, but when she tilted her face higher to mine, so the breath coming off her lips flowed against mine, I lost purchase of all twelve languages I knew fluently. Wordless, I pulled her up with me and led her down the hallway. She followed me, weaving her other hand through my elbow, and together we cut our own path out of the

darkness. Spilling out onto the middle of the expanding dance floor, I turned and pulled her against me. Harder than I should have, closer than I should have, but I didn’t give a damn. “Dance with me,” I said, my whisper breaking against her ear. She answered me every way but verbally. Her hands slid up my arms, settling onto my shoulders, her body swayed against mine until we caught the beat of the music and each other, and her eyes gripped mine, warm, inviting, and scared. My hands worked over the curve of her back, pressing her closer, trying to memorize every dip and curve of her back. “Why are you here?” she asked after we’d danced in silence through an entire track. “Really?” Doing a quick survey of the room, glad to find it Ty-free, I answered, “Well, it isn’t for the cheap beer or ear-numbing music I can assure you.” “That’s why everyone else is here,” Emma replied, doing her own scan of the room, her fingers constricting into my shoulders a little deeper. “Yeah, well, I came to this about this one girl,” I said, easing my way into laying it all out on the line. “Did you find her?” she asked, her eyes latching on the ground. Stilling us, I did another scan of the room, but this time, instead of looking for douchebag extraordinaire, I paused on a couple dozen women, earning a sigh from Emma. My eyes ended on her and stayed on her for so long a blush crept up her neck and her eyes couldn’t hold mine any longer. But they didn’t stay away long. As if thinking the better of it, they veered back to mine and she held mine harder she ever had, a smile spreading into every plane of her face. The Emma smile I missed. The real one that made me feel like I was the only person on the face of the world she cared for. “Ah, there you are,” I said, part mesmerized, part hypnotized, but mostly just falling in love. “Nice to see the

Emma I remember. Where have you been?” Her smile warped into the sad one I hate to see as she sighed. “That Emma you want to believe I am—the smiling, carefree, world at her fingertips girl you see when you’re around—that’s not who I am. I’m the girl who’s insecure, pessimistic, runs away from her problems, or when that doesn’t work, ignores them, and spends most of the present terrified of the future,” she said, trying to keep her voice level. “I know, I sound amazing, don’t I?” I couldn’t understand why she identified herself as the shell of the girl I’d seen her as a few times. That wasn’t a person—that was a corpse warmed over. “So you see yourself one way and I see you in exactly the opposite way. Which girl do you want to be?” Another song pumped through the speakers, making those predeceasing it seem tame. “It’s not that easy,” she replied. “It’s not who we want to be, but who we are that defines us.” That sounded profoundly wise. Too bad it wasn’t true. “That’s positively the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard.” “What did I tell you?” she said, lifting her mouth to my ear to cut through the bass shock waving around the room. “I’m a pessimist.” Curling my neck into her, I repeated, “Who do you want to be?” I wasn’t going to let her distract me from this, not when we were making progress. When her hands slid from my shoulders to the curve of my neck, her fingers weaving through my hair, I would have let her distract me from saving the world. “I want to be the person you think I am.” We weren’t moving against each other anymore, but our bodies locked together immobile just as well as they had in motion. “Good news for you then. That’s who you are,” I said. “The rest is just staying on that path.” Her laugh muffled into my neck. “Sounds easy.” “It is if you just stick with me, never leave my side, move in with me—” “That,” she interrupted, “sounds anything but easy.” “By your own admission, you said that the person you

are when you’re around me is the person you want to be,” I said. “Lucky for you I like you and don’t mind you hanging around twenty-four seven striving to be all you can be.” “How generous of you.” There’s a sliver of silence while the stereo system took a breather before the next song—and I use the word song loosely—pounded through the room. It’s enough to put a crack in the spell Emma cast on me whenever she’s around. I remembered why I’m here. And it’s not to dance and flirt back and forth with her, although that took a close second. I was here to get her out of this place. “What are you doing here, Em?” I asked, never an advocate of segues. “Dancing with you,” she said, a smile in her voice. Damn if she didn’t have me there. “Let me specify. What are you doing holing up in this bottom feeder of a house? Why have you been afraid of so much as making eye contact with me?” Instead of punching something in frustration, I drew her closer, until she stilled the raging waters within. “What are you doing?” This, perhaps more than any of the others, was the question. The question I had no answer for. The question she had every answer for. The question that would open or slam closed the crack in the future of us. I felt her chest rise before she answered, “It’s complicated.” “Yeah,” I said. “That be-all-end-all answer you girls like to use holds no sway over me.” Clenching her shoulders, I looked down at her. “Spill it, Em. All of it.” She held my gaze for a moment or two before her lids fell like heavy curtains. The tri-wrinkle between her brows smoothed right before the rest of her face did and, when her eyes reopened, I knew she was ready. She was just opening her mouth when I spoke up. “Hold up. I know that face,” I said, waving my hand at her. “That’s an I’m-ready-to-give-you-the-key-to-the-safe-of-deepsecrets face. That’s a serious face.” One side of her mouth curved up in amusement. “Let’s get out of here. I prefer sordid confessions and spilling of guts over a bucket of ice cream.” I was already tugging her towards the door I’d

entered hell to save an angel. “Sordid?” she said, giving me a look. “You’re not the only one who has some dishing to do tonight,” I said, putting on a blasé front. “My confessions may or may not be of a sordid nature. I’ll let you decide.” “Would it make any difference if I put up a fight?” she asked, not putting up any of a fight as I carved a line for us through the dance floor. “Of course not,” I said. “I’d just throw you over my shoulder and kidnap you if I had to.” When I glanced back over my shoulder at her, her eyes were the first thing I noticed. They were no longer glinting with happiness. A cocktail of surprise and fear floundered in them. I knew why, I knew I’d more than pressed my luck staying as long as I had, pressed up against another man’s women on the dance floor, so I was expecting what came next. Spinning around, I backed into Emma, knowing I couldn’t keep her safe from flying limbs, bottles, and whatever else got thrown into the mix if I wasn’t melded into her until it was hard to distinguish whose body was whose. The first strike came in the form of an outstretched arm coming from my ten o’clock, sweeping the kipped hat clean off my head. I pivoted a quarter turn, furious at the cheap shot. Not because I’d been made a fool of in front of northern California’s future burger flippers, but because spit-wad’s arm had come within a hair of smacking Emma across the face. His arm wouldn’t still be attached to his shoulder had that been the case. “I don’t believe you were on the invite list,” hat sweeper hollered at me over the music, his oiled biceps, only to be outdone by his oiled hair, making me wonder if he was more the thing of bad reality television than real Ivy League college life. “I didn’t realize you needed an invitation to hell,” I answered, every muscle, every fiber of my existence, zapping to life. “I thought you just kind of got sucked in with the rest of the riff-raff.” “Metro has a smart mouth. Isn’t that precious?” oily boy shouted into the crowd. The promises of a fight had caught

the attention of everyone within a two room radius; the hellacious music had even dimmed to almost-permanentlyruin-your-ear-drums volume. “Would you guys stop calling me a metro already?” I replied, rolling my eyes. “Because I can promise you no metro can hit like this.” And to further clarify, I demonstrated on the wannabe reality-tv star. In all honesty, it wasn’t that hard of a hit. Just a soft right hook to the jaw that sent him spiraling backwards into the drywall. After witnessing the pucker in the drywall his head created before he slid to the ground, where he’d be sleeping it off the rest of tonight and tomorrow, I knew I had to recalibrate my “soft” when it came to whacking entitled, tough guy posers in the future. The crowd took a collective giant step back as a dozen more carbon copies with varying degrees of oiliness stepped forward. What I hadn’t wanted was a frat boy war on my hands when I’d entered the door, but now that they were in front of me, eager and willing, it felt like just the thing I needed to burn off a little steam. “Hey, Rapunzel,” carbon copy at my six o’clock called out, tilting his chin at me. “So you can land a hit on a riproaring drunk guy, good for you. What are you going to do when all of us come at you with an ass-whooping? Flick us with your golden hair?” He grinned into the crowd as he stretched his Thanksgiving day turkey sized arms over his chest. The guy preceded a fight by prepping and stretching his muscles. What—as the English would say—a wanker. “Why don’t you put some action behind those words?” I said, keeping one arm trained on Emma, the other slack at my side, but ready. “Hey, Emma,” idle threat boy called out, like he’d just remembered she was there. “Didn’t Ty tell you to steer clear of this loser?” I felt every muscle in her body going rigid in defiance. I wanted her to tell this guy off just as much as I wanted her to stay silent and let me “deal” with the situation. In the end, she proved we were more cut from the same fabric than I’d realized.

“Ty doesn’t control my every move,” she said, her voice even and strong. “He can’t tell me what I can and can’t do.” Boy who was getting on my nerves, about to wear a dent the shape of my fist in his forehead the rest of his life, chuckled like she’d just said the cutest thing he’d ever heard. “That’s not what I hear, sweetie. That’s not what I hear.” With a cluck of his tongue, another guy behind us reached for Emma, but before he could pull her away from me, I was in his face, wondering if I’d used teleportation or just moved that fast. “Don’t. Touch. Her.” I didn’t think my words, or the breath steaming out of my teeth, needed any further clarification as to what the repercussions would be if my warning went unheeded. The guy I was staring down in front of me got it—he saw I was a man on death row with nothing to lose if he didn’t listen to me. The guy behind me didn’t get it. His arms had just ringed around Emma’s arms when I was on him. And by on him, I mean literally on him. Seeing him touching her in a way that was the opposite of gentle lit a stick of dynamite in me, and I became a bundle of muscle and fury controlled by animal instinct. “Keep your hands off her!” Tackling him to the floor, I pinned his shoulders to the ground with my knees and made good use of his head by imagining it was my punching bag back home. I made a Picasso of his face before the next guy could get to me. It was as simple as a tuck and roll to dodge a grown man’s best attempts at ending me. Pathetic. Why didn’t men learn to fight like men anymore, instead of the caveman-chimpanzee creature with raw physicality they’d supposedly evolved from? Two down, ten more to go, provided no else decided to join in and earn a purple heart of stupidity. Shoving off my back, I flipped to a stand as the goon platoon made a rush at their enemy target. An explosion of fists and feet peppered me. In holding to the man code I ascribed to, although man was a stretch in this instance, I

allowed them all their one hit, punch, kick, or sucker-shot. And then it was my turn. I knew I had this great advantage known as Immortality, but even at that, it shouldn’t have been so easy. Yes, my muscles were like a kind of pliable adamantium, but they weren’t wielded with invincibility. Yes, my instincts were the sharpest kind of sharp, but they weren’t so perfect that they didn’t let a single shot land on me. Yes, I was a helluva good fighter, but throwing down with these guys was different. I was fighting for a purpose, a personal vendetta, a war I’d actively participated in instead of being told I was going to play a role in and that brought an intricacy to my fighting that shouldn’t be allowed in life, both Mortal and Immortal. Everything stilled, sound blurred into a dull echo, and I used this stolen moment in time to locate Emma. She was in the same place I’d left her, eyes bulging, hands covering her mouth, looking every shade of terrified, but she was far enough to the side she was in the danger free zone. But, just to be safe, I pushed our ball of man rage a few feet in the opposite direction. With the force of a tidal wave, time and sound crashed down on me again, right along with ten bodies weighing in at a deuce to a deuce and a half each. Calming my mind, the rest of me went into a frenzy, fists connecting with flesh, knees smashing unprotected soft spots, forearms crushing windpipes—it was all too easy. Like swatting away a handful of snowflakes swirling around me. Laughably easy, like world champion fighters shouldn’t engage in a fight with two year olds easy, but I was too deep into the rage zone to make adjustments. To pull my hits just before they landed. To put a lull in the whirl of blows escaping from my body. To call surrender before I really hurt someone. I’d become the animal, the mama bear whose cub was threatened. I was merciless, unrestrained by a conscience, and out for blood. The blood was splattered up to my elbows when a laugh cut through the almost silent room. It was a laugh that didn’t need a face. I would have recognized it a millennium away,

it was that chilling. And menacing. Pulling the punch that was aimed at the cheek hollow of the guy I was keeping trapped with a fistful of tee-shirt in my other hand, I shoved him away, knowing who I wanted to be taking all this rage out on was behind me. The poor kid slumped to the ground as soon as I let him go, joining eleven others that were being dragged from the makeshift fighting arena. “Pretty boy can fight,” Ty’s voice snaked through the room. “Gotta say I didn’t see that one coming.” Another laugh, low and lazy—like he thought this unworthy of his attention—exploded into all the silent spaces of the room. “But I suppose the water boy could have done the same against a few guys that were so drunk they couldn’t locate their dicks to take a piss.” I wasn’t sure when a dozen men became classified as a few. I must have missed that memo. “I see your manners are still as confused as your sexuality,” I said, grinning at him in mock innocence. Ty Steel wasn’t a man who could take a joke, as was evident from the red hulk trembling before me. I’d learned from my psych course that a person sensitive to a personal jest was insecure and likely harbored a belief that he or she was exactly what the jest was implying. Was I to assume, given Ty’s reaction, that he was indeed confused about his sexuality? I didn’t really believe it, but man, it gave me a good laugh thinking about it. The first valuable, real world application thing I’d learned in college. “I have a strict no bitches policy allowed at my parties,” he said, breaking through the shoulder-to-shoulder circle around me. He was shirtless and fumbling with his belt. At first I thought it was because he was trying to take it off to use as a do-it-yourself weapon, but he was cinching it back on. A glance over his shoulder revealed the girl no boys’ mamas had met, hard at work adjusting her dress into the right spots of barely covering those spots. I didn’t think there was enough hate within me to loathe Ty more, but lo and behold, there was plenty. I glanced over my shoulder at Emma and, while there

was a selfish piece of me that wanted her to see the cheating monster of a boyfriend in front of her—still slicked in sweat, girl of questionable reputation flushed and panting behind him—but every other unselfish bone in my body hoped she’d missed it. Prayed she’d be looking any other direction but Ty’s. Of course she wasn’t. And instead of looking furious, or ready to crumble in tears, her face barely registered emotion. Staring at her boyfriend, freshly sated from someone other than his girlfriend, her eyes narrowed the teensiest bit, like she was nothing more than mildly irritated at his “indiscretion.” However, I knew Emma, and unlike the rest of us, what brewed inside her rarely surfaced. She was the epitome of keeping her emotions bottled, but I hoped when that lid burst one day, it scalded Ty to a lumpy, unrecognizable blob. “Didn’t I tell you to stay away from this ass-wipe?” Ty directed at Emma, waving a flexed arm between her and me. “Ty—” she began, her eyes flickering to me. “Shut up,” Ty interrupted, lifting a flat palm at her. “I’m sick of hearing your voice. In fact, I’m sick of seeing your fugly face. Go grab me a beer. I’m going to need it when I’m done with this little bitch.” I saw red like I’d never seen it before. It took up my vision like a curtain of blood. The scrap of restraint I’d been grasping the past minute slid like sand through my hands and, once again, I was the thing of which nightmares were made of. I leapt in his direction, tackling him to the ground in the same movement. Ty’s eyes hadn’t even had a chance to widen in realization before my first fist pounded the side of his face. A splatter of blood exploded from his mouth, mixing with the rest of the guys’ blood that stood in my way on the floor. Ty didn’t put up a fight, not because he didn’t try, but because he didn’t stand a chance with me. My fists came one right after another, keeping a beat that surpassed the music that faded into the background. I found I had no

conscience, no mental bells chiming, when I fought Ty. A man of his caliber didn’t deserve consciousness. A man like him deserved exactly what he was receiving, exactly what I was doling out, unsure if I could stop. I felt no guilt, no remorse, no bone crushing beneath my knuckles, like pounding a lump of bread dough. Blood was everywhere, taking up more real estate than the skin, clothing, and floor around us when the only voice that could have gotten through to me screamed behind me. “Enough!” Emma shouted, racing up behind me. “Patrick, enough!” I heard her and understood her words, but my rage wouldn’t obey them. When the elbow of the opposite arm that was landing a punch punctured the air, something reached out and snagged in. Her hands wrapping around me did the trick—I stopped mid-strike. “He’s had enough,” she whispered beside me, her voice shaking. Kneeling beside me, the ball of adrenaline, and the unconscious Ty, she tilted my face until I was looking into her eyes. Calm entered me then, chasing the rage back into its cages. “You need to go,” she instructed, lifting her eyes to the exit. When I stayed frozen, splayed over Ty, she added, “Now.” And then she turned her attention to Ty, her face lining. Looking up at a couple guys in close proximity, she said, “Let’s get him to his bedroom and get him cleaned up.” The duo did as asked, giving themselves a shake before carrying out their duty of dragging a limp Ty out of the bloodied arena. Emma watched him being dragged off, slumping where she kneeled and closing her eyes. What had I done? This wasn’t a fight between a bunch of guys. This was a massacre. I’d known it would be, and I still allowed myself to be engaged in hand to hand battle with Mortals. Inebriated Mortals. It was clear I wasn’t safe to be around, at least for any low life of the Ty Steel variety. Now, and maybe never. As long as Emma was in Ty’s life, I couldn’t be in hers. Look what I’d done to it. I’d gone all silverback on her

boyfriend right in front of her eyes. Blood splatters dotted the side of her face. The blood I’d spilled from her boyfriend’s face. The one I’d just come close to killing. I leapt up, fighting a formidable urge to embrace her when it looked like she’d never needed one more, and plunged through the gape-mouthed crowd towards the door. This time, my guilt gave me unparalleled speed, not my Immortality. I was out the door and loping across the lawn towards the Mustang before anyone knew I’d left. The frat house was still silent from its shock, and those that had been puking, humping, or rambling in the front yard had succumbed to the slumber of the inebriated, so when the Mustang’s engine fired to life, it exploded like a sonic bomb. Yet through the growls and snarls of the engine, I heard her voice, soft and urgent. Fighting over heeding her words or punching the Mustang into reverse and driving until the road ran out, my choice was made for me when a soft knock came outside my window. Sucking in a breath through my teeth, I rolled down the window. I couldn’t look at her—my eyes stayed glued to the steering wheel. Again, the shame and guilt taking the lead. “Are you okay?” she asked, crouching down until her head hung just outside the window. Still, I couldn’t look at her. I didn’t deserve to. “I’m not sure,” I answered honestly. “Do you need me to drive you to the hospital?” she asked, misunderstanding. It was almost funny, in that sick I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry kind of way, that she was offering me aid when I wouldn’t have a bruise tomorrow to prove I’d been in a fight of a lifetime and her boyfriend, a hundred feet away, was five punches away from dead. “No, no. I’m fine,” I said. “Thanks, though. You should probably get Ty to an emergency room though. He’s going to need some stitches.” I swallowed compliments of yours truly. “I’ll cover all his medical expenses.” Emma cut me off. “Don’t worry about Ty. His dad has

this great medical insurance plan known as being a doctor.” Bloody doctors. I was surrounded by them at every turn in my life. I was going to become the anti-doctor, whatever that was. Although, I suppose after my actions tonight, I’d become just that. “Good for him,” I answered, not able to stand much more of this. I wasn’t good with long goodbyes; any goodbyes at all, in fact. Ty wasn’t safe around me, but he was around Emma most of the time. Therefore, Emma wasn’t safe around me either. At this juncture, good-bye was the only option. “Wait,” she said, reaching her arm across me, stalling my efforts of shifting into gear. “We’ve got a date scheduled for this weekend. Girl’s choice,” she said, like the fight that would become a legend at Stanford for the next two generations hadn’t just gone down. “Meet me at this address tomorrow night. Six o’clock?” she said, handing me a piece of paper with a location scrolled on it. She waited for me to show some recognition that I’d heard her and would be there, unmoving, her hand still folded over the one of mine gripping the shifter. She wasn’t allowing me to run away like I wanted to. She was holding me accountable, holding me to her. Knowing this was my chance to end it, to save her from the mess that was Patrick Hayward, I nodded my answer. “I’ll be there.” “Good,” she said, obviously satisfied as she removed her hand from mine and stepped away from the window. “Don’t be late.” As the tires screeched over the pavement, tattooing the road with a couple of black streaks, I knew I shouldn’t go. Emma getting stood up on our “pretend” date was a million times better than me showing up and dragging her further into my dangerous life. We were two different beings, our paths in life would never intersect, no matter how hard we tried to force them. When the stars had aligned, mine had been as far away from hers as the universe could put us. The only answer, the only acceptable solution, was to stay as far away from Emma Scarlett as Stanford would allow.

A few miles, an on-ramp, and a hundred and ten MPHs later, all these warnings were forgotten. Setting barricades up between Emma and me was pointless—there was nothing that could stop me when I came charging through, as I knew I would every time. I wouldn’t only be on time tomorrow night, I’d be ten minutes early.

CHAPTER ELEVEN That night, I slept. I forced myself to. Knowing I could overanalyze with the best of ‘em, sleep was the only thing that would keep me from relapsing into the land of empty brown bottles and mountain man bad looks. And when I woke up at eight o’clock the next morning, I forced myself to go back to sleep because it was eleven hours away from seeing Emma. Eleven hours of staring at the ceiling, wondering if I should have done this, shouldn’t have said that, should have refrained from pummeling the snot out of her boyfriend. Those were questions I didn’t want to agonize over, questions I didn’t want to know the answers to. So when I woke up three hours later, knowing sleep was a futile effort at that point, I’d grabbed my favorite board and let the killer surf brutalize me until my mind was empty of everything but achieving oneness with the ocean. And brutalize me it did—I felt like the great Pacific’s sparring partner when I stepped onto solid ground finally. I wasn’t one of those guys who could shower, throw on some deodorant, and be out the door in five minutes, so I bid the ocean good night a little before five and prepped myself for a date about which I had no details other than a time and an address. Could I have Google earthed it? Easily. Could I have driven by and scoped it out earlier? Of course. Could I have teleported myself there and gotten out just as quickly? Hells yeah. Why didn’t I? I was still trying to answer that doozy, but I’m sure it had something to do with liking surprises and, mostly, trusting Emma. Whatever she had in mind for us tonight, she hadn’t felt it important to tell me what we’d be doing or exactly what the place behind the address was, but I knew it was intentional. So I trusted her, although I’d had my thumb positioned over my cell’s send button a dozen times tonight when the debacle of settling on what to

wear became almost too much to bear. But I refrained and went with a can’t-go-wrong classic slack, a button down shirt—cuffs rolled to the elbows—and a dazzling smile to finish it all off. The Mustang was freshly waxed, had a full tank of gas, and didn’t mind my zeal when I hit the interstate. Technically, I lived thirty minutes from campus, but for me and the Mustang, that was more a round trip time. The window was down, the unseasonably warm—even for California—fall weather finishing the job of drying my damp hair. The address Emma had given me was a ways south and east of campus—maybe only an hour or so—but, as with all places one can’t wait to arrive, it took an eternity getting there. Rolling down the street of a residential area that had probably been nice seventy years ago, I caught the number I was looking for fading from the mailbox slanting in the front lawn. Where in the world had Emma led me? To some ramshackle house in the middle of the Palo Alto equivalent of the projects? I doubted if anyone even lived here anymore; this was probably just some prank she’d tossed my way for beating up her beloved Ty. Even as the thought flamed through my mind, I knew it wasn’t in Emma’s style, though it was nothing I didn’t deserve. Deciding I’d get out and check this place out, I cut the engine just as a flood light above a garage that was more tilting than standing blazed on. Four bulging figures immediately stepped into the light, arching basketballs into the net-less hoop hanging above the garage door. Scarlett boys. Emma’s four older, rather large, brothers who’d tear off a man’s balls and staple them to the back of their pickups to send a message. So I had my answer as to why she’d brought me here. She wanted me dead. I hoped it would be a quick one. Oblivious to, or ignoring, the red Mustang and its occupant, the guys continued assaulting the hoop, so I grabbed the items I’d picked up on my way over and got out of the car. I’d never been one to run away, and I wasn’t

going to start when the end was likely four Scarlett boys away. Slamming the door shut, I announced my arrival to a crowd that was either deaf or giving me the brush off. I growled something under my breath, wishing my three brothers were here with me now and we’d settle this the old fashioned way. A game of around the world. Winner takes all—loser’s dignity, lunch money, or underpants, didn’t matter. And then I saw Emma. The lights under the porch were shimmering around her, casting her in a beam that was too ethereal to be made of this world. She was smiling at me in grand Emma style and dressed up like she was heading to a picnic in the park. Feminine skirt folding around the breeze, a pale tank hugging what it covered a tad too closely for my pulse’s sake that was thankfully mostly covered by the white cardigan hanging on her like it was a size too big. She’d never looked more beautiful. She waved at me, gesturing for me to come towards her and stop staring like an ignoramus. This wasn’t a trick, not a prank, not an attempt to get even—it was merely an opportunity to spend an evening with her family. Families were serious business, the best pieces of us we protected at all costs. You didn’t just introduce anyone to these people you loved more than yourself. The fact that Emma was doing just that did something to my insides. Like she’d just carved away another piece of my heart for herself. At the rate she was going, I’d be robbed of it in about six more seconds. “You came,” she said, bouncing down the stairs towards me. “Of course I came,” I answered, looking at her like she was full on crazy. “Hayward!” a voice charged across the lawn at me as one of the Scarlett brothers turned his attention from the game of street ball. I tilted my chin in acknowledgement and was about to return the greeting in the form of a hey, what’s up, or how ya

doing? when a basketball with a case of terminal velocity decided to cruise my way. I would have had to drop the items in my hand to stop the ball before my chest did, but since I’d agonized over my selections, taking a speed ball to the chest was the only option. Just as I was bracing for impact, Emma pivoted in front of me, freezing the ball between her hands. “What do you think you’re doing bringing flowers to a girl who has a boyfriend?” rocket launcher asked me, smirking at his little sister. Think fast, think fast, think fast. He was right, in his way, but I was right in my way. Emma liked flowers, Ty didn’t see fit to get her any, I—as her pretend/project/wannabe/hopefully future boyfriend—should be allowed to get her some. However, I knew this response would start the night off on, what would you call it? the wrong foot, so I put my fast on my feet thinking cap on and pulled out an explanation. “These are for your mom.” I raised the bouquet, lifting my shoulders like it was the most obvious thing. “Who’s the fancy box of chocolates for then?” was the immediate response when his eyes moved to the item in my other hand. Giving another shrug, I said, “Your mom.” “So what did you bring for Emma then?” he said, his smile identical to Joseph’s when he was taunting me in a similar way. “Give it a rest, Tex,” Emma said, firing the ball back his way. “And great first impression, by the way. What a way to welcome a guest to our home and lead him to believe we’re nothing other than a bunch of dumb rednecks.” “You know I love ya, Emma-Bema,” Tex called out before spinning and landing a swisher. Judging by their performance, four Scarlett boys could have or could still represent the starting lineup for Stanford’s men’s basketball team. That is, if they could keep themselves from fouling out in the first quarter. “Oh, and Hayward?” Tex called out while he waited for his ball to bounce back to him. Swinging an arm to the chateau de Scarlett, he said, “Welcome to our humble

abode.” Emma puffed out a breath of air, shooting a glare at her brother’s back before turning back at me. “So how do I recover from that warm, disjointed welcome? Take two?” “Miss Scarlett.” I bowed, all 1700’s Southern gentleman like, extending the gifts in my arms at her. “As a token of my gratitude at you and your family’s boundless hospitality,”—I arched a brow at the basketball court—“please accept my humble gifts. Oh, and I might have lied about these being for your mom,” I admitted. “Seemed the best way to stomp out the fuse before it ignited.” Plastering on a Gone with the Wind smile, Emma fanned her face. “Why I declare,” she said in a drawl that was as Southern as my manners, gathering up the oldest trick in the man book of gifts. I wasn’t one for clichés, but in this case, it was a well proved one. I hadn’t met a woman who wouldn’t melt a degree or two at the arrival of flowers and chocolates. “And you’re right,” she whispered in her Emma voice. “The boys would have no qualms over hanging you from the basket by your underwear and leaving you overnight if you would have admitted these were for me.” Weaving her elbow through mine, she led me across the front lawn that was more soil than sod. “But thank you for the gifts. I’m sure my mother will enjoy them,” she said, jabbing an elbow into my side. “You know, I’m surprised your brothers need another excuse to draw and quarter me,” I said. “After last night and everything.” “I told them what happened. Exactly what happened, not what got blown up by the rumor tank,” Emma said, stopping at the foot of the stairs. “And friend or not, no one talks to their sister like that. By their estimate, you did them a favor by teaching Ty a lesson.” “So your brothers like me now?” I asked, thinking they had a strange way of showing it. “Gosh, no,” she said, making a face. “They still hate you. They’re convinced you’re the big bad wolf and I’m little red riding hood.” “Big bad wolf?” I said, hitching my hands on my hips. “As in a werewolf?” The twisted irony of it was kind of funny.

“They watch too many movies,” she offered with a shrug. “But even though they’re quite convinced you’re out to get me, they still owe you a debt of gratitude for standing up for their sister’s honor. It’s safe to say you should escape a session of Scarlett Slapping. I think,” she added, her mouth twitching. “You think?” I said. “Scarlett Slapping?” Climbing the stairs, she said, “Exactly what it sounds like.” “Super,” I muttered, following behind her. Our steps made a symphony of creaking all the way up. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you. They may outnumber me by three and outweigh me by eight times, but I have secret super powers over the male species.” She smiled at me over her shoulder, kicking a pair of boots to the side. “That’s old news to me,” I said. “I’ve been a victim of your power for awhile now.” Her shoulders tensed, just barely, but just enough for me to know I was bridging a delicate area. “Dinner’s in five,” Emma yelled across the lawn at the foursome, two of which were swinging from the rim like a couple of monkeys. “If you’re late, exceptionally stinky, or slightly rude, you’ll be eating your dinners on the back porch.” A couple of waves and nods answered her while the Scarlett brothers thundered on with their game. Emma stalled with her hand on the screen door handle. “Oh, and by the way, my mom is kind of . . .” she paused, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Quiet,” she settled on. “So don’t be offended if she doesn’t respond to your attempts at creating sparkling conversation. Okay?” I caught the signs of someone coloring the truth with an easy to swallow color, the lowering of her eyes, the muscles clenching in her shoulders, the tone of the words, but I had secrets too. So did she. At last, a sign that this girl was for real. “Well, wait until she gets a load of me then. She’ll be a changed woman after spending fifteen minutes with me.” I placed my hand over her back, in a way I’d meant to be reassuring, but ended up feeling more intimate than anything else.

She shot me a look of we’ll see as she tossed the screen door aside and stepped inside. Following after her, I stepped into Emma Scarlett’s home. It wasn’t what I’d expected. Someone like her came from a two-story colonial with emerald green lawns and pancakes and maple syrup present in the air no matter what time of day it was. It was hard to reconcile how a woman like Emma came from a shoebox of a home that was absent of warmth, charm, family photos, and that intangible quality of a safe haven. Even in my mother’s absence, my father had somehow managed to create that sense of peace and safety, but until I’d stepped foot in this home where it was glaringly absent, I hadn’t realized how vital it was to making a house a home. A chill weaved up my spine and I automatically moved nearer to Emma, and the chill evaporated. She was my personal sun, without even applying for the job. “Mom?” Emma said, passing a nervous smile back at me where I lurked by the front door. “Mom, we have company. You remember the guest I told you we’d have tonight? He’s here.” She tip-toed across the decades old carpet, worn bald in areas, towards an upholstered chair floating like an island in the middle of the room. “Mom?” Emma repeated, her hand rounding over something midway up the back of the chair. A shoulder, a woman’s shoulder. I could have jumped from surprise if Emma’s eye hadn’t found mine right then. A woman so frail she looked a few days better fed than a runway model slouched in the chair, eyes focused on the black and white television flickering a few feet in front of her, propped up on a milk crate. “This is Patrick,” Emma said, her voice low as she crouched beside her mom. “He brought these for you.” She set the flowers and chocolates in her mom’s lap, but she could have been laying them in a coffin for all the recognition she received. Emma glanced at me from the side, where I loomed a foot away from the exit, and I knew what she was experiencing. That her secret, one of them that she’d let me

in on at least, would be enough to scare me away forever. This was a fear that plagued me as well. Crossing the remaining distance, which was not far, towards Emma and her mother, I planted my best smile on my face and forced myself to act like there was nothing unusual, peculiar, or moderately terrifying about my surroundings. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Scarlett,” I said, kneeling next to Emma. “Thank you for having me here tonight.” Placing a hand on Emma’s knee, I gave it a squeeze. I could feel the relief deflating from her like a balloon. Her eyes were glassy when they met mine. She didn’t say anything—she didn’t need to. It was all right there. A buzzer went off a few feet away from us, jolting the both of us, although her mother remained unaffected. Emma flitted towards the kitchen like she was overthrowing Paris, our moment passing us by. Defeated by the bell again. “Patrick?” Emma called out from the kitchen, as a racket of metal beating metal rang out. “Will you be all right in there? I’m just pulling out dinner and then we’ll be all set.” “I’m fine,” I answered her, forcing myself to look— really look—at her mom. “We’ll just chat for a few minutes. I’m planning to press her to divulge all your most embarrassing moments growing up.” “Ha!” Emma hollered from the kitchen, right before something clattered to the floor. For all the raucous, she could have been running a metal factory in there. “You’ll get nothing.” I wasn’t sure if that was because she had very few juicy moments of her past worth telling or if her mother’s lips were sealed, literally, on the matter. “Do you need any help?” I asked when another something clanged to the floor. “Just stay out of the way,” she warned, before uttering the first curse I’d heard come from her lips when something that sounded an awful lot like glass shattered. Even at her worst, the best curse word she could pull was crap. If that wasn’t proof for opposites attract, I don’t know what would

have been. Turning my attention back at the inhaling and exhaling corpse slouching in front of me, I forced a grin. “It really was kind of you to have me here tonight. It’s nice to be able to meet the family responsible for making Emma who she is today.” Okay, a touch wordy and a tad sappy for a nonresponsive person in front of me, but it was too late to take the words back. “You like my Emma?” I wouldn’t have believed the words had come from her mouth had I not been watching her. Everything else about her face and body remained unchanged except for the movement of her mouth. It should have been a relief, but instead Mrs. Scarlett just became creepier. However, she was Emma’s mom. And that made her good people. “Yes, ma’am,” I answered, lowering my voice. Not that Emma could overhear me with the cacophony of noise coming from the kitchen. “A whole lot.” Mrs. Scarlett nodded her head once, her eyes blinking for the first time. “She’s a good girl. And special too.” Her voice was tight, strained, like it would snap at the slightest disruption in the air, but the conviction behind those words was fierce. “Yes, ma’am. She most certainly is.” A commercial length silence ensued before she said anything else. “She doesn’t think so, though.” I wanted to disagree with her, to tell her the Emma I knew was positively bursting with self-worth and confidence, but I couldn’t lie to the woman who had birthed her. “I’d have to agree with you on that.” Mrs. Scarlett sighed, never once looking my way. When her eyes glazed over during the second sigh, I reached for the flowers about to fall from her lap to the floor. “Let me put these in some water for you.” I was smack in the center of the kitchen in three strides. It was more of a closet than a kitchen in what I defined as what one would prepare a meal in, but Emma seemed to be holding her own as she pirouetted between the stove, sink, and refrigerator. Her forehead was beading with sweat, and her brow was set in a don’t mess with me

warning. “Vase?” I asked, short and sweet. “That cupboard.” Her elbow pointed at the one beside her as she decimated a head of lettuce. “Top shelf.” “Are you sure you don’t need some . . .” The word caught in my mouth when she spun at me, woman crazed look in her eyes, butcher knife raised in warning. “I’m. Fine,” she said, before turning back towards taking out her frustrations on leafy greens. “Besides, isn’t it your gender’s general opinion that my gender’s proper place is to be barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen?” I laughed, a full, rolling one. I laughed at the way her weapon free hand had flitted in the air as she’d said it, I laughed at the irony that, in my time, that had been the way it was, although it wasn’t the expectation, it was just the way things were. And I laughed at Emma, trying so hard to be tough and choke her own fit of laughter back down. Opening the cupboard door she’d indicted, I pulled the chipped-mouth vase down and decided it was time to press a little luck again. Keeping an arm stretched on the open cupboard door, I reached my other arm around her, pressing myself against her just enough to feel the tension ripple through her body. The cutting board stilled, where it sat balancing precariously on the sink’s ledge, as my arm stretched around her further. Turning the water on, I filled the vase until it was spilling over. I couldn’t move, I was incapable of it. I had her in my grasp, protected, shielded, everything I’d ever wanted I held within the six foot span of my arms, and there was nothing the world could throw at me to break this moment. Nothing in the world save for her. Ducking beneath my arm braced over the cupboard, she dodged in the direction of the oven, but not before meeting my eyes. The widening of her pupils told me she was excited. The narrowing of her eyes told me she was upset, maybe even angry. But what couldn’t be read with everything I’d read and studied pertaining to physical tells was if she wanted to feel the length of my body against hers every day forward. “You could have made that easier on yourself, Gumby

man,” she said with a half smile before flinging the oven door open. “I could have,” I answered in the peaked tone that insinuated everything I wanted to. “Patrick Hayward,” she said with a sigh as she pulled a tin-foil covered pan from the oven. “What am I going to do with you?” It was one of those rhetorical questions people tended to throw at me a lot, because, let’s face it, I was the rhetorical question, but she’d cracked open a door I was going to bust right through. Making sure she was looking at me before responding, I said, “Anything you want.” Peaking my brows a few times, I added, “As long as it involves scented candles and silk sheets.” Emma snatched the dishtowel hanging over the stove’s handle and pitched it at my face. “My mother’s in the next room,” she hissed, fighting her smile at every word. “And her brothers are coming through the side door,” a voice that was all bass announced immediately after a door screeched open. If that wasn’t a proverbial cold shower, I don’t know what could have been. Sweeping the chop sueyed lettuce into a bowl, she weaved through the five other, rather large, male bodies packed into the kitchen like we were rammed against the rail at a sell out rock concert. “The only time you’re not late is when food’s involved,” she said, situating the salad bowl on the plastic folding table. “That’s the only reason to be on time, Em,” Jackson said, dropping a kiss on her head. “Especially when you’re cooking pork chops a la commode.” “If you’re all going to cramp my already cramped work space, make yourselves useful,” Emma said, pulling a bottle of dressing from the refrigerator and tossing it at me. “Dallas, you set the table. Austin, you fill the glasses with water. Jackson, light the candles.” “We have candles?” Jackson mumbled, fishing a box of matches from a drawer beside the sink.

“And Tex,” Emma said, elbowing him while she carried a steaming pan of . . . something. “You’ve got mom duty.” From the ensuing groan, I knew this was the least desirable chore in this household, and I could guess why Emma had doled it out on the brother who’d been the majorette of my welcome parade minutes ago. “Pork chops a la commode,” I said in explanation, staring at the foreign grayish dish that looked the farthest thing from appetizing. But I didn’t care if it was laced with arsenic—if Emma took time to make me dinner, I was going to eat it. And ask for seconds. “Pretty, isn’t it?” Emma guessed at what I was thinking. “The boys called it toilet pork chops when I first starting making it because,”—she motioned at the main course —“that’s pretty much what it looks like. But, taking great insult that they were labeling my best attempts at feeding them such vulgar names, I threatened to never cook for them again if they called it toilet pork chops again. They promised, and I renamed it pork chops a la commode.” “Em?” I said. “Did you ever take French?” “Only four years,” she said, clearly pleased with herself. “But the boys didn’t.” “So you can call it toilet pork chops, just so long as no one else does or knows they are?” Devious wasn’t a word I would have placed in Emma’s characteristic bank. “Precisely,” she said, sharing a smile with me. “Just look at that. They are toilet pork chops, but they’re a Scarlett house favorite because they’re filling, cheap, a one pan meal, and most importantly—” “They’re freaking delicious,” Dallas offered, dropping the last fork into its spot. “Couldn’t have said it any better.” Emma smiled her thanks at her brother. “You know, Emma doesn’t make pork chops a la commode for just anyone,” Austin said, from his post at the sink where he filled seven plastic cups of varying sizes and colors. “This is a meal reserved for family birthdays and special occasions. I don’t believe you’ve ever even made this for Ty, have you?” There was nothing that hinted Austin was provoking

Emma, but the squaring of her shoulders indicated that’s how she took it. “Since the last time Ty stepped foot in this house was the summer before I entered first grade,” Emma said, drilling holes into Austin’s back, “no, I haven’t cooked this for him. Kind of difficult to when he’s got a personal policy against even toeing the line of the bad side of town.” There were so many undercurrents in her tone, it was impossible to determine which was the most prominent— irritation, shame, anger—but I didn’t care. I’d take any mark against Ty Emma would give me. “Well, it’s not like you invite people over, just like the rest of us,” Austin said, dropping a couple of cups around the table. “In fact, I can’t remember the last time you had anyone—” “Austin.” That was all it took, one word, to silence her older, bigger brother mid-sentence. I didn’t doubt the same would hold true with the other three brothers, and that she would yield to them at their first name warning. I knew this because it was familiar, something my family had been forced to adopt as well. When secrets weave together your past, you have to keep the threads from being unraveled. Placing her hands over my shoulders, she steered me to a seat. “Patrick, you can sit here by me. As the guest of honor, you get to help yourself first.” She pulled out the metal folding chair for me, waving her hand at the spread on the table. “And you’d better hurry and dish up because as soon as the four hyenas arrive around the table, there’ll be nothing left.” “I don’t want to disagree with you, but my mother would probably reach out from the heavens and slap me across the hand if I even thought about sitting down and dishing up before you and your mom had,” I said, scratching the back of my neck. This wasn’t a rule I followed to the letter, but it was one I tried to follow most of the time, and it was one I was going to obey when in Emma’s house. Sliding to the chair beside mine, I pulled it out. “Miss Scarlett?” I said, gesturing to the chair. The skin between her brows wrinkled, but she was smiling. “Is this whole gentlemen thing you’ve got going on an act or the real thing?” she asked, settling into the chair.

“Both,” I answered honestly, sliding her forward. “My brothers are more the natural gentlemen in the family where I’m . . . less so, if left to my own devices, so part of the time I have to remind and force myself to be a gentlemen. But the other half of my gentlemen air comes from growing up in the South with a very Southern mother who put manners in the same category as showing up for church on Sunday early. So a lot of it has been pounded so deep into me it comes naturally.” Standing behind my chair, I leaned down at her. “Why? Are you impressed?” “More like shocked,” she retorted, folding a paper napkin in her lap. “I’ll take shocked,” I said, lowering my voice. “As long as you feel something for me. And it isn’t disdain or loathing.” A clenched jaw-ed Jackson leaned in between us, clearing his throat as he lit the votive raised on an overturned water cup. Forging roads of romance between Emma and me was going to be impossible with four brothers an ear’s and arm’s length away. A thought struck me, one I didn’t want to give credit to, but one I couldn’t dismiss. Maybe, guessing the way I felt about her, and knowing the way her brothers felt about me, she’d invited me here because she knew me putting the moves on her would be as successful as Canada winning a world war. My mood and smile dampened simultaneously. “Hey, Ma,” Jackson greeted, nudging me further away from Emma before moving away from us. Tex helped the still as unresponsive Mrs. Scarlett into her seat and when I saw her in the full light of the kitchen, the flatness stifling her expression became familiar in a way that chilled me to my marrow. Despite Mrs. Scarlett looking nothing like Emma, she had the same dark skin and hair of her sons, that expression of nothing she wore was identical to the one I’d seen shroud Emma’s face before. That faraway look that had landed her in a land of living nightmares and a place that had been sucked dry of all hope. I couldn’t look away from Mrs. Scarlett fast enough. I’d

seen that look on her daughter one too many times; I couldn’t witness her paralyzed in this dark place too. I took my seat, trying to make sliding my chair closer to Emma nonchalant. Her sideways smile indicated she hadn’t bought it. In a combined effort, eight hands lunged towards the nearest food filled plate only to be promptly slapped away. “Are you forgetting something?” Emma said, glancing with annoyance at each of her brothers. “Grace?” They rolled their eyes like they’d been victim of this rebuke before. Austin, clenching his hands together, looked to the ceiling. “Rub a dub dub. Thanks for the grub,” he said, smirking at his disapproving sister across from him. “And thanks for the sister who knows how to cook it. Amen.” “Amen!” was the shouted chorus before those eight hands returned with a vengeance. Piling, heaping, and scraping whatever they could get their hands on, before another set of hands took it, onto their plates. So the Scarlett boys hadn’t grown up with a mother who would make them write out, in perfect penmanship, the first chapter of The Iliad if they even considered helping themselves before the women and guests at the table had. “Save some for our guest!” Emma shouted, smacking as many hands away as she could. “And the woman who gave birth to you.” She fought a spatula out of Dallas’s hand and shot an elbow into Jackson’s side when he made his move for it. “And for the sister who prepared this feast for you barbarians.” Tex slid a full plate in front of Emma, situating the other one in his hand in front of his mom. Being a middle child myself, I understood the need to please at any opportunity. Other than this birth order curse we could share, any man who looked out for Emma was good people in my book. Tex won the award for my favorite Scarlett brother by a landslide. “You better get in there,” she said, gazing over what was left. “Before there’s nothing left to get.” Women were served, food was in short supply, I was a starvin’ marvin. I didn’t need another invitation. Showing the Scarlett boys how we Haywards did it, I outmaneuvered

Austin for one of the last pork chops, scooping up a couple of potatoes swimming in the grey gravy in the same swipe. “Nice move,” Austin said, raking up the last pork chop before Jackson made his move for it. Once every morsel of food had found its way onto someone’s plate, an orchestra of sighs, groans, and open mouthed chewing ensued. Except for Mrs. Scarlett. She nibbled a bite of lettuce and apparently lost interest after that. Her plate steamed, untouched, in front of her empty face. An elbow nudged me. “What do you think?” Emma asked, taking a modest-sized bite and chewing with her mouth closed, a practice her brothers should make use of. “It’s not gourmet Moroccan prepared by a five star chef, but it’s not bad either.” I’d been too absorbed in the chaos that was a Scarlett family dinner to have taken a bite of my own dinner, but when I did, I joined in with the moaning. “Holy crap, Emma!” I said after a second mouthful. “This could be one of the best meals I’ve ever had. Don’t tell my sisters-in-law,” I said, shamelessly talking through another bite. Laughing, she said, “You’d be amazed what a little cream of mushroom soup, whole milk, and garlic can do to a plateful of cheap meat and potatoes.” “Well, you’re a genius,” I said, getting why the guys fought over the food like it was Helen of Troy. Spearing a forkful of gravy saturated potato, she said, “I am, aren’t I?” A raucous of chair legs screeching across the linoleum announced the end of dinner for the Scarlett brothers and set a new world record for food shoveling. “Don’t even think about it,” Emma warned, stabbing her fork in the direction of the boys retreating out the back door. “You know the deal. I cook. You guys clean.” Sweeping her eyes over the greasy, goopy pan and plates scattered around the table, she said, “Have fun. Patrick and I are going out for some fresh air.” Few things could have tempted me away from finishing the half-eaten dinner before me. One of those things was

being alone with Emma in the dark. I was out of my chair so fast it nearly tipped back to the floor. “Mom?” Emma said, sliding out of her chair and crouching beside her. “Make sure you eat a few more bites. Let the boys know if you need anything.” She planted a kiss on her cheek before turning to find me. I was already at the door, holding it open for her. “Can I interest you in a tour of our illustrious, expansive backyard?” she asked, pausing in the doorway for my response. “Interest me,” I said with a look that was too lingering for the five Scarlett family members feet away from us, four of which would have happily castrated me the old fashioned way. I followed right behind her, double checking to make sure I fastened the door tightly behind us. If it wasn’t for the shoebox window above the sink, we would have had complete privacy. “My childhood stomping ground,” Emma said, watching me over her shoulder, examining me as I took in the backyard. I had tomato gardens bigger than this back in Montana, and this is where five children had spent their formidable years exploring and challenging nature. Like the front yard, it was more dirt than grass, but even more so back here, and the only sign that someone had put any effort into the yard was the leaning fence surrounding it with a plank missing every four or five spaces. The fence was the eeriest part of the whole set-up. I don’t like fences. I don’t like the premise of them keeping something locked in or out. I don’t like being fenced. I wasn’t sure if that was because I’d lived in wide open spaces my whole life or because that was just me, but I could almost feel the stirrings of hyperventilation when Emma hung her head, toeing the ground. “It’s not much, but it was what we had,” she said. “When you grow up without a whole lot, you become very industrious. This was like our own Neverland, somewhere we could escape, somewhere we could be safe.

Somewhere we could be somewhere else.” Running a fast hand over her eyes, she smiled into the dark. “We didn’t realize backyards came landscaped and with pools and barbeques and things other than dirt and spotted grass until we got invited over to Ty’s parents’ house when I was in kindergarten.” Whether it was the memory or thinking of Ty that had brought a smile to her face, I didn’t like it. Not because she was smiling, this was the steady state I wanted Emma to be in every moment of forever, but because Ty—or a memory of him—had made her so happy. “I dig it,” I said, finding it was quite a nice place when the silver light of the moon cast its mirage on her face. The leaning fence, the arid soil, the brown grass, it morphed into a secret garden that was as beautiful as her sweet face and as boundless as her goodness. “Come here.” She gestured at me to follow her as she crossed the lawn toward the back corner. “I want to show you what got me through my teenage years.” Intrigued by that promise and the sway of her hips floating into the darkness, I ran after her. She was already sliding out of her sandals when I reached her, using a metal spring to balance herself on. “A trampoline,” I said, crossing my arms. “This has got to be some story if this is what got you through your teen years.” Tossing the other sandal to the side, she leaned against the rusting metal, looking up at the sky. “You ever notice when you’re staring at something as vast as the sky, it’s impossible not to feel absurdly small?” I didn’t get how this realization had helped a teen who, as a species, is trying to express independence and identity. “Sure,” I answered, “all the time. But how was this your saving grace as a surly teen?” “Well, along with feeling utterly insignificant in the scale of the universe, so did my problems. If I was nothing more than a speck in the scale of things, then so were my issues.” Lifting a shoulder, she said, “That’s what got me through when I didn’t think I had anything left to . . . get me through.”

When she looked at me, that’s when I got it. Really got it. Emma’s life had been tainted by the monsters and black spaces that position, love, and some luck had saved me from. I didn’t doubt those three things were in short supply in Emma’s life. Her eyes swept skyward once more, tugging mine along for the journey. “Perspective, you know?” she said. “Sometimes that’s all you need to overcome anything.” I had a desperate urge to cross the space separating us and fold her into my arms and attempt to leech out every dark moment from her memory. I was just getting after putting intention into action when a sharp rapping interrupted us. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jackson wave a “big brother” hand in front of the window. Emma flapped her hand at him in a go away gesture until the window went vacant. “You wanna jump?” I asked, wondering how many moments would pass us by before the powers that be stopped wasting them on us. I untied my shoes and tossed them where hers were scattered in the center of the yard. Pausing once she had hoisted herself over the springs, she glanced at me before running her eyes down her length. Mine had no issues in following. “Sorry, but girls in shelf bras and wispy skirts don’t bounce on trampolines. At least, not ones who don’t spend their nights working for tips.” The heat was too instant and too intense, so I knew it had to be diffusing over my face. “Blushing,” she said, surveying me. “I didn’t take you for the blushing kind. Red’s a good color on you.” Looking for a distraction, I launched onto the trampoline in one leap, bumping into her not by accident. “So what did you have in mind then? If it doesn’t involve using a trampoline to bounce on. I don’t know why I’d be so foolish to make such a suggestion.” She let me hold the non-existent space between us, our bodies rocking against each other as the vibrations of my cannon-ball jump evaporated. Without warning, she crashed down on the trampoline, stretching out her legs and crossing her arms behind her

head. “I was thinking we could get a little perspective for awhile,” she said, her eyes bouncing between the stars. “I’ll provide the location.” I took a giant leap, going supine in the air before crashing down beside her. We’d be feeling the aftershocks of the jump for awhile. “And I’ll provide the sparkling conversation,” I said, adjusting my body when it popped up so I’d land shoulder to shoulder with her. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” The trampoline quieted beneath us. I wished my heart could have followed suit. “I’m waiting for you to wow me with your vast knowledge of the cosmos,” Emma said at last. “Sorry if my continued silence didn’t make that clear.” I pretzeled my arms behind my neck, my elbow overlapping hers. “Forgive me. I’ve never been good at reading minds. Let me clarify. I’ve never been good at reading your mind.” “And you have no problem reading everyone else’s mind, is that what you’re saying?” “Pretty much. A woman’s mind is a tough nut to crack, although not impossible, but we men are simple creatures who only have one of three things on our mind at any given time,” I said, feeling like I was about to betray some code we kept secret so the women wouldn’t use it against us. “Once you realize that, all you have to do is inspect the eyes and you can tell with one hundred percent accuracy what he’s thinking.” “The eyes,” she said like she didn’t believe it. “They are the windows to the soul, you know?” I said, bouncing her elbow below mine. “I’ll give you the knowledge —you test it to see if it’s true. So if a man has those wide, kind of manic, kind of desperate eyes, he’s hungry. If he has sunken, glazed over eyes, he’s tired,” I continued, realizing how pathetically predictable we are when I verbalized it to a woman. “And if he has that partially narrowed, pupils dilated, tortured look in his eyes, he needs, wants, or desires sex.” “Wow,” Emma breathed. “You men never left your

caveman roots behind.” Nodding my head, I said, “Sad, but true. Don’t get me wrong though, there are varying degrees of those three male essentials.” “How evolved of you,” Emma said, nudging closer to me. Unlike me, she didn’t try to disguise it. “Now that you’ve got me convinced that we’ve got nothing more than a band of suit wearing monkeys running the country, why don’t you get back to telling me everything you know about the stars?” “I’m afraid our conversation would end in about five seconds flat,” I admitted. “If you want an astronomy lesson, you want to talk to my brother William. He’s the modern renaissance man you women love, but he’s good looking too—I mean, he’s my brother, so he’d have to be—so that combo makes him irresistible.” Was that a sour ring I just detected in my voice? “I can get him on the phone, provided he has cell reception wherever he is in the world, and you can ask him any star related question you like and he’ll give you a full and informative answer.” The sourness in my words wasn’t because I knew William was a better man than me, it was because I wanted to be the best man I could for Emma. I wanted to be as good as William because that’s what she deserved. “Thanks, but I’m good with the present company,” she said, settling her head in the triangle of my arm. I didn’t dare look over for fear of confirming it wasn’t really her head resting in my arm, but a figment of my colorful imagination. “Do you mind?” she asked suddenly, when I stayed quiet, tensed and fumbling for words. “Of course not,” I said immediately. “My arm, along with any other piece of me you need, is at your beck and call.” My eyes squeezed shut when I realized what I’d said and how it could be construed, especially coming from someone who’d just admitted men had one of three things on their mind. Real smooth, Patrick. Way to pave the path with romance. “Thanks,” she said, missing, or ignoring, the double meaning. “Sometimes it’s just nice to be close to someone for the sake of comfort. No expectations, no assumptions,

no sense of give and take.” She sighed, like she was preparing to say something else, but nothing else came, so I bridged the silence. “Your mom seems nice,” I said, because I couldn’t think of any other way to describe Mrs. Scarlett, and she had to be pretty great to raise a woman like Emma. “Yeah,”—another heavy sigh—“I suppose that’s a politically correct way of saying she’s . . . unusual.” “Has she always been so quiet?” I asked, chancing a look over at her. She was looking at me, her head curved into the slopes of my arm, her expression tight like there was an internal debate waging war deep inside. “As long as any of us can remember. Although when we were younger and needed fed and bathed and such, she was a tad more attentive. Thankfully.” Her eyes stayed on mine as the lines of her face flattened, indicating some side had won the internal feud. “Before she had any of us, she was class president, homecoming queen, valedictorian—the world was at her fingertips, she had only to choose which fairy tale life she wanted.” The Mrs. Scarlett I’d met and the be-all-you-can-be version Emma was describing didn’t compute. I couldn’t imagine what could take the life out of a woman previously bursting with it. In fact, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know, so of course I had to ask. “What happened to her?” A pause, and then a clipped response. “My dad.” “Your dad?” I repeated, really not wanting to go deeper into this tunnel, but I couldn’t let Emma fall alone. “He was . . . is if he’s still alive, a violent man. I don’t remember a single dinner without his palm, fist, or boot connecting with some piece of my mom.” Emma was talking more like a robot than a human, her expression just as stilted. “He split after he put her in the hospital the third time and there was really no way to blame the visible size twelve tread stamped all over her body on another fall down the stairs.” I was able to trap the shudder before it ran its course down my back so, to keep another one from surfacing, I

rolled onto my side and looped my other arm across Emma. The last thing on my mind was what she would think, or what her brothers would if they saw, or if it was appropriate, or any of the hundred other things I could have been worrying about. I did it because it felt right. I didn’t know any other way to comfort this kind of pain than with a physical embrace. Instead of stiffening against my hold, she melted into it, her body melding into mine. Weaving her fingers through mine, she closed her eyes. “I don’t have a single fond memory of my father.” That was the saddest thing I’d heard in a long time. My father, as removed as he could be, had left me with a dresser full of fond memories. Emma’s father had left her with none. Her dad had hit her mom. Her dad had hit her mom . . . “Did he ever hit you?” I said, trying not to snarl, although I knew I failed. If he had, I didn’t care where he was or if, when I did find him, he was a blind mute confined to a wheelchair. I was going to beat him within an inch of his sorry life. “No, but he did hit the boys every now and then, although I’m sure he would have hit me too when I got older,” she said, her voice fading back from robot to human. “If a man’s conscience allows him to hit a woman, it won’t stop him from hitting a little girl.” I wanted to hit something. I needed to hit something. I knew responding to violence with violence wasn’t the answer, but until another option presented itself, I was going to keep my fists curled at the ready for the next thing that presented itself to me to beat. I needed something, her father preferably, to be the outlet for my surge of anger. “So dear ol’ dad left, mom did all she was capable of, and the boys and I worked our butts off at everything we did. It was the only way we knew we’d be able to break the cycle.” Her fingers worked against mine, kneading the tension of them away one by one. “I know, I know. We sound like some Oprah Christmas charity special, but you know what I’d ask for if someone said they’d give me anything I wanted?” she asked, tilting her head back

towards mine. “Normalcy. Everyone cringes when they hear the word normal, but to me, normal sounds perfectly dreamy.” I’d been one of those people. The ones that curled their nose at the normal anything. But I’d never look at the norm again without remembering this conversation. Without recalling the way Emma’s face twisted when she’d bared her soul to me. How normal was a beautiful thing for someone who’d never had a stitch of it to cling to when their world was falling apart around them. When their world had never been put together properly in the first place. Emma wanted normal. After everything, it was what she deserved. It was the one thing I couldn’t give her. Nothing about my life was normal, other than the image of a college student I was attempting to convey, and honestly, nothing had been exceptionally normal about my life before I’d found myself on the other side of infinite. How could I deny her a life of predictability, mornings of toast and coffee, evenings of walks around the park after dinner, weekends of dinner and movie dates, when the promise of these instances in the future got her through the shadows and trap doors of her past? I couldn’t. If I really cared for her, which I knew with every molecule of my makeup I did, I had to want what was best for her. And who knew what was best for her other than Emma? Realizing I could not be any part of the normal future Emma craved was as simple as a game of fill in the blanks. A regular day in my life pre-college tour had included finding myself in several continents by day’s end, often near enemy lines, and in between foreign dates with death, I trained newbie Immortals in the arts of combat. I couldn’t imagine a less normal life. Predictability for me was waiting for a summons from the Council or running in the opposite direction of those chasing me, metaphorically speaking. There was no place for me to fit in the life Emma wanted for herself. A bullet to my gut would have been more pleasant than the ache pulsing from there now. I would know too. A bullet had ended my not-so normal life and been the catalyst for

my not-even-close-to normal life. Knowing I’d wandered too far and long down the dark paths of my mind, I forced myself to resurface, not wanting to leave Emma alone with the memories she’d let out into the open. Hoping I wouldn’t sound or look like a man who’d just lost a woman, I said, “I’m so sorry, Emma. That’s a sucky, sucky thing to go through.” My arms tightened around her. I might have accepted I wasn’t a part of her future, but that didn’t mean I was ready to let go just now. “I didn’t tell you that so you’d feel bad for me,” she said, her eyes shifting over the stars. “I told you so you’d better understand me. Why I am the way I am. Why I’m such a hard nose when it comes to staying on the straight and narrow. I don’t have a net to catch me if I fall. If I fail, I become my mom,” she said, her voice whisper-like. “That’s why I’ve been so hard on you. You’re something of a wild card, and I don’t have the luxury of those in my life.” I thought about her roommate and boyfriend and wondered how I got classified as the wild card above them, but she was right. Her instincts served her well in that I quite possibly would have been the wild card of her life if she’d let me into her life the way I wanted to enter it. But, the big but again, just because I was willing to accept I couldn’t make Emma happy in her quest for a life of the norm, I wasn’t going to rest until she’d dumped that life-sucking leech of a boyfriend in the dumpster with the rest of the trash. A flash of last night, me straddling his shoulders while I made good work of turning his face into mincemeat, wiggled its way into my conscious. Me, the Immortal hulk, beating a helpless man—a man she loved, misplaced or not—while she watched. “Oh my gosh, Em,” I breathed, wondering how pale my face had blanched. “Last night . . . I’m so sorry. You must have seen your father in me when I was going all ape on your boyfriend.” I wanted to punch myself a few times. In fact, I would later on when she didn’t have to witness any more of my violence seeping through. “I’m sorry, so, so, so . . .”

Her hand molded over my cheek before tilting it until I was forced to look her in the eye. My face was a mess, I didn’t want to imagine how contorted and colorless it was, but hers was peaceful. Peaceful like a late spring day lounging down by the river my brothers and I fished at in Montana. Peaceful like I’d never seen it. Somewhere, in the chaos of revealing her past to me, she’d found a peace I hadn’t after centuries of searching for it. I wanted that face imbedded on Emma forever. But I was a realist, most days, and knew that look was meant for girls with pristine pasts and flawless futures. “It’s all right, Patrick,” she said, the warmth of her hand radiating through me. “Don’t be sorry. Ty and his guys deserved to get their butts kicked after what they did and said last night.” And now, to make this picture of her more unearthly, a breeze shifted our way, swirling the short layers of hair around her face. I was good as falling off the wagon after seeing her this way tonight and realizing I wouldn’t be seeing her this way every night forward. “I’m not against self defense or a good old fashioned case of teaching someone some respect because my daddy beat my mommy. Ty deserved it,” she said, her eyes inviting me closer. “Don’t be sorry. I’m not.” Before I could translate why they were inviting me closer, the invitation was revoked. As batty I was becoming, I could have been imagining it. “Although, after watching you win a fight against a guy who never even got a hit in and, mind you, this is a guy known for never losing the bi-weekly fights he likes to find himself in,” she said, sliding her hand off my cheek, “evidence is mounting that you’re a government trained super spy assassin.” Her tone was light, but a heaviness of truth countered it. So she’d arrived at the conclusion I was something else, something not quite the same as the rest of them. One of these things is not like the other . . . It should have been the first clue that I needed to do a better job of blending in or else perform a full scale disappearing act in order to keep the truth of what I was

under wraps. Instead, I found myself relieved she’d concluded of her own volition I was something different. “But you have to promise me, promise me promise me,” she said, arching a brow, “that you’ll never do that again. Ty and his family don’t take well to being humiliated and have something of a reputation for making people’s lives hell if someone crosses them. No matter what he says or does, you have to just walk away the next time,” she said, while I bit my tongue to stay quiet. “Don’t ruin everything you’ve worked for.” “Yeah, I’m not going to be able to make that promise,” I said, rolling my neck side to side. “Promise,” she said, not about to concede. I could convince most any woman of just about anything. Why, when I’d found the one, was that priceless gift taking a hiatus? “Okay, how ‘bout this? I’ll promise I’ll try—” “Promise,” she said, grabbing my shirt and tugging. If she kept that up, I’d promise anything she wanted. “Fine,” I grumbled, feeling like the worst kind of pushover. “And for the record, it doesn’t take a pro to beat a few stumbling drunk guys,” I said with a big deal face. “Speaking of Mr. Wonderful . . . remind me again why you’re with him?” She wasn’t expecting this abrupt turn in conversation, that was evident from every stiffening of her body possible. The peaceful face evaporated into the wind, making my heart ache something fierce. I would give anything to have that face back, but not before I made her see reason that life with Ty was a one way street to the town of dismal. Her lips locked in silence, her eyes narrowing to a spot just behind me. “Come on, Emma. He’s got possessive, future abusive husband written all over his elitist, smug-faced file.” That was the tipping point. I was expecting a slap, but what she hit me with was worse. She snapped free of my arms and was off the trampoline and jogging across the lawn before I could miss the heat of her body beside mine. So I wanted her to see reason, but this wasn’t the way I wanted to end the night. “Emma!” I called after her. “Wait. Come on, wait up.” I lengthened my stride to catch her,

grabbing her by the arm and twisting her towards me. She didn’t have the face of infuriation I’d anticipated. Instead, it looked close to tears. All it would take was one more insensitive word from me to make the pools forming in the corners of her eyes to spill. I’d wanted her to see reason—I hadn’t wanted her to cry. I was an ass. “Please forgive what I said,” I rushed, holding my hands over her arms because I couldn’t bear to watch her run away from me again. “It was insensitive, and uncalled for—” “And a really crummy thing to say,” she interrupted, sounding like a little girl trying to sound brave. That’s what she was right now, a little girl trying to be brave in the face of her past demons come to haunt her again. “I know I’m making a pattern of this, and I promise I’ll try not to make it a hardcore habit, but,”—I tilted her chin up, wiping away the tear before it released—“forgive me?” “You’re an idiot,” she added, her shoulders unfurling from their curled forward position. I smiled—the Emma I loved was coming back. “I’ve got the t-shirt.” She smiled at the ground, wiping a hand over her nose before looking up. “If you want to continue on with what was a perfect date before you brought up an off-limit topic, you have to promise not to mention Ty’s and my relationship again.” Now this was an ultimatum. “Ty who?” I said, feeling kind of wicked for skirting the whole promising thing. I made her a promise I wouldn’t make a be-all-end-all promise to her if I couldn’t know with absolute certainty I could keep it. This was one promise I knew I couldn’t keep. “Good answer,” she said, retrieving her sandals and sliding them back on. “You like coconut cream pie?” This was why I loved her—well, one of the reasons why. Going against centuries of genetic code flowing through her, Emma might have been the one woman on earth who could get into a spat with a man, forgive him a minute later, and forget it two seconds after that. I didn’t want to tell her, but it wasn’t normal, in a very good way. “I lust after it,” I said as I slipped into my own shoes.

Shaking her head at me, she headed for the back door. “Come on, Prince Charming. Pie’s a waitin’.” “You think I’m charming?” I called after her, jogging again to catch up. Looking at me over her shoulder, she said, “Can anyone stay mad at you?” I didn’t have to think about it before answering honestly, “No. At least not longer than a few hours.” “Of course not,” she said, nudging me. “I wish I could figure out a way.” There were about a million and a half things I wanted to say, and twice that many things I needed to get off my chest, but Emma was hell bent on getting coconut cream pie, and I knew better than to get in the way of a woman seeking sugar. The next thing I heard was a shout, followed by the shuffling of chairs and feet. I lunged into the kitchen, ready for anything. Anything happened to be Emma charging around the table after two of her brothers. Where the other two were, I didn’t know. But it was clear they were the smart ones. “You ate the whole thing!” she hollered, making a lunge at Austin, but he swooped to the side at the last minute. “We have a guest and you brutes can’t save one piece?” Now this was something that would have been on my life list had I known it existed. Emma Scarlett chasing down her linebacker sized brothers, to inflict what kind of damage if she caught them I couldn’t guess at, because they’d chowed down on pie. I knew it would infuriate her, but I couldn’t help it. I didn’t even try to tame the laughter that erupted from me, and she didn’t make any attempts to tame the glare she shot me as the trio made another circumnavigation of the table. “No,” Tex’s fake twang accent announced behind me, “we saved you a piece.” I saw the slice of extra creamy cream pie arching at me, zeroing in on my face, but I didn’t take what I was viewing and translate into something useful. Like ducking. The raucous of the room diminished, it was dead silent,

right before a quartet of laughter exploded. A round of highfiving and back slapping ensued, but I didn’t see it. My eyes were glued shut by whipped cream and humility. I’d finally found an adversary that could attack in the midst of my surprise. And it was a piece of pie. A delicious piece of pie at that, I clarified as I licked my lips clean. “I am officially an only child as of right now,” Emma yelled, the sounds of a wet towel snapping against flesh taking over. “I disown every last one of you.” She must have flicked the room free of pie throwing brothers because the room became silent again. “Oh my gosh,” she said, her footsteps rushing my way. “I’m so sorry, Patrick.” Her weapon slash dishrag ran over my eyes. “Why?” I said, fluttering my cream coated eyelashes open. “We got the last piece of pie.” Running my finger down my cheek, I held it in front of her. “Want a bite?” Turning the dishtowel around, she wiped my nose clean. “Are you always this go with the flow? Unpestered by anything?” she asked, licking the dollop of whipped cream off the tip of my finger. “Go figure. Of course it would be the best coconut cream pie I’ve made to date,” she muttered to herself. I was lucky my words came out in the right order and the right language. “I try to be,” I answered her, heading over to the sink because I wasn’t sure I could recover from any more finger licking. “Some things are easier to be that way with than others.” “I wish I could be that way,” she said, leaning into the counter beside the sink where I splashed water over my face until the water ran clear. She handed me a clean towel when I lifted my dripping face. “I’m sorry. Again. They’re infantile, but I love them.” “It’s no biggie,” I said through the dishtowel. “They had to do what they could to intimidate me from making a move on you.” When I tossed the towel aside, I saw she was looking at me in that intent way she could, without conveying a single

emotion as to what she was feeling so intensely. “Were you planning on making a move on me?” she asked quietly. If it wasn’t obvious to her by now, it never would be, and perhaps, after recent revelations, that was for the best. “Hell, Emma,” I said, unable to look into those eyes any longer. “After everything, I’m going to have to plead the fifth on that one.” “Yeah,” she said, turning away and tossing the dirty towels to the side. “My favorite constitutional right, too.” There was something sad in her voice and she wasn’t trying to hide it, but I didn’t know where that sadness stemmed from. And if I didn’t know the root of it, I couldn’t fix it. I hated not being able to fix something. Opening the refrigerator door and investigating its next to non-existent contents, she said, “The guys are staying here tonight, but I can’t stand to spend the night here anymore.” She slammed the door closed again and turned to me empty handed. “Would you mind taking me home?” I tilted my head in the direction of the front door. “Let’s go.” She ducked out of the kitchen like it pained her to stay a moment longer. “Mom?” Emma said in the next room. “Patrick’s going to take me back to my room. It was good seeing you.” She paused, waiting for a reply that would never come. “Take care of yourself, okay?” Emma was tugging on her jacket when I rounded into the living room. Mrs. Scarlett was in the exact same place with the same dead face as when I’d arrived. I didn’t doubt if I came back in a few hours I’d find anything different. “Thanks for having me over, Mrs. Scarlett,” I said, kneeling beside her. “Let’s do it again soon, okay?” The screen door flapped shut, an empty patch of carpet where Emma had just been. She was in a hurry to leave, and she didn’t need to explain why. I leaned closer to Mrs. Scarlett’s petrified form, resting my hand over hers folded in her lap. “You don’t have to worry about her,” I whispered, checking over my shoulder to make sure Emma hadn’t reappeared. “I’ll take care of her.” I don’t know why I’d said it. I didn’t have a better reason

than it just felt right at the time, but while the words coming from me had been unexpected, the response it elicited from Mrs. Scarlett was unexpected on a whole other level. Her eyes flashed to mine, unblinking, watery eyes that paralyzed me. Her hand turned under mine, her fingers grasping mine in return. “I know you will,” she said, her voice as hoarse as you’d expect someone’s to be after a night of silence. “You’re one of the good ones.” A trembling hand lifted to my face. “Stay that way.” Her hand fell away, clenching back into her lap, at the same time her expression smoothed away. She was a zombie again, the lights of the television flashing like ghosts over her face. It could have been another lapse in reality, and I would have written off the whole transaction as such had it not been for the chill that was still prickling over my cheeks. “I will,” I vowed as I turned to leave. She didn’t hear it, I could tell that right away, but I hadn’t said it to reassure her. I’d said it to remind myself.

CHAPTER TWELVE

“Okay, I can’t take it any longer,” Emma shouted, her fingers punching at the Mustang’s CD player like she couldn’t turn it off quickly enough. “Mercy, mercy, mercy,” she hollered as the second chorus of We Built This City vibrated at top volume through the car. “Impressive,” I hollered over the music, fumbling around her spider fingers until I punched the disc skip button. “I didn’t even make it to the chorus the first time I heard that one.” When two minutes of awkward silence passed after we’d left the Scarlett house, I proposed a game of Hell on Wheels because I couldn’t take wasting any time I had with her in silence. It was a game devised by Joseph and me after about going mad three hours down an Oklahoma highway, facing another four more of the same, flat, scenic-impaired stretch. We loaded up a shopping cart of CDs that should have been a capital crime to record and took turns playing the most ear damaging songs known to man. There wasn’t a shortage. Whoever was the first to call mercy was a stinky tube sock. Juvenile, but fun. I kept the storage container of abominations in the car for long journeys or, in this case, long silences. Emma winced when the opening notes played on the next CD, her head slapping the headrest like it would keep her from yelling mercy longer. A ring interrupted the coup d’etat of butt rock ballads. Emma shot me a victorious smile as she fished through her purse for her phone. I punched the off button. “To be continued.” Emma made a slitting motion across her neck before answering. “Hey, Jules. I’m on my way—” The smile was sucked from Emma’s face. “He’s there now?” she whispered, gripping the arm rest. “Okay, okay. Tell him I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Julia’s voice raised a decibel, so I didn’t feel as guilty eavesdropping. “He’s drunk, Emma. Really drunk. Do not, and I repeat, do not come by here.” “Don’t be ridiculous.” Emma swallowed, glancing at me from the side. “I’m coming.” “Listen to me, Emma, you crazy lunatic,” Julia hissed over the phone before a pounding interrupted her in the background, accompanied by a male voice that was beyond pissed. “Dammit,” Julia hissed. “This crazy mo-fo is going to take down our door. I’d swear he’s on meth right now, Em.” “Okay, Jules, just yell at him through the door and tell him I’m two minutes away.” Emma was frantic now, no longer trying to play the whole thing cool for my sake. “Keep the door locked.” “Emma Marie Scarlett, listen to me!” Julia screamed so loudly I wanted to cover my ears. “Go to our favorite coffee shop downtown. Chill there, and when meth-head is done decimating our door, I’ll come pick you up. Think you can manage that?” Julia was too irritated to listen to Emma and Emma was too frantic to listen to Julia. I was going to have to be the voice of reason. Yes, that’s exactly what I just said. I snatched the phone from Emma’s ear. “Julia? It’s Patrick.” I gave Emma a warning look when she tried to pluck the phone away from me. “I’m taking Emma back to my place for the night. She’ll give you a call tomorrow to check in.” “What?!” Emma shouted, turning in her seat to glower at me. “I most certainly am not going back to your place with you.” Moving the phone from my mouth, I stared her down. “Yes,”—my voice was all edge—“you most certainly are. End of story.” Once I was satisfied she wasn’t going to throw herself from a moving vehicle or pull the steering wheel away from me, I moved the phone back into position. “Julia, listen to me,” I said, feeling exhausted. Trying and failing to calm two women at the same time was taking its toll on me. “Tell him you’ll call the cops if he doesn’t leave,

and if he doesn’t leave in ten seconds flat, call them. If he manages to bust in before the cops get there, grab the handy dandy baseball bat I saw hidden under your bed and use the opportunity to perfect your swing, slugger.” I smiled, just imaging Julia landing a bat in Ty’s gut. “Aim for the junk, but since it’s questionable he has anything there that would cause any damage”—I winked over at a cross armed Emma, who was crossing them tighter—“aim for the knees, stomach, or throat. Sound easy enough?” Julia chuckled as another round of pounding sounded in the background. “Thanks for the low down on self defense, but Ty knows better than to mess with me. He’s scared I’ll cast some kind of curse that will bestow an eternally flaccid penis on him,” she said, clucking her tongue. “He’s not as dumb as he looks.” This time it was my turn to laugh. “I’m afraid we’ll have to agree to disagree on that matter,” I said, sneaking a glance at Emma. Her unyielding glare snapped my eyes forward. “You good, Jules?” “Positively chipper cheery,” she said in a fake sugar voice. I was about to hang up when she said, “Hey, Hayward, in case you haven’t already, seize the moment.” She didn’t need to make any other clarification—I knew exactly what she was insinuating between the lines, and she knew I did too. “Good luck, my friend.” The phone went dead, but I didn’t lower it for a few seconds, trying to piece together something to say that wouldn’t set Emma off more than she already was. It wasn’t me, though, that ended up breaking the silence. “Patrick, I know you’re doing what you think is best,” Emma said, regulating her voice. “But I can’t go back to your place. I can’t,” she repeated, staring out the window. “Why not?” I asked. “I have utter faith Jules can take care of herself if Ty dares stumble through that door, I’ve got more than enough space at my place. You can have your own end of the house if you like. What’s the big deal?” “You know what the big deal is,” she said, all elusive and vague again, like I was a mind reader, but I could take an educated guess that the big deal included her going to my

place to spend the night while her boyfriend of six years waited for her outside her dorm room. On the surface, this was a juicy rumor that would hold the campus captive for a solid week. “Fine,” I relented, sighing. “I’ll take you back to your mom’s.” I zipped across three lanes, preparing to take the next exit. “But I am not taking you back to your dorm room.” “No,” she whispered urgently. “I can’t go back there. I don’t spend nights there anymore.” She paused, wringing the hem of her skirt in her hands. “Too many nightmares waiting for me when I fall asleep.” I closed my hand over her knee. “Okay, then we’ll head to my place. I promise I’ll be a perfect gentleman, and you can even call and invite your brothers to stay with us if you don’t believe me.” I meant it, but I really hoped she didn’t take me up on this offer. She let out a breath that was long and tortured, like there was no other outcome than a lose-lose situation here. “I feel helpless right now, Emma,” I admitted. “It’s not something I’m used to. Let me do something to help you. Please.” She examined me for a moment, like she was making one of the most critical decisions of her life. “Okay. Take me to your place.”

“So you live in Maverick’s Point. How appropriate,” Emma said as we cruised down the last few blocks before we’d be at my place. I was still convinced I was dreaming. She’d willingly agreed, after a push of encouragement from me, to come to my place. To spend the night. I didn’t care if we wound up on opposite ends of the house; we’d be under the same roof. I didn’t care that she’d only agreed to come here because she didn’t have any other option, and I didn’t care that she wasn’t my girlfriend, and I didn’t care that I swore I’d be on my most gentlemanly behavior, which wouldn’t result in a long, desperate kiss on the balcony that we’d both wake up to regret, her for one

reason and me for another. I only cared she was coming. She was here right now. With me. “And since I’m getting to know you so well, I’d wager the twenty dollar bill in my wallet that’s got to get me through two more weeks that you live in an oceanfront mansion with a butler to go with every room, a pinball machine in the foyer, and a Slurpee dispenser in both the kitchen and your full sized theatre room.” She looked over at me, a smug line curved into her mouth. “Actually, smarty-pants,” I said, turning onto my block. “Only one of your outlandish assumptions is correct.” Although in another week there would be a Slurpee machine in my kitchen. At present, it was sugary slush of heaven free. I pulled in the driveway and killed the engine. Even with the windows up, the sound of the waves thundering against the shore below made it seem we were only steps away from them. Which we pretty much were. “Oceanfront,” she stated, shaking her head. “It’s not because it’s the best,” I said, guessing at her thoughts. “It’s because it’s what I like.” “Yeah, you and every one of the other six billion people of the world,” she replied, tossing her door open. “But there’s a reason the world’s population doesn’t live at the beach.” “Sand in your shoes isn’t for everyone,” I said, keeping a straight face as I closed my door and came around the front of the car to her. Giving me a stern look, she said, “You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are.” “Don’t I know it,” I said, leading her up the walkway. Turning my head over my shoulder, I said, “I’m funnier.” She sighed, one of those never-ending ones that moms do a lot when they’re not sure what to do with their misbehaving toddler. “Wilkommen, fraulein,” I said, swinging the front door open for her. “Minha casa es tu casa.” “Wow, did you just welcome an unsuspecting, innocent young woman into your bachelor pad with a half German, half Spanish greeting?” she asked, shoving my stomach

when she passed by. “I don’t think that’s been done in the history of mustache twirling men attempting to lure a doeeyed virgin to their lair.” Of course I would hear one word in her rather lengthy insult. “Virgin?” My voice cracked. It cracked. It hadn’t even cracked during puberty. She froze to a stop. “Figuratively speaking,” she finally replied, waving a dismissive hand over her shoulder. I flicked on the lights, only because I knew this was included in the gentleman-like behavior clause I’d verbally signed a half hour ago. Doing a full spin in place, she looked up, down, and all around. “I guess it’s all right. Although it’s a downgrade from my super posh dorm room.” I tossed my keys into the bowl sitting beside the door, undoing the top couple buttons of my shirt. “My apologies, Miss. I’ll do my best to make you comfortable.” Her eyes narrowed at me, a hand creeping over her hip. Probably had to do with the sing-song voice in which I’d delivered that last comment. “And by comfortable,” I said, keeping my tone innuendo free, “I mean fresh towels, one thousand thread count sheets, and a mint on your pillow. I do not, and I emphasize, do not mean comfortable as in me dressing down to my speedo and massaging you with hot scented oils,”— another hand joined the other on her hips—“or dipping succulent strawberries in a vat of molten chocolate and lifting it to your lips while James Brown plays in the background.” I was grinning like the kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar and knew no amount of apologies would get him out of trouble. “That is, unless that’s what you’ve got in mind. I’ve got the speedo on right now, in fact,” I said, untucking my shirt and making a move for my fly. I would have stopped the act before any zippers moved south, but my internal radar suddenly detected an unidentified flying object coming straight for my . . . ahem . . . fly area. I caught it, no problem, but I didn’t catch the words that slipped from my mouth when I processed the trial sized

bottle of baby oil in my hand. “Hot damn,” I mumbled, stupefied for one of the few times in my life. Emma burst into laughter, her body curving around the laugh it hit so deep. “You should see your face right now,” she managed between the laughter explosion. “Gosh I’m so glad I keep that in my purse.” I shook my head, but that didn’t work. So I tried again, with more success. “You keep baby oil in your purse?” I said, turning the bottle over in my hands like it was a sacred artifact. “It’s a great moisturizer,” she said like it was common knowledge. “Of course it is,” I said, smiling tightly at her. “Now would you mind helping me find my jaw? It fell to the ground somewhere around here.” I prepared to toss the bottle back at her, hopes crushed, last hanging shred of dignity flying away into the wind of letdown, when she shook her hand at me. “Keep it,” she said, fighting the smile on her face. “As a souvenir.” I slid it into my side pants pocket. “I’ll treasure it forever,” I said, smirking at her as I patted my pocket. Fighting the battle to keep a straight face, she spun away from me and meandered around the room. It was nothing elaborate: a wall of windows facing the ocean, a few pieces of furniture purchased for their comfort and not their appearance or feng shui appeal, and an array of family photos situated at random places. “This is really great, Patrick,” Emma said. “Although I am surprised there aren’t halls labeled with the wings they lead to and a handful of staff waiting at the ready to bring you a strawberry topped funnel cake whenever the midnight craving should arrive.” I watched her navigate through the sprawling room and, while she didn’t blend in with the setting, she fit it. I’d never been able to quite figure out why the place had never had the warmth of a home until now. I wrote it off as being void of family and, a good majority of the time, void of me, but as a radiant warmth rolled over me, I had my answer.

It was because it was missing Emma. Okay, time to put the brakes on the philosophy bus before it time traveled its way back to Woodstock. There’d be no coming back from that free-loving acid trip. “I didn’t buy it because it was the best by hundred thousand square foot great rooms and marble covered mini-blinds standards,” I said, stepping around the kitchen island, which was, ironically, marble. “It appealed to me because it was the best for me. By my standards.” “Well, I’d hate to give your ego another boost in case it should explode and go all Chernobyl on us,” she said, grinning at me from the side as she picked a frame off the sofa table. “But I have to say I’m a big fan of your standards.” I turned my head, flicking my ear. “That couldn’t have been what I just heard.” “A compliment?” she provided, nodding her head once. “Yes, I’m afraid that’s what it was, but I had a long day and an even longer night,”—for the first time since we’d entered the house, a touch of darkness targeted her face—“and I’m too tired to keep this game of wits going with you.” “So I guess that’s a no for a campfire on the beach tonight?” I said, teasing, but not if she would have said yes. Although I knew from the hollows darkening beneath her eyes she wouldn’t. “Rain check?” she asked, settling the frame back into its place. “Absolutely,” I said. “They’re calling for meteor showers and clear skies tomorrow night.” “Tomorrow night?” she said, arching a brow at me. “I agreed to stay for one night. Who says I’m staying two?” Another school boy smile. “You will,” I said simply. “You just don’t know it yet.” Her mouth popped open, a rebuke dying to make its way over to me and then her lips closed. “Too late. Too tired,” she said. “I’ll look forward to peppering you with snarky comments first thing in the morning.” “Now there’s a reason to pop out of bed in the morning,” I replied, heading down one of the two hallways in the house, the one opposite the hallway leading to my

bedroom. Most of the time, I really hated chivalry. “Come on,” I said, tilting my head for her to follow. “Let’s get you to sleep.” “I’m thinking this couch looks pretty sleep-worthy,” she said, patting the oversized pillows as she followed behind me. “Just toss me a blanket and I’m in heaven in about two seconds.” “You’re not sleeping on the couch,” I said, thinking it strange that a couch could look so welcoming to her. “And it will be a distant memory when you experience the perfection that is a memory foam mattress. Plus, there’s like fifty feather pillows stacked on this thing for some reason. Making the bed in the morning will be a serious chore.” Ducking into the laundry room, I grabbed one of my folded undershirts and a pair of linen pajama pants. “It was nice knowing you, couch,” I heard her say around a yawn, “but I’m trading you in for a nicer model.” She was already turning the corner into the room I had in mind when I popped out of the laundry room. She braced herself in the doorway. “If this is a guest bedroom,” she said, her mouth dropping open for a moment, “I don’t want to see your bedroom.” “My bedroom’s nothing special,” I said, burying my shoulder into the wall. And it wasn’t, not when I knew what was now missing from it. “Here,” I said, remembering the garments in my hands. “They’ll be five sizes too big, but they’re clean. Even spring fresh from the fabric softener.” I laughed—nervously. I didn’t know I was capable of that kind of laugh. “Okay, I’ve seen it all,” she said, reaching for the tee and pants. “A man who folds his laundry and who knows what fabric softener is.” I lifted a shoulder. “My mother raised her sons to be wellrounded individuals.” And she had, although laundry had consisted of wash basins, metal boards, and soap so strong it left your hands red for a week in her time. “She did a good job,” Emma said, facing back into the room.

We stayed this way for another minute, her inspecting the room like it wasn’t real, me inspecting her in the same way, before she looked over at me. Her eyes were too shiny to only be sleepy. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m sorry I fought you on this, I’m sorry I was such a brat earlier, and I’m sorry you ended up having to deal with this tonight”—I’d held up my hand at the first sorry, indicating she didn’t need to go on, but she ignored me as normal—“but this is exactly what I needed tonight.” She didn’t look back into the room, or down the hall, or to the floor like she did so much of the time. She looked into my eyes without blinking. I held her stare until she finally looked away. “Me too.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN That night, I didn’t sleep. Yet again. Although this time it was a conscious choice because I had a few errands of the Emma variety to run. Even after I’d made it back though, I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t even try because, after everything, Emma Scarlett was here with me. Asleep in one of my rooms. Not even the reminders that it was due to extenuating circumstances and she was still another man’s girl could dampen my mood. Through a hallway of rooms, a great room, and another hallway of rooms, I thought I could make out the lazy trill of her heart over the ocean erupting below us, but I knew even with my enhanced hearing that was a stretch. Midway into the night, through the thoughts of Emma only rooms away, the nagging reminder of what Emma had said earlier and how I would come up empty handed in the normal department for her was starting to put a serious damper on my mood. The way her forehead had lined when she’d said it, I knew normal was non-negotiable in her future husband book, probably sandwiched between breathing and vertical. I wasn’t fool enough to believe I could ever live a normal life, but I could try to shift my normal meter more towards the other end, although even if I made drastic changes, the best I could give her as an Immortal bound by duty and eternity was semi-normal. Semi semi-normal. But I’d do it, even if it felt like both the world I was a member of and the world of hers I wanted to be a part of never felt in harmony with one another. Harmony was a small thing to exchange to be with Emma. So I was all copacetic with the semi to the second degree normal, but would she be? Would a quarter of the life she wanted be acceptable if she wanted to be with me, which I was more confused about than ever? One minute, she showed all the right signs of attraction: avoiding eye contact, pink flushed cheeks, the pulse point in her throat quickening when I moved closer, the smiles

that formed a bit too slow, like she knew she should be fighting them, but couldn’t. These were all solid indicators that Emma was perhaps, hopefully, maybe digging on me, but there were just as many and, if I forced myself to be honest, even more signs of tell tale disdain that came my way: narrowed eyes, so many cold shoulders my face was frost bitten, avoidance eighty percent of the time, and flinching away from my touch more often than accepting it. I didn’t know whether I was up or down on the Emma front, but I could wait it out until I knew for sure. Emma was the kind of woman men spent their lives waiting for. So, wherever we were, I was happy to be there. Especially since, at present, it happened to be Emma and me under the same roof. The yellow morning light was creeping its way up my wall when I burst off of my still made bed with a renewed mission to do everything I could to be a guy worthy of Emma in the most normal way I could manage. Item number one to scratch off on that list—make breakfast. French toast was hitting golden perfection when I heard the pitter patter of little Emma feet coming behind me. I grinned into the sizzling fry pan. “So you don’t only know what fabric softener is, you can cook breakfast too?” Her voice was happy, light from a good night’s sleep. Sliding a spatula under a piece of bread, I flipped it a few inches shy of the ceiling. “Oh, I can cook breakfast,” I said, fetching a plate as I spun around, still having a foot to spare before the toast flopped to a stop on the plate. “Good morning.” I smiled at her, sliding the plate in front of a breakfast stool. “Good morning,” she replied, eyeing the plate with eyes I wore most of the time. So starving I’m going to start gnawing on my arm if I don’t get some sustenance eyes. “Dig in,” I said, waving at the plate as I settled another plate heaping with two loaves worth of French toast next to her. “I think I made enough.” “I think you did,” she said, laughing as she slid into the chair. “Unless you invited the rest of California for breakfast.”

“Syrup?” I asked, tilting it over her plate. “Absolutely.” I poured until a pool of syrup had crept to the rim of the plate. “I wasn’t sure what you like to drink but I’ve got coffee, tea, juice—” “Milk?” she said. “Excellent choice, mademoiselle,” I said, skidding across the kitchen floor towards the refrigerator. After filling her cup to the rim, I poured myself a glass and lifted it to my lips. She was sitting there, unmoving, looking at the breakfast before her like it was a puzzle that required figuring out before it could be enjoyed. “You eat it,” I said, setting my milk down. “You shovel it in your mouth in unladylike quantities until your stomach can’t hold another bite. And then you give high praise to the chef.” Her mouth lifted and she reached for her fork. “I’m not used to being the one waited on. I haven’t had someone make a meal for me, not including the cafeteria or a personal chef, in . . .” her fork stilled above her plate, her forehead lining, “thirteen years,” she said, and I half expected her to add the number of months, days, and hours from the certainty she’d said it with. “Can you believe that?” No, I couldn’t. Especially since that meant she’d been making breakfast, lunch, and dinner for herself and, knowing her, her brothers too, since she was a first-grader. Cutting a chunk with the side of her fork, she spun it around in the syrup and lifted it to her mouth. “I’m going to enjoy this.” She winked at me as she took her bite. I lifted my hands and took a step back. “Don’t let me interfere,” I said, tidying the kitchen to distract myself. “This is amazing, Patrick,” she said around another bite. “Are you sure you don’t have a chef locked in one of those cupboards?” I tossed some utensils in the dishwasher. “I’m positive there are no chefs, butlers, or anything of the sort around.” “What about of the female sort?” Emma asked, her fork pausing above her plate. “Um, no,” I replied, confused. “Why?” She waved her fork around the room. “All this,” she said,

pointing her fork at me. “All you,”—her eyes looked away from me—“this kind of package deal doesn’t stay on the market. Unless it’s by choice,” she added, looking back at me. “It isn’t by choice,” I said, closing the dishwasher. With this turn in conversation, I didn’t need a distraction. “At least it isn’t anymore.” “But it used to be,” she guessed. I nodded. “It did.” “All those girls, how many have you loved?” Honesty, I reminded myself, before answering, “Just one.” The words tasted tart in my mouth, but less bitter and more sweet. Like a memory that was as fond as it was painful because it’s brought me to that point. To that point in life that matters. “And what happened?” she asked, looking just over my shoulder. “Did you break her heart?” That was the first time I’d really allowed myself to think about it, the first time I’d openly talked about it, but time had done me justice. The scar was healing, but still tender enough to remind me what I’d endured, what I’d lost, so hopefully, I wouldn’t make the same mistake again. “Other way around,” I said, tapping my fist against the counter. “There’s a story there,” she said, watching my pulsing fist. I nodded. “Care to share it?” Maybe one day, but not today. “Not right now, at least not all the gory details, but I will say that now I’ve tasted love. The real kind,” I said, making no mistake about looking intentional as I looked at her. “I’m ruined for it.” She smiled a ghost of a smile. “So what happens the next time you fall in love?” I stared at her until she acknowledged me. When she did, I held her eyes to mine and answered, “I’m marrying her.” She was the first to look away, distracting herself with her French toast. “Well I’m sure she’s sorry she let you get away, Patrick. I’m sure she regrets it.” She lifted her fork

and dug into another bite. “Nah,” I said. “She ended up with a better man than me. She might regret hurting me, but she doesn’t regret losing me.” That verbalized truth stabbed me in the side— honesty was a painful thing. “Well I would,” Emma said, staring at her glass of milk. “I’d regret it if I let a guy like you get away.” Was this one of those signs, the good ones, that I needed to pick up on and run with? “You would?” was my profound response. “I’m stuffed,” she said, bulldozing over my question and hope as she shoved off the counter to a stand. “Thank you for the best meal I’ve had made for me in over a decade.” “You mean the only meal you’ve had made for you in over a decade?” She responded to my question with a smile. “What’s on the agenda for today?” “The world is your playground,” I said, reaching my arms wide. “Consider me your genie in a bottle. I won’t even hold you to the three wish rule.” She looked out the windows, where the waves were astormin’ and it was still early enough the mass of high school boys I competed for waves with would be asleep for another couple hours. Opportunities didn’t get any better for a guy who bled salt water and board wax, I knew this, but it held no sway over me. My sway had shifted to a woman with a look of concentration on her face, her index finger tapping her chin. “So,” I said, clapping my hands together. “What will it be?” Planting her finger over her chin, she spun my direction. “I want to lounge on the beach this morning, and by lounge I mean my only physical undertaking will be flipping from front to back, no games of Frisbee, no building a sandcastle, no beach volleyball,” she said, knowing me too well. “Lounge,” she reiterated. “And I’ll go from there. Who knows, maybe this afternoon I’ll feel ambitious enough to take a leisurely walk down the beach.” “Done,” I said, grabbing her empty plate and sliding it into the dishwasher. “Should we go get changed and meet

back here in T minus ten?” “Government super assassin, for sure,” she said. “Who talks like that other than someone with a license to kill?” “Uh, awesome people,” I said, lifting my hands at my sides. “Sure.” She winked, making an okay sign with her hand. I rolled my eyes, slamming the dishwasher door closed as she turned to head back to her bedroom. “Em, hold up!” I shouted down at her. She spun around, raising her hands in surrender. “Don’t shoot.” I gave her a really look. “For someone who possesses such wit, you have a terrible sense of humor.” Running to the front door, I grabbed the myriad of bags overtaking the walkway. “I picked you up a few things to make your stay at Casa de Patrick more comfortable,” I said, balancing the dozen bags between both arms as I turned the corner of the hallway. “I knew you didn’t have any of your own stuff and you girls don’t exactly pack light, so . . .” She was shock silent, staring at me like I was the bearded lady. “What?” I asked, checking to make sure everything that should be covered was still that way. “You picked up a few things?” she said, her eyes wide. “Okay, so maybe it’s more than just a few, but that’s how it started out. I thought I’d get you a toothbrush, toothpaste, some deodorant, that kind of thing,” I said, fumbling for words. I’d gone to six different stores at the crack of dawn to find just the right lip balm because I was falling in love with her. I was smart enough, or coward enough, not to admit this in my justification. “But then a few things turned in to a few hundred. I know how you girls are when you pack. It’s like your motto is expect the worse and pack accordingly.” She wasn’t saying anything and I was getting all selfconscious standing in the hallway with an armload of girlie things, so I passed by her to drop the bags on her bed. She followed behind me, still eyeing me like I was unstable. “All right,”—I clapped my hands, rocking on my heels —“I’ll see you in a few.”

“Princess gummy vitamins?” she said, pulling a box from the top of one of the bags. Grinning at me, she turned to another bag. “A Clinique three step skin care kit?” she said, shuffling deeper. “Perfume with a name I can’t pronounce, but in the prettiest bottle I’ve ever seen?” Now she really started tearing through the bag, like it was Christmas morning. “A Chi flatiron? A cashmere bathrobe? Ugg slippers?” Now the dubious questions were turning into something that more resembled shrieks. Pulling a white box out, she hung it in front of my face. “This was your idea of a toothbrush?” “You’re Stanford’s star volleyball player,” I said, making an innocent face. “I couldn’t risk you having an elbow injury from manual toothbrush overuse. It’s a long road to recovery from there that’s left more than one Ivy League athlete camped on a corner begging for change.” She shoved at me playfully, putting the Sonicare toothbrush aside, before going to the next bag. “Oh my gosh, Patrick,” she said, pulling out the oversized rectangular box. “This is a laptop. An expensive one.” She stared at it like it wasn’t real or as if it was about to vanish. “Correct you are,” I said, hoping I sounded as chill as I didn’t feel. “Now before you tear into me, I want to build the case in my defense first.” Looking at her, where her eyes were still glued to the box, I added, “Think you can manage that?” Her head bobbed once. “So I noticed you’re a fan of the spiral ring notebook, and I respect your deference for note taking methods that date back to the crustaceous period.” Her face didn’t change, my attempts at humor wasted. “If you’re a hardcore paper and pen note taking junkie, then just sell the thing and blow the money on a lifetime supply of notebooks. But if you’re not a member of the anti-technology movement and have been laptop-less due to . . .”—how did I say this without sounding like an ass?—“being economically impaired at this time in your life”—mission failed, I sounded like a total ass—“then maybe you can give it a whirl. Plus, my selfishness of wanting my partner to have the best so we

could get the best grade factored into the purchase.” She still didn’t look up, but she hadn’t bought my explanation of epic failure. Placing the box down on the mattress, she crawled off the bed and paused in front of me. I was just bracing myself for a slap when she wrapped her arms around me, folding me into a hug I wouldn’t forget anytime soon. “Thank you,” she breathed into my chest. “I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you for everything,”—her head shook against me—“but I will. Promise.” I worked my arms free, folding them around her. “I didn’t pick this stuff up with the expectation of anything in return.” “I don’t care,” she said. “Someday, some way, I’ll pay back your kindness and generosity with the same.” “Sounds like something to look forward to,” I said as she gave me a final squeeze before grabbing her toothbrush and heading for the bathroom. “Happy motorized brushing.” Grinning at me, she disappeared behind the bathroom door.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN “How’s this?” I asked, holding my cooler, blanket, beach bag, and umbrella laden arms as wide as they’d go in front of an unoccupied piece of beach. She lowered her new sunglasses. “I’ll take it.” “Good,” I said, dropping my arms and the rest of the beach paraphernalia. “Because my arms can’t take anymore.” She spun a slow revolution, taking in the scene, the few lines she normally wore on her face wiped clean. I’d just ironed out the last wrinkle in the beach blanket when she plopped down, spread her limbs out as wide as they’d go, and let out a long sigh. I watched her, waiting for something else, making a move for a magazine to flip through, or a water bottle to sip, or the sunscreen to apply, but a fresh corpse created more movement than Emma did. “So this is it?” I asked, motioning at her. “Lounging?” It was a concept I wasn’t familiar with. I was restless by nature and busy by existence. If I had a day to myself on the beach, I was riding the waves until they grew tired of me and stopped cooperating. I didn’t “lounge.” She patted the space beside her. “Prepare to experience utopia.” I looked at the water, where I swear I saw a wave twice the size of the rest rise to tempt me, and then down the shoreline where I’d run a half marathon down and back daily because it was fun, and then I looked down at Emma. The spot her hand rested over was the spot she meant for me to possess. A spot beside her. A grain of sand didn’t have time to drop through the hourglass before I was stretching out beside her, turning my head so if I couldn’t do anything else, I could at least watch her. “Utopia, here I come,” I said, finding the heaviness of sleep ensnaring me one moment, and the next I was . . .

“Patrick?” a voice said outside my ear as a gentle hand rocked my arm. “Hmmm?” was my intelligent, fully alert response. A sun freckled face was smiling above me when I opened my eyes. I was certain, betting my life on it certain, that I’d never awoken to a more beautiful sight. “Many happy returns,” she said. “I would have let you keep sleeping, but it’s already three, and I didn’t want to let you go much longer without drinking some water in this heat. And you better put on another coat of sunscreen too.” She began fussing with her beach bag, upending it when she couldn’t find what she was looking for. “Did you just say it’s three o’clock?” I said, not able to shake the sleep drunk voice. “What the heck did you do to me?” Holding out an ice cold bottle of water, she set the sunscreen beside me with her other hand. “Never underestimate the power of a much needed session of lounging.” “I won’t.” I sat up, taking the water and chugging it down in one fluid sip. But it still hadn’t done the trick of bringing me back to my state of equilibrium. For the first time in more decades than I had fingers and toes for, I felt thirsty, I felt uncomfortable, I felt hot. Scorching hot. “Could I have another bottle?” I asked her, popping to a stand faster than I should have. I felt woozy from rising too quickly. Add woozy to the general discomfort list that shouldn’t have pertained to someone of my orientation. Was the sun baking down on us at one thousand and twenty-two degrees today? Holy heat wave. I couldn’t get my shirt off fast enough. I would have added my boardshorts to the discarded clothing pile had I been wearing anything beneath them like a decent man would have. Decency, in my naked under my boardshorts opinion, was an over rated attribute. “Here you go,” Emma said, turning from the cooler towards me. “Let me know if you need me to . . .” She looked at me, but she wasn’t exactly looking in my

eyes. The water bottle slipped from her hands. She looked hypnotized, every muscle frozen in her hypnosis—the only things moving were her pupils as they scattered over me like beads of water dripping down a pane of glass. I had to check to make sure, confirm the Steel Magnolia of Stanford was checking me out, and yes, she most certainly was. I loved it. “Nice view, eh?” I said, running my eyes down my chest before winking at her. The wink did it, the nudge the reasonable Emma trapped beneath the lustful, staring Emma’s surface needed to punch through that cheap veneer. “There was a very nice view of the ocean before this hideous, drooling, giant-headed beast got in my way.” “Yeah,” I said, not phased as I crouched down to retrieve the fallen water bottle, “you think I’m hot. Probably even super hot from the way you were panting.” She could have just bitten into a lemon wedge from the face she gave me. “I do not think you’re hot,” she said, flipping her glasses down from her head. “Quite the opposite actually.” “Keep it coming,” I said, chugging down another bottle in one guzzle. “The more you deny it, the more obvious it becomes.” Huffing, she turned her back on me and grabbed a magazine and began flipping through it. “Do me a favor and go back to sleep, will you? Your company’s much more pleasant when you’re not talking.” “Yeah, but I’m much more pleasant to stare at when I’m awake and shirtless,” I said, doing an exaggerated stretch over my head. She glanced once over her shoulder at me and looked away liked she couldn’t get back to her easy reading fast enough. “And sweaty and stinky and more conceited than normal—how that’s even possible is beyond me.” “It’s a gift,” I answered and, convinced her back would be facing me for a while, I started back for the house. “I’m going to grab my board, and I’ll be right back. Do you need anything?” “Nah, I’m doing great,” she said, refusing to look at me.

“But you might want to grab yourself a slice of humble pie while you’re at it.” “I believe I’m fresh out of pie, but thanks for thinking of me,” I said, jogging backwards, not able to look away from her yet. “Be back before you can miss me.” “Oh, and Patrick?” she hollered, flipping on her stomach and lowering her glasses. Her eyes dragged down my body and she smiled. “Go do a sit-up or something. Your eight pack is looking a little flabby. You shouldn’t let yourself go like that. It’s disgraceful, really.” “Yeah,” I said, nodding my head. “You think I’m hot.” I continued my backwards jog towards the house, throwing in an Irish jig jump for good measure. “I’ll never admit to it,” she shouted after me. I moved with a purpose once I got to the house. I swiped a couple of lemonades from the fridge before sprinting to my trophy room, also known as the place I kept my collection of boards in. I’d been tempted to get a keypad lock on the door because, of all the stuff in this house, these were of the most personal value, but I’d decided against it in the end. If someone was skilled enough to make it into the house, they possessed enough master thief swag to break into a room protected by a mere keypad. I went with my tried and true favorite, Big Bessie, and was jogging back down the beach bearing gifts of lemonade and shirtless man with surfboard tucked to his side, doing his best slow motion run impersonation. I even made a show of bouncing my hair from side to side. I could tell from a distance that something about her looked different, but wasn’t able to identify just what it was until she stood up. Emma was sans cover-up and bending over the blanket to shake it clean. The cans of lemonade slipped from my hand. I didn’t make a move to catch them before they coated themselves in sand. I watched her without her knowing until she’d situated herself back on the sand free blanket. Relatively certain I could hold my composure if she didn’t perform any bending, shaking, or shimmying maneuvers, I continued down the beach towards her. I’d made it to the half way point when she reached for . . . oh, God no. Please don’t be

the . . . yep, it was. The suntan lotion. Lord have mercy. I was convinced it was invented by a woman bent on torturing men for bringing about the advent of bras, pantyhose, and corsets. It was a substantial means of revenge. A shrill whistle, followed by a catcall with too many superlatives, sounded a few board lengths to my right. “Jessie!” I shouted over at the prep school kid who liked to pretend he was a free spirited hippie. Up to this moment, I used to dig the kid. “Watch your mouth before I shove my board up your ass.” “Whoa, Patrick, brother,” he said, raising his hands and walking away. “That fine creature your woman?” I glanced over at her—the noise had caught her attention and she was watching me now. She waved. “Not exactly,” I answered. “But she’s not yours either, so scram.” Jessie flipped me the peace sign, his shag of hair flopping as he jogged his way over to the rest of his trust fund buddies who didn’t look like they knew the front of their boards from the back. “Were you just defending my honor over there?” Emma asked, sitting up. “That, and giving him a lesson on the finer points of the cat call,” I said, forcing my eyes to stay north of her neck or else I was toast. If she’d floored me from a hundred yards away, I’d be as good as flat-lining at arm’s length distance. “It’s all here in the diaphragm,” I said, pushing the area below my ribs. “Projection is key.” “You’d know,” she said, as I laid my board beside her. My eyes kept threatening to travel south, so I punished them by looking away. I focused on wiping the lemonade cans off on my shorts. “Refreshment, mostly free of sand. I think.” I handed her a can, diverting my eyes to the ocean. “Thanks,” she said, taking the can and cracking it open. She took a sip, opened her mouth to say something, and then took another sip instead. When this sequence repeated itself, I asked, “What?”

Playing with the tab of the can, she looked down the beach. “Don’t get me wrong, because I’m thankful for everything you picked up for me, but I wouldn’t have thought you were familiar with the concept of a one-piece swimsuit.” Her eyes trailed down the simple, no fuss, sexy as hell, jade colored swimsuit. “Is that what this standard nun issue beach attire is called?” I teased, looking up at the cloudless sky. “Yes,” she said, snapping a shoulder strap. “And the three little triangles in front leading to strings on the back you likely purchase for other girls is called lingerie.” I smiled at the tinge of jealousy she’d let seep into her voice. Jealousy meant something. Jealousy, despite it being a vice, meant she cared enough for me to be irritated by the past someones who had felt the same. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I claimed, “and this is the first swimsuit of the female variety I’ve purchased for someone.” I was still admiring the sky like it was the last time I’d see it, but I could see her face wrinkling around her expression. “Sure it is,” she said like she knew better. “But to keep with your account, let’s say it really is—” “Which it is,” I interjected. “—why, when everything about you is a less is more when it comes to objects covering women, would you pick a not-quite-but-pretty-darn-close-to-prudish one piece for me?” There was something in her voice, something she was disguising, that I couldn’t decipher. I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to answer this question, but Emma Scarlett liked to ask those ones I didn’t want to explain. “Man, Emma,” I said, setting my jaw, “this is one of those darned if I do and darned if I don’t situations. Did I first grab the skimpiest of skimpy two pieces off the rack? Hells yes I did. But then this voice in my head went off, reminding me I’d promised to be on my best behavior, and buying you a bikini a stripper would be too shy to wear didn’t align with that promise. So I exchanged it with the prudish, as you put it, one piece adorning your body right now.” I knew I was going on and on, covering all the details, but

one thing I’d learned from generations of interacting with women is that they want to know all the details. It made things simpler to divulge it all from the start. “However, I also knew that by purchasing a one piece, you’d be upset I bought one for you because no girl between the ages of twelve to sixty wears one.” Shrugging, I said, “Like I said, I was darned if I did and darned if I didn’t.” So much talk of the swimsuit made me want to look at the swimsuit, but that wasn’t an option if I wanted to keep my eyes firmly socketed. She ringed her fingers over the lip of the can. “So you didn’t pick it out because you didn’t think I should wear a bikini?” Ah, that was it. What she’d been disguising before but wasn’t anymore. Insecurity. I should have known that’s what it was; it’d been my experience that the women who needed to be the least insecure were often the most. “That,” I emphasized, “is, a hundred million times, not the reason.” “Then why can’t you look at me?” she asked softly. She was almost as talented as misreading signs as slap him in the face before he got it William. Holding my hand over hers still wearing down the rim of the can, I said, “I can’t look at you because if I do, I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop.” Her smile made the whole explanation, the awkwardness of it, my vulnerability, my gut deep desire to let my eyes have their way with her, all of it, worth it. “You think I’m hot,” she teased. “Smokin’,” I answered, popping up with my board in hand. “So smokin’ I need to cool off. Feel free to join. That is, if you don’t mind getting your hair wet.” “I think I need a couple more hours of lounging before I even think of moving,” she said, rolling over and flopping a hat over her head. Knowing she wouldn’t know it if all of Stanford’s male populace was checking her out right now, I allowed myself a peek. One tiny, half second long peek. Bad idea.

Just like I figured, I couldn’t look away. It was going to take an act of God to get me to peel my eyes away. Ever notice that, just when you need one, an act of divination tends to present itself? A wet and white glob fell from the air, plopping on my shoulder. The lone seagull laughed all the way into the horizon.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN The waves and I took turns beating each other up. I was generally more eager to give it than to take it, but having a twenty foot swell school me felt pretty good in my present state of mind, because if I was getting my butt handed to me on a plate by something as vast as the ocean, I couldn’t be thinking of a certain woman stretched over the sand in varying contortions that made me think I was watching a live demonstration of the Kama Sutra. That had less to do with her and more to do with me, accompanied by my very male and very demented mind. I’d taken a particularly gnarly wipeout and was working on shaking the gallon of salt water floating around my brain out my ears when a laugh sounded a few feet away. “I think you better stick to your day job.” Slapping my ear once more, I turned around to find a very pink, just a shade away from red, still sans cover-up Emma wading into the water. “This is my day job,” I said, tugging my board back. “And you did put on sunscreen, right?” “Yeah, but there is no amount of SPF that can keep the sun from penetrating this particular shade of pasty,” she said, examining her arms. “It’s just a little pink. By this time tomorrow I’ll be sporting a shade of eggshell all the girls will be envying.” Good thing I’d thrown a bottle of aloe vera in my shopping cart last night on a whim. We were going to need it for lobster girl. “You wanna try?” I asked, pushing the board toward her. “I wouldn’t want to show you up,” she said, grimacing as she trudged up to her stomach in the water, because of the chill or the water creeping up the burn I couldn’t be sure. “Sure you would,” I said, smiling. Even red and sun parched she could take the proverbial breath from my lungs. “You’re right. I’d love any and every opportunity to show

you up at something,” she said, dunking the rest of the way into the water. Before I had a chance to fist pump the heavens that Emma Scarlett didn’t give a darn about getting her hair wet, something grabbed my ankle, pulling me under. I experienced a moment of shock until I processed it was ten, pleasantly warm fingers tugging on my calf, and then I welcomed the submersion. The water was as clear as the Pacific was capable of and the salt water had never burned my eyes in this life or my past. I watched Emma as she gave my leg one more tug before swimming into view. The salt water didn’t seem to phase her either, and before she surfaced, she made a face and stuck her tongue out like she’d just pulled the school yard prank of the year on me. “Okay, so now that I achieved my goal of showing you up,” she said when my head popped above the surface. “Can we get back to you teaching me how to surf?” “You know what they say about payback?” I asked, cutting through the water toward her. She didn’t move when my partially submerged face was a breath away from hers. “I know what they say,” she said, “but I wonder what a gentlemen would say about it.” She smiled like a wicked angel at me, knowing she had me. “You are the most innocent looking conniver I’ve ever met,” I admitted. “It just comes so naturally when I’m around you,” she said, flicking a splash of water at me. “Sure, blame me for your vices. I don’t mind,” I muttered, patting the board. “If you’re finished cheating me out of some sweet revenge, climb aboard.” “That’s it?” she said, examining the incoming waves and our proximity to the beach. “Climb aboard? Nothing else?” Her voice was gaining some speed, a tad high with panic. “How about a few pointers, or maybe a couple warnings, or I don’t know, something more than climb aboard?” she shouted, patting the board like I had, although she was smacking it. I grinned. “Surfing’s all about being at one with the ocean,” I said. “Just get on and do what feels natural, whatever comes to you. That’s the best piece of advice I

can give you.” She looked at me like I was speaking a dead language. “Listen, I’m not going to break this down for you into steps for you, telling you where to put your feet and where not to put your feet, how to stand and how not to stand, because that’s not what surfing is. Surfing isn’t listening to someone else telling you how to do it—surfing is listening to what the ocean’s telling you to do. Sound easy enough?” She stared at me with an open mouth. “Okay, those brownies the hippies down the way were handing out earlier weren’t meant to be eaten by the tray full. Just say no next time someone’s selling brownies by the kilo.” I coughed, trying to keep the laughter contained. “Are you surfing, or aren’t you? This stalling act you’ve got going on by flirting with me underwater and batting your wet eye lashes at me while accusing me of tripping on some pot brownies has run its course.” She grabbed that board from me so fast, peppering me with a few choice looks, I knew I’d gotten under her skin. Just where I wanted to be and needed to stay, although I’d prefer to be there in the good under-her-skin kind of way, not the narrowed-eyes-of-death way. “Just tell me when to climb aboard,” she spat over her shoulder, “if that won’t insult the ocean and my oneness too much.” I glanced out at the water, stepping into her. “There’s a perfect baby wave coming in three, two,” I counted, positioning my hands over her hips, “one! Go, go go!” I yelled, lifting her up on the board and letting her and the wave do the rest. The baby wave was more of a surly tween and both it and Emma raged towards the beach like the fuming pair they were. The unexpected rise in the wave surprised me less than Emma riding it like a moderately seasoned pro. She managed to pop top, stay there, and ride that sucker all the way to the . . . Emma realized too late she should have jumped off before she was still standing on a board moving with some momentum in ankle deep water. The board caught in the sand, coming to an abrupt halt, sending Emma flying in an

abrupt spill. I had the gifts of foresight, speed, and teleportation on my side. I caught her a beat before she nosedived into compacted sand. “Emma?” I asked, adjusting her vertical again. “I’m fine,” she said, guessing at my silent question. “How the heck did you get to me so fast?” she asked, flipping her head back to free the streaks of wet hair glued to her face. “Murphy’s Law,” I answered. Rolling her eyes at me, she said, “So? How did I do?” “Awesome,” I answered, freeing my board from the half foot hole it’d dug into the sand. “I can’t believe that worked.” “What?” she shrieked. “You used me as the guinea pig for all that oneness mumbo-jumbo crap?” “Yeah,” I admitted, “but it worked, didn’t it? So you can’t be angry at me. You were surfing like you knew what you were doing.” Running her hand over the board, she stopped in front of me. “That had everything to do with the inherent awesome inside of me and nothing to do with your tried and true words of wisdom.” Her brows peaked halfway up her forehead, challenging me to speak. I bowed out of the challenge. Shouldering past me, I turned to watch her cross the rest of the distance to our beach day pad. I watched her walk away a little longer before saying, “One wave? You’re calling it a day after one wave?” Waving her hand dismissively back at me, she said, “Onto bigger and better things.” “Like lounging,” I said, picking up my board and debating which direction to spend the remainder of the daylight in. “Exactly like lounging,” she answered, reaching for the sunscreen as she lowered herself onto the blanket. East or West, the age old question for man. A timeless question, but an easy one for me to answer. It’d always seemed East felt a little more downhill than West. A little less like fighting an uphill battle. I went to Emma, leaving the waves for another day.

“It shouldn’t be physically possible for your stomach to be able to fit that much food in it,” Emma said, chucking the second empty pizza box on top of the other one. I went all out and made reservations at the best place in town, the beachfront bonfire pit in front of my house. A couple of the works pizzas with double cheese from the local surfer hangout, a couple pints of milk, one cozy beach blanket, and we were in business. It was a late dinner. A late late dinner, like midnight late, but by the time we’d finished lounging in the sun, packed our crap back to the house, showered up, and hmmmm’ed and haaaa’ed over what to order, it was well past my neighbors’ bedtimes. “It’s all in space efficiency and compression. Think of a garbage truck and all that junk that fits inside that small space. One would be overflowing after half a mile if it wasn’t for a well designed compression system,” I said, folding the crust of the last slice of pizza and stuffing it in my mouth. She shook her head, tossing her crust into the fire. “Anyone ever tell you that you draw really odd parallels?” I gulped down the wad of dough in my mouth. “All the time.” “Glad I’m not the only one.” “Moving onto dessert,” I said, grabbing a paper bag. She stopped in the middle of pitching her paper plate into the fire. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” “I never kid when it comes to dessert.” Upending the bag, the makings of s’mores spilled between us. “Peanut butter cups?” Emma said, picking up one of the dozen packages. “I’ve had s’mores all of one time in my life, but I distinctly recall a square of chocolate bar sitting between the graham and the mallow.” “One square of chocolate?” I said, making a face. “Who were the chocolate bar Nazis you were with?” “My parents,” she said, looking into the fire. I was a spew-the-first-thing-that-comes-to-mind idiot. “Em, I didn’t mean . . .”

“Patrick, it’s fine. Really. I’m not going to break down bawling because I remembered something from way back when.” Grabbing the bag of marshmallows, she tore an end open. “The last thing I want you to do is treat me like I’m this fragile thing you need to tip-toe around, okay? Just treat me like you treat everyone else,” she said, stuffing a marshmallow whole in her mouth. “Think normal when in doubt,” she advised through a gob of mallow. “Got it,” I said, offering her a roasting stick. “Normal, I think I can remember to treat you like that.” There was that word again. The wedge that was driving the fissure between us deeper. Soon there’d be a valley split too wide for either of us to cross. “So you use peanut butter cups instead of chocolate bars in your s’mores?” she asked, tearing open one of those too. We were a couple of sugaraholics in confection heaven. “You’ve never lived until you’ve tried it.” Although, I had to die and exist another hundred some years before peanut butter cups were even on the market. “So what would our esteemed psychology professor say that says about you? Because we know he’d have something juicy to say.” She bit a morsel of peanut butter cup. “He’d probably say it means I’m uber cool, a great catch, and hands down, the best kisser on the western seaboard.” “That’s very creative of you,” she said, squishing up one side of her face, “but I think he’d say it highlights your propensity for non-conformity, your life or death need to stand out in the crowd, and, let’s not miss the big one, the triple crown underlying reason . . .”—she exchanged a conspiring look with me—“you really like peanut butter cups.” Shaking the last cup out of the package Emma had opened, I peeled back the wrapper and popped it in my mouth. “Golly-gee, I do like peanut butter cups. What do you know?” “I know, my drug store diagnosis is most impressive.” She smirked at me as she speared her stick into a mallow. “No, really, all jokes aside,” I said, breaking a couple

grahams in half. “I know you’re undecided and everything, but you should strongly consider majoring in Psych. That was some professional sounding stuff for someone who’s sat through a few weeks of an intro class.” “We’ll see,” she said, turning her stick over in the fire. “I suppose one trainwreck can relate with another, right?” “Yeah,” I said, feeling another darned if I do, darned if I don’t predicament, “I’m not going to answer that.” “Smart man,” she said under her breath, pulling her stick from the fire. “S’more me,” she said, settling her mallow above the peanut butter cup topped graham. Sandwiching it all together, I smashed it tight. “Enjoy the ride,” I said reverently, handing the masterpiece over. “You can thank me later.” She thought I was exaggerating, I could tell from the tilt of her neck, but all that changed one bite later. “Holy crap,” she said, taking a heftier bite. “Don’t say anymore,” I said. “I get it. The crazy insane is strong with this dessert,” I said in my best Yoda voice. “This is like a party in my mouth,” she said in between bites number two and three. “And not like some little kid birthday party at the roller rink—this is a full-blown, bead throwing, mask-wearing Mardi Gras party in my mouth.” She looked at me like I’d just saved the world from nuclear disaster. “You are a genius.” Bowing my head, I replied, “Good of you to finally admit it.” Taking the last bite, she flopped back onto the blanket like she was exhausted. “That was incredible,” she said, touching her forearm to her forehead. I couldn’t tell if she was being intentional or accidental about the way she was reacting to the s’more, but either way, I didn’t miss it. “Why thank you,” I said, stacking another s’more. “I got another one here with your name on it.” “Thanks,” she said, lifting her hand, “but I’m going to have to pace myself here. Too much of a good thing is—” “A great thing,” I said, adding my sentiments. I munched away on my s’more, savoring it, which wasn’t generally my thing. I tended to devour the things I was most

attracted to—savoring took too long, was too permanent. Emma stayed quiet for so long, I had to check to make sure she hadn’t fallen asleep. Her eyes were open wide, the fire’s reflection scattering over her eyes. She was looking at me. “Thank you, Patrick,” she said. “The past twenty four hours have been . . .” she paused, hanging on an unspoken word, “perfect. I didn’t think anything close to it existed in this life, but you’ve shown me I was wrong. So, thanks.” Her face lined in a grimace as she sat back up. “I know that sounds incredibly lame, but that’s the truth. And I know how important honesty is to you.” This was my opening, my segue, my in, if ever there would be one between Emma and me. This was my chance to open my mouth and tell her everything I was feeling, everything I’d felt, everything I wanted to feel forever. But that’s when she slipped her hand into mine, studying our entwined hands. And then her conflicted eyes flickered to mine and there was only one thing to say. A single thing I was capable of in that emotion charged stare. Scooting over a barricade of boxes and wrappers, I didn’t stop until the length of my side was running down hers. Her eyes held mine, but there was a shift in what they were conveying. I didn’t care—it was too late for me. It had been too late for me one first day of class and one sweet smile ago. Forming my hand over her cheek, I closed the space between us. The final space between us, letting my lips take the lead. My mouth was greeted with a swish of air and a tense cheek where a pair of lips had been one bad decision ago. “I can’t,” she whispered into the fire. “I mean, I could, but I’d regret it in the morning. And so would you.” She glanced at me from the side. “I couldn’t stand anything ruining this day when I look back and remember it.” “Em,” I started, not knowing where I was going with this. Shaking her head, she said, “I wish I could be that girl I see reflected back to me in your eyes. But I can’t. It’s a mirage, what you see.” “No, it’s what you are,” I replied, folding my hands

together, but I didn’t move a sliver away from her. I wasn’t going to make this easy on her. She felt something too; I was now convinced of it. I couldn’t let it escape. She exhaled the breath of a person who doesn’t believe a word being spoken. “If you didn’t devour them all, could you toss me a peanut butter cup?” she asked, everything about her voice and expression pretending nothing significant had happened between us. I fumbled around for one and handed it to her, feeling the pricks of numbness entombing me. This had been the first time I’d gone in for a kiss and been denied, and I was surprised it didn’t only suck, it hurt like a cannon had just blasted out a crater in my gut. It ached because this had been the one kiss above all the others where the intensity of my feelings for the other person were guiding me. This wasn’t just sheer physical need, this was an expression of everything I felt at the core of my soul. It had been rejected. And that hurt. Biting into a cup, Emma tossed the rest of the carton aside, staring unseeingly into the fire. I didn’t know what engineering feat could build a bridge long and strong enough to cross the distance keeping us apart, but I wouldn’t give up. I never would, as long as there was hope of my feelings being reciprocated. And from the tears I saw about ready to spill down her face, I knew there was just enough hope to keep me going. When they fell, Emma swiped her arm over her face before they could travel far, but fresh ones replaced the vanished. “Hey,” I said, nudging her, “you want to talk about this?” I motioned between the two of us and whatever she was or wasn’t upset about. Shaking her head, she sniffled. “Definitely not.” “All right then,” I said, wrapping my arm around her and tucking her close. “Let’s just let the stars and silence do the talking for us.” Her head nodded beneath my chin. The embers of the bonfire were smoldering when her breathing steadied from the passage of sleep. Tucking the blanket around us, I leaned back into the driftwood log

behind me, just needing to catch a few winks. A few minutes of recuperative sleep to wake up refreshed and ready to continue the fight of forcing Emma to admit there was something special between us. And then I fell into the deepest sleep I had in decades.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN As peacefully as I’d lost myself to sleep last night, I jerked awake as violently. I didn’t need to check the location of the sun in the sky, or consult my cell phone, to know what time it was: 7:12 a.m. Too bad I’d forgotten to place a wake up call with my internal clock. “Emma,” I said, shaking her arm. She hadn’t moved from the shape she’d taken curled around me last night. Her face was a kind of tranquil that was sacrilegious to break, but I also knew missing class was a more unpardonable sin in her eyes. “Emma,” I said again, louder. Her eyes snapped open, taking in the scene around us like she didn’t remember how she’d found herself the better side of horizontal, in my arms, wrapped in a blanket. “Good morning,” I said, sliding a piece of hair behind her ear. “It’s after seven. We better get moving if we’re going to get you to class by nine.” Horror chased away the confusion lining her face. “My first class is at eight!” she yelled, scrambling out of my arms and bolting upright. Of course she’d be a member of the one percent of college students who elected to take the earliest class they could take. “It’s going to be okay, Em,” I said, popping up with less zeal. “The world will continue to turn if you’re fifteen minutes late.” “Not if I miss a test that starts promptly at eight on the dot,” she snapped, running towards the house like she was an impala being chased by an army of hungry lionesses on the Discovery Channel. “Crap,” I muttered. I didn’t need to give her any more reasons to stay her distance from me. “Okay, go get changed and grab something to eat and I’ll meet you at the car,” I yelled across the sand at her, tossing empty wrappers and crushed graham crackers into the paper sack. “No time,” she yelled. “Meet me at the car now!” She paused in the doorway, sending a warning look at me. “Or

else I’m stealing it.” I didn’t need any more encouragement. Leaving the remains of s’mores and a just missed kiss behind, I sprinted through the sand after her. She was fastening her belt by the time I’d locked up and snagged a couple of breakfast bars from the cupboard. “It isn’t hot, nor particularly delicious, but it’s something,” I said, jumping in and handing her a bar. She grabbed it and nodded her thanks. “Drive fast.” Sliding my aviators into position, I slammed the Mustang in reverse and grinned. “You’ve got the right man for the job.” Bracing one hand on the dashboard and the other on the armrest, she said, “I hope so.” Leaving two streaks in the driveway, I was already at seventy by the time I rounded the corner a block down. Emma’s hands didn’t move from their location, like she expected fingertips gripping vinyl surfaces would be her saving grace if we were in a head-on at one hundred and some change. Once we were on the freeway, I pushed the Mustang to its upper limits and, once the cars moving in the same direction as us were streaking like the cars going the opposite direction, I knew we’d make good time. When we screeched onto the campus, she checked her cell for the three thousandth time and let out a relieved sigh. “Drop me off at my dorm. I’ve got to grab my bag and throw on a fresh pair of clothes that don’t reek of campfire and men’s deodorant,” she said, sniffing at the shoulder she’d had tucked into my fresh, not-too-shabby smelling armpit. “You got it,” I said, taking a hard right, so hard my tailend drifted behind us, cutting an ugly bald spot through a patch of pristine Stanford grass. Hopefully my family’s alumni status and giving over the years had accumulated enough influence to overlook one grass terrorization. “Thanks for getting me here so fast,” she said, a hair clip between her lips as she tore through her hair with her fingers. “And thanks for not killing me.” “Speed is my priority,” I said in an authoritative voice.

“Preservation of life is an added bonus.” I rolled to a stop at the front curb of her dorm hall, already feeling the pain of separation. Fighting her hair into the clip, she grabbed her purse from the back, pausing as she grabbed the handle. “And thanks for everything else,” she whispered, looking everywhere but at me. Throwing the door open, the morning air careened into the car, taking on a chill that had everything to do with her leaving me. I couldn’t let her out of my sight without telling her everything I’d been keeping from her. Everything I should have told her last night before she was in a rush to get to an exam in fifteen minutes. My timing, as always, was impeccable. I grabbed her hand at the last minute, pulling her back down. She looked over at me like I was mad. “What are we doing, Em?” “Well, I am going to class and you are probably going to go pass out on the quad for a couple hours until you commence your inventive forms of cat calling,” she said, smirking at me as she made another go for the exit. I held her hand in mine, not because I wanted to, but because I absolutely, positively could not let her go. “What are we doing?” I repeated, looking at her with the anguish I could feel manifesting over every piece of me. Closing her eyes, she shook her head. “Something we shouldn’t.” That cut deeper than last night’s rejected kiss had. “Why not?” I whispered. “You know why.” “No, actually I don’t,” I replied with a ferocity in my voice reserved for rare situations. “Why don’t you enlighten me?” Her drifting eyes settled on mine for an instant before they turned away. “My life just doesn’t work with you in it-- I don’t work right when you’re in it.” Her jaw was set, but it couldn’t deflect the effect the sheen her eyes had taken on. I was getting close to something if it brought tears to the surface. I couldn’t back off now. Knowing this, I shoved ahead, knowing the road immediately in front of us wasn’t a pleasant one. “Liar,” I said, gripping the steering wheel so hard I was in

danger of ripping it off. “We made a promise that we’d be honest with each other, and you can’t be honest with me if you can’t even be honest with yourself.” That came out harsher than I’d intended, evident as I felt sick to my stomach after saying it and the way Emma recoiled from me like she couldn’t put enough space between us. “I’m the liar?” she asked, her eyes forming slits. Her hand pulled away like mine was made of acid. “Tell me, Patrick Hayward—wealthy, supposedly reformed playboy, good at everything, too beautiful to be real—why are you so interested in me?” she asked, yelling every third word. “Huh?” she added when I didn’t answer. “A girl from the other side of the tracks who’s going to spend the rest of her life there if she screws up just once. Once!” she said, pointing at me. “So why, champion of honesty, why is someone like you so interested in someone like me?” I’d not only never seen Emma so emotional before, I’d never heard her say so much in one breath. “What do you mean?” I asked, turning in my seat. “Dammit, Patrick!” she shouted, slamming a fist into the dashboard. “The question is so simple even you should be able to get it. Why are you pretending to like me?” Three things crippled the speech right out of me. The second curse word I’d heard from her, PG-13 rated as it was, her insult to my intelligence, and her assumption that I was pretending to like her. It didn’t make sense, none of it did. That could have been the reason I was unable to form a word, let alone an intelligent reply. “That’s what I thought,” she said, staring at me like she could see right through me. “Hypocrite.” Lunging out of the car, she spun back around and, leaning down, she said, “Leave me alone.” “No,” I said, gripping the steering wheel again. “Leave. Me. Alone.” And then she slammed the door and ran away like she couldn’t get away from me fast enough. I watched her leave, all the way until she disappeared inside the building. My eyes lingered on the spot she’d disappeared. “No,” I whispered to no one.

The first couple hours after that were rough. I’d gone back and forth between chasing after her and professing the way I felt about her in every detail—down to the way I lost my sense of balance when she tilted her head back and laughed—to getting the hell away from here and forgetting I’d ever met Emma Scarlett. I ended up hanging in my car past lunch time, once I settled on finding the middle ground between running away or becoming a certified stalker. On my way to Psych, I still hadn’t decided on the best way to smooth things over. I considered ignoring her, leaving her alone as she yelled at me to—pretend she didn’t exist—but I was wise in the ways of women and I knew pretending you don’t exist was the final straw that would break the back of the relationship. It doesn’t matter how pissed they are with you, never unleash a full scale ignore attack on a woman you want to make up with—classic rookie mistake. What I wanted to do when I walked in that class was stand up and ask the professor to put a clamp on it for a few minutes while I professed to an auditorium full of students how bad I had it for Emma and how I was a ruined man if she didn’t feel the same way. Yeah, something along those lines . . . I knew that, while I was one for theatrics, Emma wasn’t. She would be mortified if I unleashed a can of I’m smitten in front of her classmates. Then I’d be even deeper into the quick sand I was already smothering in. During my last strides down the hall towards Psych, I finally settled on a plan of attack. I’d just go with the flow. I’d do what felt right at the time and hope my gut, that had rarely steered me wrong before, wouldn’t let me down when it really counted. Not the most elaborate plan, I knew, but I figured it was better than getting naked, lighting myself on fire, and screaming I love you, Emma Scarlett down the hallway. I pulled open the auditorium door a few minutes past the hour, trying to outsmart the sneaky fox that I hoped was still icing his face back at prat hall. However I was going to

proceed with Emma, I knew it would go smoother if her idiot boyfriend wasn’t around. I grunted as soon as I stepped inside, of course he wouldn’t be gone on the day I really needed him to be gone. And of course he’d be sitting right beside her in their favorite seats in the back row. He glanced back as the door whined closed and I would have guessed he hadn’t noticed me, until he dropped his arm around Emma’s shoulders. A tad purposeful in his possession, but it was going to take a helluva a lot more to run me off. Ty’s fingers barely had time to curl into her skin until she wagged her shoulders, shoving his arm away with her hand when that didn’t work. She aimed a glare at him I thought was strictly reserved for Patrick Hayward. Whether this was a simple lover’s quarrel or the beginning of the end, I didn’t know, but I did know you didn’t waste a crack—no matter how temporary—in a relationship you were trying to end. I didn’t have time to reconcile how much of a monster that made me seem or justify I didn’t only want them to break up because it was best for me, but because it was best for Emma, before I marched down that last aisle and slid into the open seat on the other side of her. I leaned in to her. “Can you forgive me for being an idiot?” I whispered, glancing between her and Ty, waiting for him to realize I’d slipped into the seat next to the woman he was all territorial over. “Again?” My attempts at playing it light and making a puppy dog face went over as well as I hoped it wouldn’t. Her glare turned from Ty to me, and I don’t think I was mistaken when those eyelids seemed to drop further. I leaned away a bit, and that’s when the worst bodyguard in the history of them noticed me. “Pick another seat, dickweed,” he growled, reaching behind Emma and shoving my shoulder. I blew a burst of air out my mouth. “Wow, a name I haven’t been called yet. You must have been hard at work on that one all weekend. That must describe while you’re looking especially ugly today.” Grinning my provocation, I continued, “By the way, double black eyes is a great look

for you.” He shoved my shoulder again, harder. “You’re about to have a pair to match if you don’t move away from my girlfriend.” I squished my face into a puh-lease expression. “From the looks of it, your girlfriend might be catching on to the well-known fact that her boyfriend is a monkey’s uncle.” I was too focused on Ty, too set on taking out everything raging inside of me, or else I would have noticed Emma’s shoulders tensing to the point of snapping, her face flashing red with her own emotions firing inside. That would have been the wise way to expend my energy, on calming her instead of enraging Ty, but at this point in my male show of dominance, I wasn’t being wise. “Emma’s not going anywhere,” he said, his mouth twisting up. “And the next time you lure her to your place, for any duration of time, you’re a dead man.” It was a casual expression any male who’d hit puberty had thrown around, but something intentional in Ty’s words made me believe he wasn’t bluffing. Unfortunately for him, if he came at me with a death sentence, I was invincible to most things manmade, and I wasn’t a man who bluffed when handing out death threats. I’d killed men, many of them, and while it wasn’t a badge of honor I wore on my chest, it wasn’t something I was ashamed about either. I’d never killed a man who had ceased deserving life, and Ty was getting dangerously close to winding up on that list. “If she comes back, I’ll be all open doors. And arms,” I said, for her, not him. However, she didn’t look like she was hearing anything but a couple of imbeciles throwing insults around, above, and between her. “She won’t,” Ty said, his jaw muscles about to pop through his skin. I shrugged. “She might.” It was working—my blasé demeanor was pissing him off hardcore. I was hoping he was two more retorts away from exploding out of the room in a furious puff of smoke. “She. Won’t.” “She probably will,” I replied, cracking my neck from side

to side. “She—” I was sick of hearing this repeated. “She most definitely will,” I said, fixing my eyes on him. “Begging me to let her in. Begging,” I repeated slowly. The dormant volcano simmering between us chose that time to explode. Leaping to a stand, she stared hard at him, then at me. Damn, her eyes were taking on that glassy sheen again. “I am not some prize either of you can claim,” she shouted, all the way to the rafters and down to where a bored professor was laser pointing at something on the screen. Every last Monday-afternoon-groggy head snapped to attention, followed by bodies twisting in their seats to stare at Emma. I hadn’t seen that one coming. A full-fledged outburst in a silent classroom of a hundred? Emma seemed more the grin and bear it type. Pushing past Ty, she ran out of the room, hair flying behind her and tears spilling before her. “Happy?” Ty growled, towering over me. “Far from it,” I answered. One more shove to my shoulder and Ty turned and followed after her. When the door slammed closed the second time, Professor Camp cleared his throat. “My advanced degrees, unparalleled experience in the field, and all around mastery of all things of a psychological matter would lead me to the intricate, official diagnosis that she suffers from,” he paused, lowering his glasses, “boy issues.” Looking my way, he said, “Mr. Hayward, I’m guessing you play a large part in that. Be on your way,” he said, waving at the door. I didn’t need permission, but that’s what got me out of my seat. “Here’s a question for you eager young minds to gnaw on,” he continued as I jogged down the aisle. “Why are you here learning about life when you could be out living life?” You could almost hear a few brains shattering.

The door was closing behind me as Camp barreled on with his education bashing spiel. “And here’s something else—sitting in class is a waste of your time, mind, and—” The door slammed shut before I could hear the continued pearls in this necklace of wisdom. I jogged down the hallway, listening for voices. I didn’t go far before I heard the ones I was listening for, and they weren’t being spoken in a quiet, or friendly, tone. Slamming the outside doors open, I saw Ty’s back, his arms and voice flying into the wind. I couldn’t see her thanks to the gorilla exhibiting every mannerism of an actual one blocking her, but I knew she was there. “You were nothing when we hooked up,” he shouted as another arm burst into the air. “You were on a one way train to becoming a future man sewer before I made the biggest mistake of my life and made you my girlfriend.” I launched into a sprint across the lawn, hardly able to wait tackling the SOB. “I guess I always knew you’d wind up a whore like your mom. I just didn’t see the evidence until this past weekend.” I would have snapped his back in half had I not pulled back two strides before I rocketed into him. Emma’s scream was the only thing I heard as Ty and I toppled over each other until the momentum from the impact crested. I landed on top, the red pulsing in me, ready to repay every foul word he’d said to Emma with the business side of my fist. A pair of hands wound around my arm an inch before fist met flesh. “Patrick—no!” she said, her voice shaking as she wrestled me off of Ty. The rage died, her touch freeing it. When she had me upright and a body length away from the human sized lawn gnome decorating the grass, she pressed her hand to my chest, looking at me hard. “You promised,” she said. The promise I wished I wouldn’t have made. “You promised,” she repeated, like she knew my anger was playing devil’s advocate with my rational mind. “I know.” The last remains of fury released itself in a tremble. “I know,” I said again.

“Keep it then,” she said softly. What choice did I have when she looked at me like that? “I will.” “She sure got you whipped fast,” Ty said, upright and grinning his malevolence at us. “I’d say a little something more than studying and sun-tanning occurred this weekend.” Looking at Emma, his grin twisted higher. “What do you have to say about that, Emma? Were you being your typical whorish self with lover boy?” Like she was already expecting it, Emma caught my arm as I whipped around to finish delivering my message. “Stop it, Patrick!” she shouted, looking desperate. “Why are you defending him?” I spun on her, trying to see what it was she saw in this loser. I saw nothing but a face filled with dread and secrets. “I’ve never heard one kind word come out of his mouth when he talks to you, so why are you defending who should be your worst enemy to someone who wants to be your best friend?” “It’s because she knows the only way she can escape her shithole of a life is to glom onto the coat tails of any man who’s dumb enough to not recognize her for the gutter whore she is.” “You really are a piece of shit, you know that?” I said, seething. Emma’s firm hand holding my arm was the only thing keeping me from charging him again. “What does that say about Emma then? Since she can’t get enough of this ‘piece of shit’?” Ty said, looking his girlfriend up and down. “I think that makes her a swarming, shit eating house fly. That sound about right?” “Shut up!” I screamed, feeling the veins bulging in my neck. I’d seen enough of hate in my life to recognize it, and I hated him for talking about her like this. I’d known arch nemeses who’d had more respect for one another than to speak of the other the way Ty was speaking of the woman he supposedly loved. We were drawing a crowd. Fights happened on Stanford’s campus about as often as a middle class student was admitted. They were going to get quite a show if Ty didn’t shut his mouth soon. “Why don’t you come over here and make me?” Ty

challenged, crossing his arms. “Oh, that’s right. You made my girlfriend a promise that you wouldn’t take a swing at me again, and you’re actually pussy-whipped enough to honor that.” Emma’s face had gone from snow white to cherry red. It was one thing for him to humiliate her in front of me, but now he was doing it in front of a generous portion of her classmates. She was squirming from her discomfort. I couldn’t take seeing her like this, and since I couldn’t beat the snot out of him to shut him up, I could think of one other way to get him to shut his trap. “I might not be able to hit you to shut you up, but I’m fairly certain if you’re beating the crap out of me, you won’t be able to manage anything more than a grunt.” “Patrick,” Emma whispered, shaking her head, pulling me away from Ty instead of holding me back from him. “Are you serious?” Ty asked, looking like he was waiting to double check the numbers before celebrating his lottery win. “Dead,” I said, squaring myself in front of him, my body subconsciously bracing itself for a beating. “I’ll give you two minutes to kick my ass from here to next Monday because I’d rather feel your pussy punch than hear your filthy lies. But here’s the thing.” I stared at the piece of garbage with unblinking focus—I wanted him to know I wasn’t scared of him and I was serious as a tumor with my warning. “If you ever say another nasty thing about Emma again, whether I hear it or not, all promises are off, and I will relish beating you until you’re reduced to crapping into a diaper and sipping steak from a straw the rest of your life. I have no problem going back to jail, son.” So I hadn’t been to jail before, but I meant it when I said I’d have no problem paying the price to beat him within an inch of death. In fact, I couldn’t think of a better way to end up in prison. The crowd had grown again, almost exponentially. That probably had a lot to do with text messaging and “send all.” “Two minutes, huh?” Ty said, sliding out of his coat and tossing it to the side. “And you think by keeping your word and not hitting me while I kick your ass, that will make me

the bad guy and Emma will run into your broken in several locations arms?” I slid off my watch and handed it to Emma. She was looking at me like I was the next in line to be hanged. “If Emma ever chooses me over you one day, it will be of my own merit. Not due to your lack of it.” Ty cracked his knuckles, rolling his neck around. “What are the rules?” Idiot, since when did fights for honor involve rules? We weren’t playing a game of chess. “No rules.” “No.” Emma’s voice was so tight it was a note from breaking. “Don’t be stupid. Just walk away. I can handle him.” I unzipped my motorcycle jacket and handed that to her next, just to give her something to wring her restless hands into. “I’ve never been one to walk away, Em, and that’s something I’m not about to change now.” “Back away, Emma,” Ty said, hopping in place to spike his adrenaline. “Might want to say goodbye to pretty boy’s face. There’s not going to be much left of it once I’m done.” “This is a one time deal, dickhead,” I said, stepping away from Emma since she wouldn’t step away from me. “Do your worst.” “That’s the only way I work,” Ty answered, pulling something out of his back pocket. The metal caught the sun as he slid the brass knuckles into place. If my opinion of Ty Steel could have gotten any smaller, it would have. Who carried a set of brass knuckles around in their back pocket? Just think of the most despicable person you’ve had the misfortune of meeting and that pretty much describes him. “No rules right?” Ty said with a wicked grin. Emma gasped. “What the hell, Ty?” Her voice shook across the grass at him. Holding up the index finger of his knuckled hand, he reached his other hand behind him, revealing another set. Sliding this set into position, he held his fists in front of him, sliding them together so I could read the encryption etched into them: Don’t fear the reaper, fear me.

A man who was taller than me by a couple inches, heavier than me by a solid fifty pounds, brass knuckled to the teeth, set on ending me because I was after his girl, about to enter a fight with me where I wasn’t allowed to throw a single punch . . . I should have been pissing my pants right about now. So, of course, I laughed. “Done stalling, big boy?” I called out, making sure the crowd heard me. “Quit playing with your toys and throw down the pain already.” “I won’t hold you to your promise anymore,” Emma said, bracing herself in front of me as I began loping towards Ty. “This is not a fair fight. Hit him, kick him, I don’t care, do what you have to to defend yourself. Okay?” “Stay out of this, Emma,” Ty warned, taking an indirect route at me like he didn’t believe that I wasn’t going to fight back. “Yeah,” I said, looking at her. Tears were streaking her face, but I couldn’t retract the offer now. Had I known she’d be crying more now than she had when Ty had been saying those terrible things to her, I might not have made this deal with Ty, but that was hindsight. “Stay out of this, Em.” Gripping her shoulders, I guided her into the crowd, handing her over to a girl I recognized who lived on the same floor as her and Julia. “I know it’s hard for you, but stop being an idiot,” she pleaded when I turned to face a two minute beating. “The last guy he used those things on was unconscious by the second punch.” I glanced back at her and winked. “Good thing I’m not the last guy.” I was just looking back around when a cool crack crushed into my jaw. The crowd gasped—Emma screamed. So, of course, I laughed—again. I should have been expecting the sucker punch from the master of all things suck. It was an oversight I wouldn’t make again. “I told you to punch me, not to give me a sweet little kiss on the cheek,” I said, pretending to smear the kiss away. His next hit was fast and loaded with a potent amount of

power. Not to mention the brass knuckles had a way of driving a punch so deep you could feel it radiate through the ends of every nerve. Spinning around to the crowd, I lifted my arms to the sky. “Did someone turn a fan on in here?” The next was an upper cut that felt like it would have shattered my jaw had I not been so . . . invincible. “Is there a butterfly migration going on? I keep feeling the gentle brush of velvety wings on my face.” A few members of the crowd laughed at my weak attempts at humor, but most stared like they were about to witness an execution. Emma was now being held back by two of her brothers who’d appeared with the rest of Stanford. That was a relief because I knew they wouldn’t let her get anywhere near to the cluster f-bomb taking place in the arena created by gawking bodies. By the fifth hit, I wasn’t making witty comments anymore. And by the eighth, I wasn’t laughing either. I hadn’t been in more than a handful of brawls with beings of a fragile nature, but when I had, the random hit I’d let past my defenses to experience what it felt like had felt like nothing. Like someone tapping at me to get my attention, not to cause me physical damage. Then again, I’d never experienced the wrath of a man who was likely related to the devil, wielding a convincing pair of brass knuckles. Spitting out the metallic taste swirling in my mouth, I realized this was one of those experiences I didn’t want to have again. Once was enough. I hadn’t felt this Mortal since the day I’d died with the rest of my family. A quick jab, followed by a hook, rocked me back on my heels, but I recovered, assuming my spot in the center of the ring. I’d made myself a sitting duck, refusing to duck, not about to block him, and keeping my promise to not strike back. I’d promised the man two minutes to dole out a free for all beating and he wasn’t going to let a second pass wasted. I kept myself angled towards Emma because I knew I’d find the strength in her I needed when every fiber of my survival instincts begged to be set free. She’d called the cops after the first hit. I’d heard her

brothers advising her not to, and I’d heard her succinct, one word answer, but we both knew Palo Alto’s finest wouldn’t be here before the two minutes was done. She never stopped fighting against her brothers. I don’t know what she thought she’d do once she did break free, but I hoped she was seeing a piece of the woman I saw when I looked at her. She was a scrapper, courageous to the core, yet she didn’t see it. As Ty completed making a punching bag of my head, she threw herself hard against her brothers, getting the closest she had to busting loose. “Just a walk in the park, Em,” I called over at her, spitting the bitter taste from my mouth again. This time, there was blood. I hadn’t bled real, red blood since 1806. RussoPersian War. Long Story. “A walk in the park,” I repeated, bracing myself as Ty threw his fist into my stomach. I curled over, wondering if time had decided to slow to a crawl so it could have a good laugh at Patrick Hayward getting his butt handed to him. Vulnerable, Ty charged into me, hoisting me into the air with his shoulder. And then I was flying, but not in the cool, trippy way I did in my dreams. In the this-is-going-to-hurt-like-hell kind of way. I skidded across the sidewalk face first. The pissant had thrown me onto concrete. Face first. I wanted a piece of him so badly I had to wind my hands behind my back and lace them together so I wouldn’t be tempted. At my current level of anger and agony, I’d kill him with one strike. Ty’s feet came into view, although my eyes were glazed and no longer able to open all the way. They were swelling closed. Ty seemed to have picked an excellent day to throw on a pair of steel toed boots, at least that’s what I had a good internal laugh about before they started taking turns bashing me in the face. I hadn’t felt pain like that ever. Not even when I’d been shot close range in the stomach my last day of Mortality. Immortals experienced pain on a superficial level, if ever, but I was feeling it like it was cutting me open and spilling my insides out in the process. I’d never felt so human. Couldn’t have picked a worse day to feel Mortal.

I kept my hands locked behind me, not about to act the part of a coward and protect myself when the seconds were ticking to an end. I wouldn’t go down as someone who ran out of courage at the last minute. I didn’t want that to be my legacy. Black dots were just beginning to cloak my vision when I heard a chorus of shouts. “Time!” most yelled. “Your two minutes are up, Ty!” some called. “Get him the hell off of him before he kills him!” a couple called. “Patrick!” one voice screamed—the only voice that mattered. Releasing their sister, Austin and Tex charged Ty, each one grabbing a shoulder and pulling him away from me, but he still managed to get a few last kicks in. “Stay down, punk” he sneered, fighting against the Scarlett brothers’ holds. Two minutes was up, I’d taken it like a man, keeping my promise and honoring my deal, and I was hurting hard core. My body felt like it’d just gone through an assembly line of heavy weights throwing their top-notch, grade A TKO punches. I could have curled up and gritted my teeth until my body did the Immortal thing and recovered itself like a new shiny penny, but because he’d told me to stay down, I did the opposite. Trying to right myself with as little hobbling as my busted body could, I had to spit out the warm fluid trickling in my mouth before I could reply. More red, lots more red. “That’s it? Just a wham, bam, thank you ma’am and you’re gone?” My body was broken, but my voice carried just fine. “No cuddling after or anything?” The crowd’s eyes did a unified amplification, like if they hadn’t been before, they were now looking at a dead man. The humor in that was that I’d been a dead man before their great great grandparents had been born. Ty fought harder to free himself, but the only thing more hulking on campus than him was the Scarlett brothers. He’d have better luck freeing himself from Alcatraz. I didn’t know if he was incapable of responding because his quivering red face was taking up all his energy or if he didn’t have a comeback worthy enough to speak, but I was relieved I’d

managed to shut him up. He wouldn’t look at Emma as he was dragged out of the circle, and I realized I’d never heard him disrespect her around her brothers. He must know all gloves came off if he talked that way to their sister. My estimation of the Scarlett boys increased two-fold. “Thanks again for the rub down,” I yelled over the diminishing crowd to Ty, because I never knew when to quit. “You really worked all my kinks out. Same time, next week?” I heard another growl and surge of effort, but Ty didn’t bust through the crowd to take another swing at me. Too bad, because one solid round house to the mouth would have been one of the few things to make me feel better. Well, that, and one set of arms wrapping around me like she was trying to put me back together. God, I could have melted into a puddle of slush from those arms. “Why did you do that?” she cried into my chest. “What the heck were you thinking?” I dropped my stiff arms around her, trying not to wince. “I thought you would have noticed by now I don’t think too often.” My humor was still intact—that was a sure sign I was going to make it. However, I did not want to see my mutilated face before the magic fairy dust of Immortality had done its work and repaired me back to good as new. I’d never be the same if I did. Sniffling, she looked at me. “That’s not true,” she said, her hand skimming over my face like she was trying to erase the swollen, bloody, bruised, gashed, meatball of flesh. “You’re the most thoughtful person I’ve ever known. I know you did that because you thought it through, not because it was an impulsive, testosterone fueled decision. And I’d thank you, but I can’t be thankful for something that did this to you.” Tears were skiing down her face unchecked, but her voice gave no sign of them. If we were in a dark room, I wouldn’t have guessed she was crying the tears of a new widow. She wouldn’t give herself more than one release of sadness, her strength ran that deep. “You don’t have to be thankful, Em,” I said, seeing two of

her every other heartbeat. Trippy. “I’m thankful enough for the both of us that your monster of a boyfriend shut up and left. But I meant what I said,”—I looked at her as hard as a pair of swelling shut eyes could—“if that bastard says so much as he doesn’t like the color of your shirt and I hear about it, there’s not going to be a time limit and I’m not holding back. You understand?” She nodded, her face forming around a different kind of sadness. The kind that ran deep and couldn’t be fixed. “I know, Patrick. I know,” she said, her voice as sad as her face. “That’s why I meant what I said earlier.” My blood battered brows rose in confusion; she’d said a lot earlier. “You need to leave me alone. Alone, alone. I can’t have you and Ty in my life at the same time. One, or both of you, is going to wind up dead.” She paused, swallowing a rock in her throat. “Just forget about me, Patrick. It won’t be hard to do. I promise.” “Emma, what the hell?” I felt numb from the hit I’d just taken to my heart. “The ambulance will be here soon,” she said, pressing a lingering kiss into my cheek. It was so rich in emotion, history, and goodbyes it choked the words right out of me. The first time I’d felt her lips on my skin was the last time I’d see her again if I did what she was asking and left her alone and forgot all about her. I might have cried my first tear in a long time just then. So much warm fluid was flowing from every surface inch of my face I couldn’t be sure, but that familiar burning feeling in my eyes was there. And everything inside me certainly felt like crying. “Goodbye, Patrick,” she whispered beside my ear, before winding out of our embrace and pushing herself through the couldn’t-get-enough-of-this-train-wreck spectators, running in the opposite direction. I’d seen too much of Emma’s fleeing back today. The pain surged in a fresh wave with the healing balm of her touch now removed. I would have collapsed to the ground and let the pain, pity, and regret eat me away until I was swallowed by the ground, but I heard the wail of

approaching sirens. I didn’t want to explain why their needles couldn’t puncture my skin or why every wound on my body would be vanished like it’d never existed in a couple hours. “Run,” I told myself, feeling like I was going to need to whip myself to leave this spot where Emma had just held me like everything was going to be all right, like everything I’d gone through wasn’t for nothing, like I was going to be all right. She took all my hopes when she ran away. “Run,” I repeated under my breath, the sirens turning the corner. The crowd was already parting so the men with their boxes could sew up the bloody blob who used to look like a man five minutes ago. “Dammit, Patrick Hayward. Run!” It took a slow inhalation and my forearm thrust to my chest, but I did. I ran. I ran away from the sirens, away from the crowd, away from my problems, away from everything that had the potential to hurt me. Problems, no matter big or small, had a way of running faster than you and could be counted on to be waiting for you, rested and ready to pick up right where they’d left off, by the time you got to wherever you were running. I knew that, I’d learned that lesson a million times over, but it didn’t stop me from trying.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN I ran all the way to the edge of the Pacific, to the beach house where Emma’s sunny sweet smell assaulted me when I stepped in the door. She still lingered here, but once the scent was gone, no part of her would be here again. The two hour run had done me good. Teleportation could have gotten me here in a blink, but when I ran, when I really let myself tear the ground apart, my mind emptied, and that was just what I needed. I ran until I couldn’t remember my name. But no matter how furiously I surged ahead, I couldn’t forget hers. I tore my battle ruined clothes off as I entered the guest bedroom and took a full length investigation of my body in the closet mirror. I was almost good as new, except for a couple of gashes over my brows that felt like they’d split open to the bone. They might take another hour to heal like they’d never been there. But I knew, once I was fully healed, while my skin wouldn’t bear the scars of this day, the stuff that ran just below the skin would hold every scar like a mother holds a baby. I’d never fully heal from this day. Accepting my fate by punching a fist-sized hole through the mirror, I cleared the bed of all things Emma, everything I’d picked for her, everything I’d wanted for her. I crawled into the covers, naked as the day I was born, broken as the day I died, aching to feel her arms around me. Aching to feel her anyway I could. It was in that space between awake and asleep that I found her. She was waiting for me—she’d been waiting for me all along. She’d only needed me to look for her in the right place. I didn’t let myself slip into sleep. I stayed in this space, caught in between worlds, belonging to neither. I stayed with her and she stayed with me. If we couldn’t be together in this world or that, we’d create our own to be together. It was, perhaps, the most meaningful epiphany of my life.

I laid low for a few days, despite it nearly killing me. Every other second I wanted to go find Emma, so the seconds in between I convinced myself to stay put. It was driving me mad, feeling like I was being torn down the middle. So I communed with the waves to find the solace I was lacking, and when they grew tired of me, I tucked a blanket around myself and lounged beneath the stars beside a fire I couldn’t seem to give much life to. Even the embers missed her. I lay beneath that vast night sky believing Emma might be doing the same thing, and this small thing was perhaps the only right I had to claim of a girl that wasn’t mine. I even tried to give perspective to my problems the way Emma could when she viewed the night sky, but no matter how long or hard I looked, it didn’t work for me. My problems didn’t seem any smaller, any less significant, and their weight didn’t lighten. I knew what I had to do before I could say goodbye. Before I could “just leave her alone.” I had to tell her how I felt. Holding nothing back. Leaving nothing to interpretation. Tear open my chest and expose my soul to her. That was the only way I could move forward with no regrets. If, after laying it all on the table, she still wanted me to disappear from her life . . . well, it would rip my beating heart from my chest, but I’d do it. I’d do anything for her, even if the last thing was saying goodbye. I didn’t know how I was going to look at the girl I loved and tell myself the only thing left to do was walk away, but I prayed I’d find the strength to do so when and if that moment arrived. By Thursday night, I hoped my face—that had healed as if a pair of brass knuckles hadn’t beat it to hell—wouldn’t cause too much alarm. Three days after taking a beating of that caliber, the swelling and bruising should have just begun to peak, so I was a fool for hoping Emma wouldn’t notice this if I didn’t give her something bigger to think about. I was counting on my tell-all profession to do the trick.

A few minutes away from the campus, I punched a number in my cell, hoping I still had one ally on my side. Four rings, and then a click. “What?” “Jules, it’s me.” “Hey, Me,” she said, turning down the grunge rock raging in the background. “I heard our favorite person in the world went all VanDamme on your pretty little face. I hope he didn’t do too much permanent damage.” Running a yellow light, I said, “Don’t worry. My face is just as breathtaking as before.” “Thank the gods.” “Where is she, Jules?” I asked, drifting around the corner of the campus’s entrance. “I messed up. I need to see her.” She sighed into the phone, no reply coming. “Please, Jules,” I said. “If she still hates me when I’ve said what I’ve needed to say since the day after I met her, I’ll leave her alone. I promise.” This, despite being a promise I didn’t want to keep, was one I knew I could. “All I can say is you two better name your first child, girl or boy, after me,” she said. “It’s against my kind’s policy to be a purveyor of all things of a mushy, lovey dovey variety and you’ve made me a regular Yenta.” “You’re an angel among goth chicks, Jules.” “She’s at a study group in the library. She’ll be done at eight.” “I’m buying you your first place out of college,” I said, jerking the Mustang around the corner, heading to the library. Heading to Emma. Julia laughed. “I’m holding you to that. And don’t think you can get away with a fifth wheeler rotting away in a trailer park. Don’t let the clothes fool you—I’m a girl who enjoys the finer things in life.” “Whatever you want, Jules. I owe you big time,” I said, pulling into the first available parking spot. “Gotta go.” “Go get her, sexy buns,” she said with a purr before hanging up. I could see the library from where I was parked. I imagined I could see Emma through its brick walls, leaning over a book, tapping her forehead with a pencil in concentration. It was every day moments like these I

wanted to live a lifetime of. Every day moments I was minutes away from possibly losing forever. I bowed my head against the steering wheel, calming myself, saying prayers to whoever would listen, thinking positive thoughts. I’d never lacked for confidence, and I’d always felt grounded in who I was and proud to be that person. I was a man who knew what I was made of, but I was an instant away from finding out if that man was good enough for Emma Scarlett. If everything I’d made of myself was anything she wanted. Slamming my hands against the dashboard to release some tension, I threw open the door and took the first step in closing the physical and, fate willing, the emotional distance, between Emma and me. It was a few minutes before eight, so I focused my nervous energy on jogging around the lamps lining the sidewalk when what I really wanted to do was rip each one out and heave it as far as I could throw it. Now that would have been a tension reliever, but I didn’t need Emma to add any more evidence to the proof I was a “wild card.” Like some bloody chick flick, it started to rain. I was going to tell a woman—the woman—everything of a mushy quality that went against every male instinct to divulge in the middle of a rainstorm under the cover of night. Under the light of a line of lanterns glowing yellow. Insert wrist-slitting sappy music here. I’d dressed for the occasion, three piece suit and all. I figured I’d worn one the better part of my life, why shouldn’t I on the day I told Emma Scarlett the way I felt? Too bad it was now drenched and clinging to my body like spandex. Expensive, silk spandex. Running a hand through my hair, trying to get it to stay out of my face, I heard the library door open. I knew it was her before I turned around. That was what happened when you tied your soul to another’s—you were aware of them on a subconscious level that could never be turned off. She didn’t see me. Drenched, desperate, drowning under the light of a lamp, she didn’t even look my way. It was clear to me now her feelings did not mirror mine. Her soul hadn’t done any reciprocal tying. She didn’t sense me

before she could see me. She didn’t even see me. I was still going to say what I’d come here to say, even though I knew I’d be hanging my head when all was said and done. I was at the summit and I wasn’t going to let all that climbing be for nothing. “Emma,” I shouted at her back as she jogged through the rain. She stopped mid stride, turning like she was moving through mud. “Don’t be upset,” I said, taking slow steps towards her. “I’m just here to tell you something and that’s it. I’ll leave you alone after that if you still want me to.” The rain was painting dark streaks down her dress, running streams down her face, but she didn’t duck beneath the nearest tree—she walked towards me. “I’ve been worried about you,” she said. “Someone told me you ran away before the ambulance came. And you missed class.” With the two of us closing the space between us, we were standing in front of each other with one last step keeping us apart. “Are you all right?” she asked, looking up into my eyes first, before taking in the rest of my face. “No,” I answered, “I’m not. But it’s not because of what Ty did to me—it’s because of what you did to me.” She nodded once, like she knew just what I was talking about. “I’m sorry. For everything. I’ve done nothing but make a mess of your life.” I took a half step forward, placing my arms on her arms. “It’s not really your fault at all. It’s mine.” “No, nice try, but that doesn’t make any sense at all. You’ve done nothing but be wonderful to me. I’ll take all the blame for whatever you want to lay on me.” She shrugged off her backpack, letting it slide to the sidewalk, but her shoulders still hung with the weight of something. I could let this deter me, she could deter me anyway she wanted, but I couldn’t risk losing the limited time I had with her. I’d come here with one thing to confess. “Why do you keep running away from me?” I asked, not employing this wonderful communication skill known as tact. “Why do you keep pushing me away when I get close?”

I wanted to know, because I knew she knew. I wanted to be able to circle one of the endless answers I’d come up with as to why she turned and ran at the very moments I’d been expecting her to run into my arms. “Why don’t you run away from me?” she asked, forcing her eyes to mine. “Why don’t you push me away? Can you even answer that?” I stared at that freckled, rain-dotted, sweet with a twinge of ever present anguish face, and I was staring at my answer. “Of course I can,” I said. “I like you, Emma. I like you a lot.” She exhaled sharply. “You don’t like me. You like the idea of me,” she said, like she’d been preparing this speech in her head for awhile. “You like the idea of saving the poor girl with a checkered past. The idea of having a girl who belongs to another guy. The idea of having a girl who keeps telling you no,” she continued, weaving out of the brace of my hands. “But then, when you’re done with me, what am I left with? Besides a broken heart and a future just like my past to look forward to?” I couldn’t reply right away. I hadn’t expected this from her, wouldn’t have guessed in a year’s worth of guessing that these fears plagued her. I wanted to put together a thoughtful rebuttal to the insanity recently verbalized. “Emma,” I said, finally. “I don’t want to conquer you. I don’t want you because of Ty. Or because you keep saying no.” I reached for her face to tilt it up to mine, but she twisted away from it. “I like you because of you and you alone.” She closed her eyes and tried to step away from me. I wouldn’t let her. Not now that we were getting to the heart of what was keeping us apart. “How do you know?” she snapped, still trying to pull away from me. “How can you be so darn sure you like me for wonderful me?” she said, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “Because I know.” “You don’t know,” she replied. “Don’t tell me what I don’t know,” I said, pressing forward because there was no further left to go backwards with

Emma. “I know because, before I met you, I didn’t have this gaping fissure cutting through my damn heart,” I said, thumping my fist over my chest, my voice elevating. “And now that you were kind enough to put one there, I know there’s no way of going back. No going back to pre-heart gaping fissure. And the hell of it is that no one can fix that fissure except for you. The one who made it.” Hair was glued around my face again and there was currently not a single scrap of me that wasn’t drenched, but the chill couldn’t cut through the heat coursing through me. “So that’s it. That’s how I know I like you, Emma Scarlett.” Her face gave nothing away, but then the corner of her lip began to quiver. “You like me?” she said to herself, like it was the most unbelievable thing. “No,”—her eyes snapped to mine like they were about to lose the game of staying unemotional—“that’s not exactly the right word.” I inhaled, willing the words I needed to say to come out right. “I kind of fell in love with you weeks ago and have been too scared of losing you to tell you.” Not the most moving profession of love one man had issued to a woman, but it was mine. “You love me?” she said to herself again, like it was even more unfathomable than me liking her. “Why?” “Because I do.” It was that simple to me. Love is a simple thing by nature, people just like to screw it up and make it heavier than it is meant to be. That’s why it’s earned such a bad name. “It doesn’t make sense,” she whispered, giving me a look like I was as unattainable to her as the angels in heaven. “Is love supposed to?” I replied, taking a chance as I pulled her to me, not sure if she’d let me. She didn’t just let me, she came of her own accord. “Because if you need some proof to believe it, I’ve got an ocean of it,” I said, angling my mouth towards her ear. “I could tell you how I didn’t know I was lost until I found you. Or I could tell you how I have this ache in my gut when I’m not with you because I can’t keep you safe. I could tell you there isn’t a single thing about myself I like so much I wouldn’t be willing

to change it for you. Or I could just tell you loving you is the most certain thing I’ve ever known.” Her hands clasped around my back, tugging me closer to her. “So, Emma, now it’s your turn. Why have you been pushing me away?” Her head left its resting place below my chin. Staring at me with a deeper vulnerability than I realized she had, she said, “For the exact same reason.” And there it was. I hadn’t even needed to hear the words. They were etched in every line of her face, in the way the curtain lifted from her eyes and I saw, for the first time, need and affection and possession in them when she looked at me. I saw the reciprocation I’d been certain wasn’t there. I couldn’t have been more wrong. She’d been hiding it, for whatever reason I didn’t know, and right now, it didn’t matter. One thing on my mind. “I’m going to kiss you now,” I said, settling my hands over her face. “And I’m not planning on stopping for awhile.” She smiled, the real one—the good one—but there was something else peaking it a little higher at one side. Something I wanted to see more of. “It’s about time,” she said, crossing that last half-step separating us. And then we were one. Bodies melding into one another, lips colliding together like they had minds all their own. Her kiss was sweet, but not particularly gentle. So, basically, it was perfect. I wasn’t sure what I’d been wasting my time kissing in the past, but being lip-locked with Emma Scarlett kind of made my kissing girls from all around the world seem frivolous, amateur at best, when kissing could be this good. It wasn’t like a first kiss because we knew each other too intimately for that. And it wasn’t like a last kiss because we’d only just begun. It was the kiss you spend your whole life waiting for. The kiss you wish would swallow you whole so you’d always be living it. This was the kiss of a lifetime, shared with a woman I’d spent a few lifetimes waiting for. Only when her breathing became erratic from loss of oxygen did I pull myself back. It was a feat of willpower Tibetan monks would have given the thumbs up to. “Wow,” she said, working to regulate her breathing.

“Now that I know you’re a kissing god, let me apologize for the disappointment. I’m a bit out of practice,” she said, her cheeks burning beneath the rain trailing down them. “Kissing Ty was like making out with a snake—all tongue and no lips,” she said, doing an exaggerated shudder while I worked at keeping the flash of rage caged. “I tried to avoid it at all costs.” “I have an easy solution for getting you back in practice, you know,” I said, sliding the sheets of wet hair behind her shoulders. I understood why those romantic comedy directors dug the kissing in the rain scene. It was tough to beat. She tried giving me a stern look that ended up being too playful for me not to give her an example. So I showed her. “Practice,” I whispered in the space between our mouths, rivers of rain polishing our lips. And I showed her again. “Tireless days and nights of practice,” I said a minute later, and this time my own breath was hitching in a way I’d never felt before. Another very Mortal, non-Immortal paramount—shortness of breath. “I like the way you think,” she said, sucking a drop of rain from my bottom lip. I lost the feeling in my lower half, it was that paralyzing of a sensation. I wanted to rinse and repeat that feeling a couple dozen times a day. And this time, she showed me. It didn’t seem like she needed much practice to get her “back-in-practice,” but I suppose since everyone passing by was giving us a good ten second rubber-neck, we were accelerating her through an intensive course. A couple passed us and, even though they were no threat and a few car lengths away, I couldn’t shut my survival instincts off even though the woman in front of me was kissing the living daylights out of me. Now that I had something priceless, all my own, to love and protect, I wasn’t about to put the indestructible killer running through me up on a shelf. “Isn’t that the guy who got his ass beat by that chick’s boyfriend?” one said to the other, like it was common knowledge.

“Yep,” the other replied. “Looks like he’s going to take another beating too.” That conversation got me thinking about something other than the way Emma’s mouth felt against mine. “Call him and end it,” I said, running my hands down her neck. “I don’t want any piece of him between us for another minute. End it.” It was a plea, not a demand, but it was also a need, not a want. Fear, raw and rugged, coated her eyes before she threw that curtain over them. “I’ve been avoiding him all week,” she said in a small voice. “I think he’s got the picture.” “Make it official.” I slid the phone out of my dripping suit pocket, holding it out for her. “Tell him I’m your man. Tell him I’m yours and you’re mine and if he comes within a football field of you, I won’t hesitate to send him back to hell with the rest of his demon brethren.” She bit her lip, looking down. “Be free of him for good.” I held my finger at the ready, only needing the numbers. I’d call him for her if that’s what she needed. Hell, it would have been a pleasure. “Okay,” she breathed, nodding her head. “I’ll tell him tonight. Now,” she clarified, picking up her backpack to leave. “If you think I’m letting you out of my buff, lonely, desperate arms any time tonight, you’re gravely mistaken,” I teased, pulling her back to me. “You can break up with him right here. No hands required.” I adjusted the phone beside her ear, and smiled. She took a heavy breath, attempting to draw in something she was short on. “After six years of cowering to him, I’m going to face him now. For the first time, I’m going to stand up to him so the last thing he’ll remember of me was that I wasn’t afraid of him anymore.” “Okay, Em, you’re freaking me out a bit here,” I said, rubbing slow circles into her arms. “All this talk about cowering and being afraid and standing up is painting a picture of Ty keeping you locked in a dungeon or something.” I laughed an uneasy one, waiting for her to join in. When she didn’t, I went blank faced. “He didn’t. Did he?”

“No,” she answered, hugging me to her and, while I would never be one to put up a fight when Emma wanted me close, I got the distinct feeling this was an attempt to keep me from seeing what was happening on her face. “Of course not. This is just something I have to do in person. On my own,” she added, guessing what I was going to say next. I clutched her to me, tucking her head beneath my chin. The girl had guts, but she was crazy if she thought I was going to let that happen. “You must think Ty knocked something loose if you believe I’m going to let you go to that sadist alone. Hell to the absolute no. Over my dead body.” Or, at least my dead dead body. I was bouncing on the balls of my feet at the thought, the tension was that intense. I wanted to outlet it into Ty’s snake kissing face. Her tiny hands molded around my neck. “I need you to trust me on this,” she said, sounding calm, but looking anything but. “I don’t need to trade one possessive boyfriend for another.” There it was, the nuke that decimated my resolve. How could I argue around that point? As much as I didn’t want to see it, as much as I wanted to excuse my alpha dominance on the situation, she was right. I was acting possessive, throwing around ultimatums and orders like I was the director of the scene of her life. Like I’d said, I didn’t want to conquer her. I wanted to conquer life with her at my side. “Fine,” I said before I could change my mind. “But you keep your finger on my speed dial, and if he comes within a two foot radius of you, you call me. If that’s good with you,” I muttered when her eyebrow peaked. “Quite good with me,” she replied, shouldering her bag and kissing the corner of my mouth as she turned to leave. “Dammit, dammit, dammit,” I said under my breath, kicking the sidewalk because none of this felt right. Her walking away from me towards Ty, a man I wouldn’t trust if the world’s fate depended on it, to tell him she was breaking it off. Ty didn’t strike me as the kind of guy that took being dumped very well. She spun around, continuing to walk away. “I heard that,”

she said, wagging a finger at me. “Meet me back at my dorm in a couple hours. We’ll celebrate me cheating on my soon-to-be ex-boyfriend whose heart I’m off to break.” “I’ll bring the champagne,” I hollered, pretending I’d nailgunned my feet in a dozen different places to the sidewalk so I wouldn’t chase after her. So I wouldn’t become that possessive boyfriend she didn’t want. So I wouldn’t be there to protect her if she needed it. My stomach turned, and then turned again. My instincts, my gut, was firing on all cylinders, ordering me to go with her. Screaming at me that something wasn’t right. However, I was no longer a one man operation, able to submit to whatever I was feeling at the time I was a half of a whole and, as novice as I was at relationships, I knew the quickest way to find yourself out of one was to go in the opposite direction of the other half. No matter how strong the bond was, it could only hold so long when its halves were fighting in the opposite directions. I watched her go, having no faith in the decision I’d made to stay behind.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN The first hour I didn’t move from my sentinel over the sidewalk. I bent my head into the rain, shielding the dry spot her body had formed against mine. But then the storm picked up, and the wind swept the rain from every angle, and no amount of shielding from me could keep her spot protected from the storm. The second hour, I wound up sprinting around the courtyard, burning off nerves with high knees, jumps, and side-shuffling. To any passersby, I knew I looked like the man they’d heard referred to as the one who’d gone off the deep end, my suit plastered to my body, running football meets cross country drills in the middle of campus. At ten o’clock at night. In a rain storm. I was on my fifty-seventh set of push-ups when my phone shrieked. Scrambling to get to it, I was on my feet and jogging towards Emma’s dorm. “Emma?” I answered, feeling a fresh dose of nerves. “Patrick,”—it was Julia, and Julia like I’d never heard her, terrified—“get yourself the hell over here. As fast as you can.” Her voice was shaking on the other side. “It’s Emma.” That was all I needed to hear, my jog accelerated until the buildings were blurring sheets of dark brown and black as I swept by them. Rain drops hit me like pebbles from the inertia, the ground beneath me gave at every footstep, and the wind cut my face until, if I’d been any less Immortal, it would have stung. I was outside her dorm in thirty seconds, ready to rip the door from its hinges when I found it locked. Taking a quick surveillance of the surrounding area, finding it free of people as far as my preoccupied mind could tell, I chanced it. “Damn it all to hell,” I said, going from banging at the front door of the building to banging on Emma and Julia’s door. A couple students milling out of the bathrooms took a

double take, but I really didn’t give a rat’s arse if they saw me appear from nowhere. Even in their most wild of dreams wouldn’t they devise the truth. “Julia!” I shouted, hammering on the door. “Emma? Let me in.” I was about to take this door from its hinges too when I heard someone scurry across the floor as the lock turned over. I threw the door open and took in the scene like I’d found myself in my own personal nightmare. The worst kind of one. The one your parents told you wasn’t real and was just a figment of your imagination. I wanted to believe that now, that this wasn’t real. That this was a figment of my imagination. But blood had never run with such precision down someone’s face in my nightmares the way it was on Emma’s. “What the hell happened?” I whispered, my words barely choking their way out. Shutting the door, I rushed to Emma. She was draped in a white sheet, curled in a ball on top of her bed. Julia’s hands appeared between us, tucking the sheet tighter around her. “I don’t know,” she answered, her body trembling like her voice was. “She just showed up here like this a couple minutes ago. She wouldn’t tell me what happened. I wanted to call the cops or 911 or something, but the only thing she said to me was to call you.” Julia grabbed the black comforter from her bed and parachuted it over Emma. “That’s all I know.” “Emma?” I whispered, lowering my head until my eyes were at her level. But her eyes didn’t resemble eyes anymore. Both were so swollen shut they looked like they were plums about to explode. Bright red bruises were splattered over her face like a road map. Blood, both fresh and dried, matted the entirety of her hair, along with the majority of her neck and face. And this was just the damage sustained from neck-up. I didn’t have the heart to pull the sheet back to inspect the rest of it yet. Although I knew I had to. It was now my job to do so. “Emma?” I whispered again, having to bite my hand so I

didn’t burst into tears or bust open the room. One corner of her mouth lifted before sagging back into place. “Hi, handsome,” she replied, her voice a ragged whisper. I bit my hand harder, but it didn’t stop a tear from leaking its way free. I pressed a soft kiss into her mouth, my salty tear mixing with her metallic blood. I had to share this gentle peace with her before I asked my next question. Before I turned into a merciless angel of death. “Ty?” I said, sneering the word like it was poison. Her head made the smallest recognition. “Ty,” she answered. Running one hand down her face, my hand came away coated in red. I could have made an impression on paper of my handprint dipped in Emma’s blood. Red was what I was coated in, red was what I saw, red was what I felt. Rage was what I became. “I’m going to kill him,” I said, my eyes falling on just the thing I needed. Grabbing the baseball bat from beneath Julia’s bed, I spun it in the air, catching it in the other hand. “He’s a dead man.” A rapping came at the door as I was preparing to twist it open with only one thing on my mind. Revenge. A trio of Scarlett brothers smashed in the doorway, their faces ranging from concerned to disturbed. “Someone told us they saw Emma stumbling into the building looking like she’d been hit by a car,” Tex said, studying me in my enraged stupor, white knuckles gripping a baseball bat with both hands. Stepping aside, I made room for them to pass. “Take a look at what your best buddy is capable of!” I shouted, aiming some of my anger at them for letting a monster like Ty slip under their radar. They stood like a trio of statues beside Emma’s bed, looking like they were trying to confirm the battered woman in front of them was their little sister. “Did any of you know about this? Did any of you know he was capable of this?” My voice shook with my rage. “Excuse me?” Dallas said, getting in my face. “What did

you say there, Babe Ruth?” He shoved his chest against mine, his anger jacking up to my level. “How do we know it wasn’t you who beat our sister all to hell with the butt end of your Louisville Slugger?” That wasn’t the smartest thing to say to a man who was a hair away from snapping. I shoved him back into his brothers to give my arm some leverage to land a powerful punch. At the same time a black velvet covered pair of arms wrestled around me, two pairs of brother arms wrapped around Dallas. “Patrick, knock it off,” Julia yelled, trying to hold a ticking time bomb back. “Come on, Emma doesn’t need this shit right now.” “Stop, you guys,” Emma’s hoarse voice carried above the chaos of the room. “Don’t fight.” I squeezed my eyes closed, trying to let her words and my better judgment restore my willpower to refrain from throwing Dallas out the window. “Shame on you,” I said, wondering if my nostrils were billowing smoke. “Shame on you,” I repeated, figuring if once made him grimace, twice would really bring the point home. I was not the enemy. Their childhood friend, their teammate, their drinking buddy, the monster they’d unknowingly sacrificed their sister to was the enemy. “And the bat is going to come in handy when I get close enough to Ty to bash his brains out his ear.” The fight left Dallas when Emma’s blood caked hand weaved into his. “It’s all right, Dal.” “Like hell it’s all right,” I spat, about to untangle Julia’s arms from me if she didn’t soon. My fight with Dallas was done, my fight with Ty would be done once I ensured he’d never be able to lift a hand to another woman again. “What happened, Em?” Dallas asked, covering her hand with both of his as he kneeled beside her bed. “Ty happened,” she answered, her shoulder lifting like it was just another day. And that’s when a proverbial light switch clicked on. “He’s done this before,” I stated, wishing I could have asked it with an inflection, but I already knew.

Emma only nodded her head. I wanted to dry heave into the closest garbage can. I wanted to scream until I shattered the windows. I wanted to have a moment of weakness, but Emma needed me to be strong. That was the only thing that kept me from tearing myself apart. “How many times?” Austin asked, unable to look at Emma, and I guessed it had a lot to do with him being the closest brother to Ty. “So many times I lost count,” Emma said, glancing at me. Looking at me like she was waiting for me to run away. Looking at me like she expected me to see a different person bleeding before me on her bed. The only person I saw was the girl I loved, and the girl I’d failed to protect. Something I was about to rectify shortly. In fact, I couldn’t stay in this room another second with the broken girl in front of me until I broke the body of the one who’d done the breaking. “You guys get her to the hospital to get checked out,” I ordered, shoving them aside as I made for the door. “I’ve got some unfinished business with a dead man.” Tex’s hand curled around the end of the bat. “Sorry, boy, but that beating is going to be ours. He beat our sister. He betrayed us. The blood on that bat belongs to us.” Tex had remained scary calm the entire time, and I now understood why. His calculating calm had formulated a plan while Dallas and Austin were letting their anger and betrayal drive them. “This is my fight,” I said, gripping the bat tightly. “This one isn’t. Emma’s been our sister for twenty years, she’s been your girl for twenty seconds,” Tex argued in his scary calm voice. “Patrick,” Emma called out, her hand slipping from Dallas’s in my direction, “stay with me. Don’t do this. Don’t repay blood with blood.” I stared at her outstretched hand for a solid ten seconds, and then I looked at the cold metal my hands were wound around. What were they still doing there when her warm hand was waiting for me? “Fine,” I said, relinquishing the bat to Tex. “Take a swing

at his balls compliments of me.” My hand found Emma’s and, somehow, everything felt right in the midst of everything being wrong. “I’ll take two,” Tex said, shouldering the bat. “One for you and one for Emma.” Opening the door, he paused, looking behind him. “Anytime you girls are ready. We’ve got some ass to kick.” Dallas pressed a kiss into Emma’s forehead, leaving an imprint of lips in the drying blood. “Don’t go,” Emma said, wincing as she tried to prop herself up on an elbow. “It’s not worth it.” “Yes, you”—Tex looked her hard in the eye—“are worth it. I didn’t watch a sorry excuse for a dad beat our mom to stand by and do nothing when the same thing happened to my little sister.” “Don’t,” Emma whispered. “Sorry, Em,” Tex said, shuffling the other two out the door. “I’m not the forgive and forget kind of guy. I’m the eye for an eye kind of guy,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “And it’s time Ty Steel felt my wrath.” The door slammed closed, locking an overwhelmed Julia, an anxious Emma, and me—and my bloody array of emotions that were so extreme they had yet to be named— away. “They’re going to ruin everything,” Emma said, looking at the door. “Their scholarships, their spots on the football team, their whole futures.” “No, they’re not,” I replied, trying to help her as she rolled back down onto the mattress. “They’re going to ruin Ty. Their futures and everything else will be waiting for them tomorrow morning.” Her split open brows moved into a familiar arch. “Trust me,” I added. Her head bobbed once. I took that as an affirmation she believed me. “Okay, Em, we need to get you checked out to see if you need any stitches or see if anything’s broken.” In my opinion, heralding from a multitude of doctors, a couple gashes above her eyebrows needed at least a few stitches, and I’d still been too scared to look below the neck. “Can you move or should I call an ambulance?” “No,” she said, trying to sit up again.

I held her down until I realized the significance of the gesture. Removing my hands braced over her shoulders, I realized how delicate I’d have to be about these kinds of situations. How much more sensitive a woman who’d seen the backside of a man’s hand would be to any shows of dominance, physical or emotional. Delicacy was something I wasn’t trained in, but I was certain it was something I could learn. She stayed down though, managing to form a smile of acknowledgment with her swollen lips. The lips I’d kissed like there was no tomorrow were now doubled in size on the top and tripled on the bottom, where a gaping wound split it down the center. I had to curl my fingers deep into her mattress to keep from punching a hole in the wall. “I don’t want to go to a hospital. I don’t want to go anywhere,” she said, closing her eyes. “My night’s been eventful enough without adding a trip to the emergency room to it.” I shook my head, not able to cave to her when it was her life we were talking about. “Please,” she said, her voice a whimper. “I can’t go there. I can’t roll in that place looking the same way my mom did the last time I visited the ER.” I silently cursed. What could I say to that? Even if she was bleeding from every pore, I’d have a tough time forcing her to go when she threw that at me. “You need to get checked out, Em,” was all I could manage, but if she said no again, I was up a creek. “Jules?” Emma croaked at her friend, who was still staring at the door like she was expecting it to burst open again. “Do you think your dad would be willing to make a home—dorm—visit?” Looking relieved to be given something to do, Julia snatched her phone off the desk, biting her mangled nails as the phone rang. “Dad?” she said. “I need you to get out of bed and get to my dorm ASAP. Emma’s hurt and she won’t go to a hospital. Will you come?” Julia said, sounding like a formality because she knew he would. That’s what a father

was meant to be, someone his daughter would never have to wonder if he was going to come when she needed him. Julia nodded. “See you soon. Love you, too,” she added, glancing our way as she tossed the phone back across the desk. “He’ll be here as soon as he can, but he’s way up in San Fran, so it will take him awhile to get here.” “Thanks, Jules,” Emma said, sighing. “You’ve done your good deed for the year.” “And on that note,” she replied, sliding a drawer open, “I need a cigarette. A pack of them.” She waved her hand at Emma when she opened her mouth. “Yeah, yeah, I know I said I was going to quit, but today was not a good day to quit smoking.” Flinging the door open, she jabbed a finger in my chest. “Patrick, I’m leaving her in your care. You okay?” she asked, glancing at Emma and having to glance away. “You got this?” she asked because she didn’t—she couldn’t do it. Few people could stomach the reminders of the fragile nature of the human condition bloodied across Emma’s face, but I was one of them. “I’ve got this,” I answered, nodding my head at the door. “Get some fresh air, Jules. You did a good job. I can take it from here.” “Thank you,” she mouthed at me, looking ashamed and relieved at the same time. “All right, beautiful,” I said, situating myself beside her. “I’ve got to get you cleaned up before the good doc gets here.” Given Julia’s oddities, I expected a Dr. Jekyll type to show up, but any doctor was better than no doctor at this point. “Let me know if this hurts anywhere,” I said, sliding my arms beneath her and lifting her as gently as I could. She lifted an arm to my neck, smiling up at me. “You know, I’ve had daydreams of this. Although you were shirtless, and I didn’t look like I was a post-op facelift patient.” “You’ve seen too many romance novel covers,” I said, steering her through the door, trying to glide with as little bounce in my motion as I could. “But I’d be happy to

recreate any and all daydreams you can muster up.” “Deal,” she said, her voice breaking. “Which way to the woman’s restroom?” I asked, looking up and down the hall. “Right,” she answered. “The last door on the left.” It took me awhile to get there, moving like I was gliding on thin ice, but I didn’t mind the journey with Emma in my arms. Putting my ear near the door, I listened for the tell tale signs of bathroom use. Hearing none, I kicked the door open and slid inside. I locked the door, not in the mood to explain why I was in here and in even less of a mood for lookie loos wanting to catch a peek of the poor battered girl so they could cluck their tongues and be thankful they weren’t weak enough to end up in that kind of a relationship. If a girl of Emma’s character could find herself trapped in an abusive relationship, no one was exempt. “This would be incredibly suspect right now,” Emma said, pointing her eyes at the locked door, “if I wasn’t certain you couldn’t be attracted to me in any way in my present state.” I smirked down at her, steering towards the shower stalls in the back. “I am attracted to you fifty ways to Sunday, Emma Scarlett.” A mangled giggle erupted into the quiet surrounding us. “You’re too much of a sweet talker for my own good.” “Guilty,” I said, lowering her to her feet, but I kept the bulk of her weight in my arms. “Do you think you can stand?” “I made it back to my dorm after . . .” she began, catching herself. “I think I can manage to stand in a shower.” Freeing more of her weight, I tested her strength to see if she was right. Her legs weren’t wobbling, her knees didn’t look like they were ready to fold under her, so I let the rest of her weight go. She didn’t even flinch. Cracked open by a pair of unrelenting fists and the woman was standing like a pillar of strength. Twisting the shower on, I tested the water until it was warm, but not hot. Warm would hurt, but hot would be unbearable running over all those raw wounds. I slid the curtain open for her, motioning it was all set for

her, then I turned my back to her. Turning away from the woman I loved as she was about to step into a shower was a hard thing to do, but it appeared that that weekend promise to be a gentlemen had been extended. The water ran undisturbed, and I could detect no trace of movement coming from the woman behind me. “Em?” “I can’t get my clothes off,” she said, her voice embarrassed. “My arms . . . I can’t move them very much.” My lids fell over my eyes before I could tell if that curtain of color seeping into them was a familiar color. I gripped the wall beside me for relief. “Do you think you could help me a little?” she asked, her voice small. “Unless it makes you uncomfortable.” “It doesn’t make me uncomfortable,” I lied, turning around. Everything about this situation made me uncomfortable, but unlike what she’d assumed, it wasn’t because I was about to strip my girlfriend of her clothes. It was because of why I was having to do it. She turned to me, like she was shy, although I couldn’t tell since her eyes had been punched shut. “Just tug it up and over and toss it in the garbage. Even if the stains come out, I don’t want to look at it and remember what happened.” I hitched my hands over my hips, forcing a deep inhale and a clearing exhale before I could proceed. Damn Ty Steel straight to hell for forcing me to do this, for putting her in this helpless position. She was clearly uneasy, and whether it was embarrassment, selfconsciousness, or awkwardness, it didn’t matter. I only had one solution to relieving discomfort and it had something to do with my dazzling sense of humor. I wasn’t sure if it could cut through a situation this heavy, but I was going to take a hack at it. “You’re my girlfriend for one day and you’re already begging me to take off your clothes,” I said, lifting my homerun grin into position. It hadn’t failed me to date. “I must be doing something right.” It was working, attacking the heavy with the light. The

muscles in her body took a combined exhale as she mimicked my smile. “Or something very wrong.” “You’re scandalous, woman,” I said, letting out a low whistle as I figured out how best to remove Emma’s previously lavender, now dark crimson, dress. My past was dotted and crossed with kissing women, I was what one might consider a kissing pro, but freeing women of their dresses was new territory for me. Sure, I’d slipped a button or two free, tugged a strap from a shoulder, slid a skirt an inch or two towards the heavens, but full-on removal? I was in unchartered territory. I slapped myself across the face, then I slapped myself again on the other side. I wasn’t being seduced, I was being sequestered because her best friend didn’t have the stomach for it and her brothers were, at present, practicing their swing. “So just, eh, undo these few buttons right here above the . . . eh”—my hands were fumbling worse than my words— so much for the incorrigible charmer I used to be—“around the northerly, eh, region . . . here, the”—I cleared my throat to fill in the blank—“area.” “Boobs,” Emma provided. “The boob area.” Damn skippy they were. “Bosoms,” I corrected, shifting a smile down at her. Just fleshy mounds of mammary glands and fat, I repeated when my heart started trying to bust out of my chest. The unbuttoning accomplished, I moved to Step B of the dress removal handbook. “So now we just slide these thinger-majiggers off,” I said, biting my lip in concentration as I decided what would be the least painful way to get them off her arms. I pulled on the neckline, trying to get it over her shoulder, but it wouldn’t stretch far enough. Emma shrugged her shoulder in, attempting to curl her elbow up, but her face blanched white with pain. “Now what?” I asked, trying to stretch it over the other shoulder with about as much success. “Just rip it off,” she said through gritted teeth.

Where was a good morphine drip when you needed one? Or a brother who kept one in his medical kit at all times. It would have been a godsend had teleportation ran in the family. “Rip it?” I asked, not because I couldn’t tear through the cloth like a sheet of vellum, but because it seemed like I shouldn’t. “Rip it,” she repeated. “Just pretend your ravaging me or something.” “Emma, I appreciate the innuendos, the parallels, all of it,” I said, letting out a sigh that was all exasperation. “I really do, but right now I’m having a tough time staying upright over here. A little help please?” “Fine,” she said. “No more foreplay for you then.” “You cheeky little thing,” I said, giving the neckline a sharp tear down the arm. One more on the other side, and the dress fluttered to the ground. It didn’t fall, it didn’t collapse, I swear with my hand to my chest it fluttered. And then Emma was standing in front of me naked except for a couple scraps of fabric, or at least I assumed she was because I couldn’t look at her right away. One, because I’d suddenly picked up on this elusive trait that had avoided me at every turn—also known as shyness—and it seemed to be the major influencer right now, and two, because I was scared to see what else Ty had done to her. If he’d been half as attentive to what was below the neck as he had to what was above it, I knew it would be gruesome. “So how bad is it?” she asked. “Is it pretty ghastly or really heinous?” Washing my hands over my face, I made myself look. Her body was speckled with varying degrees of bruising, some bursting bright red on the surface, others going deeper in putrid shades of burgundy. Bruises that were weeks old took up more real estate on her upper arms and legs than undamaged skin did. Blood had crested a roadmap of highways, twisting and turning down her body. It wasn’t half as bad as her face—it was more. Ending at her eyes, I said, “Neither. You’re beautiful.” She let out a sharp, raspy laugh. “Says the man in shock.”

I shook my head. “Says the man who knows beauty when he sees it.” Stepping forward, I rested my arm around her back. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” I followed her in the shower, angling the head so it would hit low. Water blasting over that face would feel like she was experiencing the beating all over again. “What are you doing?” she asked when she noticed me closing the curtain behind us. “You’ll get drenched.” I lifted my arms and did a spin. “I am drenched. At least now I’ll be drenched with warm water, not cold rain water.” “I don’t know,” she said, stepping backwards into the stream. “I seem to remember that rain water being pretty incredible stuff.” I wrestled out of the suit jacket and began fighting with the vest. “I seem to recall that too.” Throwing two of the three pieces of my favorite suit into the garbage can just outside the shower, I rolled up my sleeves as Emma continued turning a slow rotation under the shower. The bra and panties I’d assumed were a deep red were lightening with each spin, revealing patches of ivory smattered beneath. “Emma,” I said, having no other words as I watched the trails of blood scurry down her, disappearing down the drain, it taking a piece of her into it. “I always knew I’d have to paint myself red and get naked to get your attention,” she said, pausing in front of me. I didn’t know how she was able to make jokes in the midst of this, when someone like myself—the one man comedy show himself—couldn’t. Maybe it was a coping mechanism she’d learned when this all started, or maybe she just didn’t know what else to say. Whatever it was, I needed a moment alone and she needed some shampoo. “I’ll be right back. Will you be okay for a minute?” She gave me a thumbs up. “I think I can manage.” Ducking through the curtain, I headed for a row of cubbies containing shower baskets full of perfumey goodies and every other item of a bathroom relevance in existence.

Selecting a couple bottles of shampoo and conditioner, I gave myself an internal pep talk. Telling myself to be the man she needed me to be right now, to set aside my anger and guilt, my rage and remorse, and be whatever she needed. The bruises dotting her body like a damn Dalmatian had gotten to me, reminding me that I’d failed her. It wasn’t something I was going to do again. Shaking a few shower basket-caddy-thingys, I heard the familiar rattling I was searching for. Twisting off the cap, I removed two of the not-so-much over the counter pain killers, dropped the shampoo bottles in my pockets, and swiped a couple fresh towels from some unsuspecting coed’s locker. “Here, take these.” I handed Emma the pills as I slid behind the curtain. “Those should tame the pain down to a dull ache.” She didn’t ask what they were or whose they were, she just took them. She had every reason not to trust another human being after what she’d been exposed to, and here she was, trusting me. “So I’m not exactly Paul Mitchell, but I can give a not-tooshabby shampoo.” I pulled the bottle from my slacks and presented it like a sommelier holding a vintage bottle of wine. She looked between me and the bottle a few times, and then she laughed. Billowing laughter that echoed through the empty corners of the bathroom. To say I was perplexed would have been a bit rhetorical given the situation. “Look at us,” she said between bursts of laughter. “I look like I was at the epicenter of a rugby squirmish—in my underwear—and you’re in what’s left of a three piece suit, all wet, sexy, and brooding, looking like you’re about to shoot a shampoo ad. A shampoo, by the way, every girl would buy just so they could think of you while they were lathering their hair.” She was laughing so hard by now, she could have been crying. “You are mad, you know that right?” I said, incapable of not smiling when she was laughing like it was the best one

she’d had in awhile. “Of course I do,” she replied, attempting and failing to gain some composure. “But I’ve seen some strange things, and this,”—she motioned between the two of us—“is the oddest one of them all. I feel like I just stepped into some goth, slasher, romantic comedy movie or something.” “Since you’ve seen so many of those,” I said, squeezing a gob of coconut scented goop into my palm. “I consider myself an expert on that particular genre of movie,” she teased, letting her head fall back to get her hair wet. Another bright burst of red floated toward the drain. “Em? Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re kind of freaking me out,” I said, focusing on lathering the shampoo in my hands. “I don’t know whether to be relieved you’re smiling and laughing and making jokes an hour after you were beat within an inch of your life or to be seriously concerned.” Her laughter died, but her smile stayed securely in place. “Contrary to what you might think due to recent events,” she explained with a sweeping gaze down her body, “today has been the hands down best day of my life.” Staring at her broken face, I wanted to cry just then, so I stepped around her so I wouldn’t have to look at what the best day of her life had done to her. “I’m going to need a serious explanation for that,” I said, clearing my throat. “Like a detailed outline, followed by a thesis the size of the San Francisco Bay area phone book.” I gathered her hair on top of her head and began sudsing away. The shampoo froth almost immediately took on a pinkish hue. “For the first time in six years, actually, for the first time since I met him,” Emma began, trying to look over her shoulder at me. She didn’t make it very far before her jaw clenched in pain. “I stood up to Ty. I gave him a piece of my mind with no buffers or filters. I got in his face and made sure he heard me. For the very first time,” she said. “That worked out magically for you,” I said under my breath, rinsing away part of the outcome of her standing up to him. “It could have been worse,” she said with a barely there

shrug. “I never really imagined my life winding down into old age and a gentle passing into the hereafter. I, somewhere deep in the places I didn’t want to acknowledge, but recognized them just the same, expected I’d pass from this life into the next at the end of a fist.” The shampoo bottle I was gripping in my hand burst open. I hadn’t realized I’d been squeezing it to death. “How long has this been going on?” I asked, needing to know, and she’d opened the door to getting all the dark flushed out early. “The first year he was so good to me, too good to be true,” she said. “And two days after our one year anniversary, I found out too good to be true was exactly that. I remember each beating, each fit of rage, most ignited because I’d been talking to another guy, some just because he didn’t like what I was wearing or a certain look I gave him. After awhile, he didn’t need an excuse. This past year I expected the backside of his hand just as readily as a hug.” It was like putting an open flame to my flesh, but I had to keep going. I had to know everything because I had to know all of her. “Why didn’t you just leave him?” Her head swayed side to side. “For a bunch of reasons that seem really trivial now that he’s finally out of my life,” she said. “Ty was all I knew, the only guy I’d ever dated, ever loved, ever imagined my life with. I clung to the hope that he’d change back into the man he was the first year we were together. I believed so little in myself that no one else would ever want me, and I was messed up enough in the head to believe that anyone was better than no one.” She paused, taking in a few breaths. I’d been massaging the same area of her head for I don’t know how long. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?” I whispered, because that’s all I was capable of. I felt as broken on the inside as she was on the outside. “I was ashamed. And embarrassed,” she answered. “Why didn’t you tell me?” “You would have been the last person I would have told,” she said, and before I could launch into a why the heck not?, she cut me off. “Because when you looked at me, you saw this person I’d always wanted to become. You saw the

me I would have become if I hadn’t let others and myself screw up my life.” She sighed, leaning into me. “I loved the way you looked at me, and I had this fear that if I told you I was one of those women who found themselves trapped in an abusive relationship, you’d never look at me the same way again. You’d never even look at me again.” Her voice, for the first time since entering the shower, sounded sad. Coming around in front of her, I tilted her chin up, waiting for her eyes to find mine. They finally did. “Am I looking at you any differently right now?” She studied me, all the way into the dark and cobwebbed places of my soul, and then she smiled. A fresh bead of blood broke through the split on her lower lip. “No.” “That’s right,” I said, polishing the blood away from her lip. “And to save you the suspense, there’s nothing you can reveal to me about your past or do in your future that will change the way I look at you. I flippin’ worship you, Emma Scarlett. And that’s never, ever, in a million billion years going to change. Promise,” I added, because this, too, was a promise I could keep with unfailing certainty. The thing about the kind of love I had for Emma was that it was as unequivocal as it was permanent. That’s the way love, in its pure, undiluted form was—it accepted a person’s bad with their good, their failures with their successes, their past with a boyfriend that beat the shit out of them with their future with a man who would love the shit out of them. “I know that now,” she said, pressing her lips into mine. “Sorry I didn’t realize it sooner.” I wanted to kiss her again, so damn badly I was tempted to turn the shower as cold as it would go, so I thought of something else that might work instead. “Your brothers never suspected anything?” It worked. The mere mention of Emma’s four brothers extinguished the fires. “Of course not,” she said. “If they did, do you think they would have hesitated to take that baseball bat to him sooner?” We both knew the answer to that. “No, Ty was careful. He made sure the bruises formed in spots that were easy to cover, and he never raised a hand to me

when anyone was around. But lately, he started getting sloppy, less careful.” How many of those less “thoughtfully” placed bruises had I witnessed this month and taken her word that vicious volleyballs were to blame? I was a fool. “Because of me,” I provided, stepping behind her and rinsing her hair for the third time. The water was almost running clear. She didn’t provide an answer to that; she didn’t need to. We both knew the truth. “God, Emma. I’m sorry,” I said, my arms going limp at my sides. “If I’d have known this was going on, I wouldn’t have been my persistent self and made things worse for you.” I had to lean into the tile wall for support. “And then I would have killed him,” I added. She chuckled a nervous little one. I didn’t. “You want to hear the last point in the best day of my life outline?” she asked, turning to face me, the water beating in the space separating us. She waited for an answer, but I couldn’t come up with one. I didn’t want to hear any more as much as I did. Refusing to wait any longer, she touched her forehead to mine. I could feel the heat of the gash above her eyebrow against my skin. “You,” she said. My head felt heavy against hers. I did not deserve to be a proof in her reasoning for a best day. “Yes,” she argued with my silent response. “You are everything I always wanted, but never believed I deserved. I still didn’t believe it up to a few hours ago, but I suppose you could say you made me see the light.” I was still wordless, it was happening a lot lately, so I wrapped my arms around her battered, bruised, perfect body and gripped her to me like I could suck all the pain out of her. “For someone like you, who could have their pick of any woman on the seven continents, to pick me . . .”—her chest heaved heavy against mine—“well, that must mean I’m something special, right? Even if I don’t see it quite yet.” I saw the beauty then. I was able to look past the pain

framing the moment and get to the core of the moment. I wouldn’t forget tonight for several reasons, but the one that would shine above the others was this one right here. The woman I loved resting in my arms, acknowledging she was more than what she’d always believed she was. “You’re the most something special I’ve ever come across,” I said into her hair, clutching her tighter. If I never let her go, I could always keep her safe. That was the only thing I wanted to do right then. Never let her go. Protect her. And love her above all. “Hey, guys.” A trio of knocks thumped outside the bathroom door. Julia sounded just as frazzled as before. “My dad’s here now. No rush, though.” “We’ll be right there,” Emma answered against my shoulder, not moving an inch. I pressed a kiss into the bruise exploding over her forehead. “Time to get you to a doc,” I said, shutting off the water and reaching for the bundle of towels piled on the bench. I bundled Emma’s hair into a leaning tower beehive and cinched the other towel around the rest of her before lifting her into my arms. “I’m good to walk now,” she said, looping an arm around my neck. “That shower and the pills made me a new woman.” “I know,” I answered, unlocking the door and stepping through it. “But I’m not ready to let you go.” “Good enough reason for me.” She made a pillow of my chest as I sloshed down the hall, my hair, suit, and the rest of me so drenched I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be dry again. It was one of the proudest walks I’d made. The door was waiting open for us, and inside I found a silvering man the polar opposite to Julia. He wasn’t a Dr. Jekyll at all, but like the small town docs that used to make middle of the night home visits when I was growing up in the South. He even had the old school black leather bag William and Joseph still carried around with them. “My god,” he said like a curse when his eyes floated to Emma. “What happened to you, child?” “My ex,” she replied as I situated her on her bed.

His hands glided down her arms, drawing an imaginary line between the bruises. Then he looked at her face and his face twisted. “Did he come at you with a hammer?” he asked, swearing under his breath. There was the first indication he and Julia shared the same DNA. “You should have gone to the emergency room right away, Emma,” he said, scolding her in that non-threatening, affectionate way a father does. “And I’m presuming you’ve called the authorities to get the monster behind bars?” Doc Grey and I were going to get along just fine. “Not yet,” Emma answered, focusing on the ceiling. “Why, pardon my French, the hell not?” He was already reaching for the phone in his pocket, about to do what Emma couldn’t right now, and I wouldn’t because she’d begged me not to. “I will,” she said, closing her eyes. “I promise I will, just not quite yet.” “Not quite yet?” Doc Grey repeated, his face formed in disbelief. “Emma, your body was beaten as close to death as a body can be before giving over to it. This isn’t something you wait to report a week later.” Her head moved against the pillow. “I’ll report it tonight, I swear. I just can’t handle more than one thing at a time right now. Let me get through this,”—her eyes pointed at his opened bag—“and I’ll call them after. I don’t want to go into an interrogation room bleeding and gaping open in spots. I don’t want to be pitied.” Her eyes fogged over, travelling back in time to a certain night when she’d lost both her parents in different ways. “Fix me up, patch what needs to be patched, so I can go in there with my head held high.” “Child,” Doctor Grey said, patting her hand, “you came through that door with your head high.” He didn’t push calling the men in blue right then after that, he just began riffling through his bag in silence. “Julia, my dear?” Doctor Grey said into his bag. “I think you are in serious need of some fresh air.” That, and a new pair of nails, judging from where she’d gnawed them down to. Poor Julia, this night had really taken it out of her. The hollows beneath her eyes were

blacker than usual and her eyes scampered around more neurotically than normal. She was doing justice to her goth heritage right now. “Young man,” he said, glancing at me once. “Hayward,” I provided, extending my hand. “Patrick Hayward.” Doctor Grey set a roll of bandages on Emma’s bed to shake my hand. “Am I to assume you are the new man in Emma’s life who would never so much as raise your voice to her?” “Yes, sir,” I answered. Putting two fingers to Emma’s pulse, he nodded once. “You don’t need to be here for this,” he said, his fingers moving just outside the largest gash gaping over Emma’s cheekbone. “Would you mind escorting my daughter outside and watching after her? It seems Stanford is not the safe haven I was foolish enough to think it was.” That was an impossible question to answer without offending someone. Why would I want to leave with Julia when Emma was here? Wherever Emma’s here was was where I belonged. “Go ahead,” Emma said, interrupting my thoughts. “You can grab some dry clothes out of Austin and Dallas’s room on the first floor on your way out.” She wove her fingers through mine then, squeezing them, seeing I was not in the mood to go anywhere. “I’m in good hands. Trust me.” And there were those words. I did trust her, but I didn’t want to if it meant leaving her. Trust was a complicated thing that could really screw with your head. In the end, though, I decided to follow through on trusting her. “All right,” I relented, looking at the doc. “Call me if you need anything. Anything. And call me the instant you’re done if we’re not back before.” “It’s a few stitches and a handful of bandages, son,” Doctor Grey said, meaning to assure me, but it did the opposite. “It’s not open heart surgery.” That was an ironic phrase to use because that’s just like what I felt was taking place on me. Heaving a sigh, I opened the door, holding it open for Julia. “Be right back,” I promised, kissing Emma’s hand as I

followed Julia out the door. “Be right here,” she replied as I closed the door behind us. Julia was already halfway down the hallway, walking with the disjointed movements of a zombie. I followed a few steps behind her all the way to Austin and Dallas’s room on the first floor. “Do you have a key?” I asked in front of their door. Twisting the handle, the door clicked open. “The Scarlett boys don’t have to lock their door. The first and last guy who borrowed a pen without asking ended up naked, tied to a tree in the middle of campus, and coated in honey and feathers.” I trailed Julia into the very college guy dorm room, right down to the beer posters featuring models bursting from their bikinis and the stale scent of body odor and laundry piled in the corner. “No one would dare step foot in this room uninvited unless they were prepared to face extreme public humiliation.” “Except for us,” I said, smiling tightly at her, as I shuffled through the few clean garments shoved into a dresser drawer. “Yeah, except for us,” she said, heaving down onto a bed. I’d guess it was Dallas’s due to the Dallas cheerleader poster above the bed on the ceiling, but that seemed too cliché even for a guy like him. “This is a night of firsts, right?” The few note laugh she let out was sharp and neurotic. “Jules?” I said, selecting the lesser outfit of two evils— boardshorts and a Stanford sweatshirt were only about a thousand times better than baggy jeans and a bedazzled muscle tee. “How are you holding up?” “Let’s see,” she said, clicking the heels of her shiny purple boots together like she wanted to catch the nearest tornado out of this dark land of Oz. “My friend looks like she was mauled by a tiger, I ignored that internal voice that’s been telling me since freshman year that something just wasn’t on the up and up with Ty’s and Emma’s relationship, and I failed my friend in all the important ways, so I guess I’d have to say I’m holding up about as well as a house of

cards in a hurricane.” She sighed, tapping her heels together faster. “Thanks for asking.” “Jules,” I said again, slipping out of the clothes plastered to my body right in front of her because she was focused on staring two holes in the ceiling. The gothiest of goth men could have been twisting his nipple rings a foot in front of her and she wouldn’t have noticed. “This is all my fault, Patrick,” she whispered, her boot clacking diminishing. “I should have told someone. I should have confronted Ty. I could have asked her if my suspicions were right. I could have at least asked her,” she repeated in a self-incriminating tone. “Crap, Jules,” I said, cinching the shorts tight since Dallas’s or Austin’s shorts were size extra-beefy. “You feel like you’re to blame, and I feel like I’m to blame. And maybe we are in some way because we failed to act when we could have, but there’s no maybe about who holds all the blame for failing Emma in every way a person can.” “I should have kneed that guy in the balls every time the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end when he was around,” she said, sitting up in bed, looking at me like she didn’t even notice I’d changed. “That would have been on a daily basis.” “Sounds like you’ve got a lot of catching up to do,” I said, plopping beside her and squeezing her knee. “Damn straight,” she muttered, leaning her head on my shoulder in a way that felt child-like. “I hope Emma’s brothers save a piece I can take it out on.” The door exploded open right then, bouncing off the wall it smashed against. Three grim faced Scarlett brothers barged in, blood smatters creating patterns over their clothes and faces. They barely took any notice of Julia and me sitting on the edge of the bed, so I suppose it was safe to assume we’d been issued a get out of jail free card given the gravity of tonight. “We are finished. Ruined,” Austin said under his breath, sliding his hands behind his head and gripping it like he was going to rip his hair off. “Give it a rest, Austin,” Tex sneered over at him, looking up and down the hall before closing the door. “The only

thing you lost tonight was a career in middle management. Dallas is going to lose any chance he had of working for the government as a certified genius who screws supermodels, and I lost any chance I had of playing in the big times.” Tex gave Austin’s chest a half-hearted shove. “So do me a favor and shut the hell up.” And this was the point I felt was a good time to interrupt. “What happened?” I asked, already deducing from their conversation and clothing they’d found Ty and delivered a message. Dallas’s eyes narrowed into mine. “Revenge happened.” “We messed him up good, man,” Austin said, pacing around the room with his hands still laced behind his head. “What did you do to him?” I asked slowly, looking to Tex since he seemed the calmest of the three. “Nothing that he didn’t deserve,” he sneered. I swallowed, continuing to look at Tex. “Did you kill him?” I was already at war with myself over which answer I wanted to hear. I didn’t want to arrive at an answer before Tex gave me his. “He had a pulse when we left,” was his answer. Seemed cryptic was going to be the tone of things tonight. “Yeah, barely,” Austin said, stopping to glare at Tex before resuming his pacing. “Who knows if he still did by the time the ambulance arrived.” “You guys called an ambulance?” I asked, wondering just how deep the Scarlett brother stupidity ran. Tex nodded once. “I’d rather face aggravated assault charges than manslaughter.” The mood of the room went from sullen to heavy. Suffocating heavy. The Scarlett boys had done just what I’d wanted them to do, what I’d wanted to do myself—ram Ty’s face so hard against the wall separating life from death that he’d regret every last strike he’d landed on Emma. The difference between me and them, though, was that I knew just how many hits a man could take to put him a toe from death before putting him a toe over. It was a skill that was an art, one that required an exorbitant amount of restraint and finesse, neither of which the three brothers before me possessed.

They were going to be spending some time behind bars for either nearly killing or killing a man. Because of me. Because I’d let them go in my place. Because I stayed behind with their sister while they dealt out a mountain of revenge on the monster that had haunted her. They were going to lose everything they’d worked for since they’d been children in an abusive household because I’d failed to act when I knew I should have. “It was nice pretending we were going to end up doing something other than pressing license plates,” Dallas said, reaching into the mini-fridge and cracking open a beer. “I guess the piece of shit dad gene caught up with us after all.” Austin lurched in his face, slapping the beer Dallas was upending out of his hand. It smashed against the wall, causing an eruption of liquid.\ “You’re making jokes?” Austin seethed, going red-faced. “You’re making jokes? Maybe you don’t like reaping the rewards of the hard work we put in growing up, but I do. I didn’t plan to end up wasting away my twenties in a jail cell.” “None of us did, Austin,” Tex said, not seeming phased that two of his brothers were about to throw down. “And Emma didn’t work her butt off to end up trapped under the hand of a guy like dad, either. Things change, life changes. Get over it.” “Did anyone see you?” I asked, shifting in spot, devising a plan on the fly. The brothers stared at me like they’d forgotten I was there. “Ty saw us,” Tex said, his jaw set. “He answered the door drunk, looked at us as if he was bored, and said, ‘What?’ like he knew exactly why we were there and wasn’t the least bit concerned.” Tex’s hands clenched open and closed over his knees. “That loser deserves what he got and I’m happy to accept what I deserve for doing it. I’d do again.” “Did you leave any fingerprints?” I asked, directing it at Tex since Austin was a wreck and Dallas was still jumpy from post-fight adrenaline.

“Nope, just knuckle, boot, and bat prints.” “Where’s the bat?” Tex cocked his head behind him. “In the trunk of Dal’s car. Why? You planning on going to the batting cages tonight?” I ignored the sarcasm, knowing time was a luxury we were going to run out of soon. “Did any of you make any calls or texts from the time you left Emma’s room until now?” “No,” Tex answered, looking to his brothers. Both shook their heads. “We were a little preoccupied.” “Not even to Jackson?” I would be surprised if the oldest Scarlett had been left out. “Since he’s at a business conference in Chicago,” Tex said, “he wouldn’t have been a lot of help to us tonight.” “Did anyone other than the six of us know where you were going?” The other questions were important if my thrown together plan was going to work, but this was the one that mattered. The one that landed them in or kept the Scarlett brothers out of jail. “No,” Tex said, his voice irritated. “What’s with the twenty questions? You planning on majoring in criminal justice? Maybe law? Because we could use a good lawyer right about now.” Turning away from them, I crossed my arms, staring out the window at the rain as it continued to assault the world around us. Less than four hours ago, I’d been wrapped around Emma, knowing I wouldn’t have to let her go ever again. Well, as they say, that was then and this was now. “Okay, listen up,” I began, crossing my arms. “This is what you’re going to do. Julia’s dad is getting Emma patched up right now. Once the doc is done, you’re all going to get in Austin’s car and drive to my place. No detours, no stops, no bathroom breaks. You’re going to grab a change of clothes before you go and burn the ones you have on now. Emma will know a good place to burn them.” I let myself have one second of that memory—a bonfire, a girl, and an almost kiss—savoring it with a smile. “You only pick up the phone if I call. You only answer the

door if it’s for me or if it’s for the cops. If they find you there and want to question you, let them in and tell them you have no idea what happened tonight. Say that Emma wouldn’t tell you what happened to her, so you drove her to her boyfriend’s”—I grinned again at my new title—“house, hoping he’d know what was going on.” Turning back to them, I found three blank faces. “You are not to say anything about Ty. Play dumb about anything Ty related.” I gave each of them a stern look, hoping they realized the deep crap hole we were in and would listen. Austin’s blank expression was the first to crack. “And what happens when Ty tells them the truth and the cops find out we lied? We lose all credibility and rot in jail a few years longer.” “Leave that to me,” I said. “I’ll take care of Ty.” I don’t know if it was my face or the way I’d said it, but that was all the explanation the brothers needed. No one looked even close to the tip of another question. “Jules,” I said, gripping my hands over her shoulders where she still sat huddled on the bed. “If anyone was to question you as to what happened tonight, what would you tell them?” It wasn’t coercion, and I wouldn’t bribe, plead, or beg with her to lie. If she didn’t want to lie, I would respect that and readjust the plan as needed. She shrugged, looking up at me with nuclear green eyes. “What happened tonight?” she asked innocently, like she didn’t have the foggiest. “I love you, Jules,” I said, kissing the top of her head. “Yeah, well, don’t forget,” she said, back to picking at her nail polish, so I knew the worst of the shock was over. “First name of your first born. That’s my price.” “First and last name of our first and second born,” I said, charging for the door, ready to get this done. “Tell your dad thanks for everything.” “Hey,” Tex called after me. “Where are you going?” I grinned—this part of the plan I was looking forward to. Immensely. “I’ve got to make a hospital visit.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN The wonderful thing about ambulances, when you’re trying to figure out where someone ended up without asking a lot of questions, is that they take their passengers to the closest hospital. I didn’t have to make any calls pretending I was family, I didn’t have to call his parents pretending I was a concerned friend, I didn’t have to break into anything, or perform any cloak and dagger work—which was my favorite kind when it came to work, but it took time and that we didn’t have. All I did was walk through the sliding glass doors, give the elderly lady manning the front desk a wholesome-as-apple-pie smile as I glided by her, and press the third floor button when I stepped into the elevator. From everything I’d gathered from the Scarletts, if they weren’t even sure he was still breathing, he’d be in critical care, if not the ICU, after they finished sewing him back together in the ER. I also knew they’d be working on him for awhile because the damage a bat can do to a Mortal body when swung with the right degree of power and vengeance can be rather extensive. So I copped a squat in the waiting room and made a call. The twerp let it ring right up to the voicemail message. “S’up?” Joseph answered, sounding like a gang leader for the happy and cheerful. “I need you and Nathanial here,” I said. “Now. I don’t have time to explain, but I need my brothers here, and I need you to be ready to intimidate the hell out of someone. I’ll explain later.” The other end was silent for a second, and then, “We’ll be there. Text me your location,” he said, his voice as serious as Joseph could manage. “See you soon.” “Sooner,” I said, ending the call. Joseph’s word, just like any of my brother’s, was golden. They’d be here—I just hoped they’d be here in a few hours. I passed the next couple hours playing a mean game of chess with myself in my head. It was brutal, but I won. I made a stop at the vending machine, feeding it as

many dollars as it had of those packages of soft, delicious cookies. I ate them all. When another hour came and went without a rolling stretcher holding the moaning remains of Ty Steel, I hit the deck and did one thousand sit-ups. I never tired, I never stopped thinking of Emma, I was never able to erase the image of her bloodied face from my mind. I wanted to call her, just to do a quick check-in to make sure she was doing all right and they’d all made it to my place, but I couldn’t risk it. Unless I absolutely needed to reach them for nothing short of an emergency, I needed to keep as much evidence off the prosecutor’s table as I could. I was about to drop and break into a second set of situps when an elevator chimed, its door gliding open. A stretcher spilled out, pushed by a couple of nurses and escorted by a male and female who I didn’t need to be introduced to on a last name basis. I was looking at the man Ty would look like in another thirty years, brow set in a permanent line of supremacy, eyes wandering over everything like it was unsatisfactory, gut pinching over the belt, and fists half curled, always at the ready. Mrs. Steel looked like she’d just gotten back from a Mediterranean vacation a week ago and had just stepped out of the local country club’s supper club. Her face was as unpleasant as Mr. Steel’s, but it was because of the sadness that shadowed hers. That, and the clothes that covered too much of her body for the warm California air, led me to the conclusion that battery ran in the family. I didn’t bother to look away as they glided by the waiting room, knowing enough of them from two seconds of observation that they weren’t the type to pay any attention to riff raff. I listened to each rotation of the wheels, calculating the distance they were traversing so I could teleport into Ty’s room and not his neighbor’s. I’d have to wait until his parents left, for reasons that would be obvious soon enough, but something about their inconvenienced looks coming from the elevators told me they weren’t the notleaving-your-side-for-sleep-water-or-food type. Two sets of steps sounded down the hall halfway into the

late, late, late show. I didn’t wait for the Steels to pass the waiting room before standing up, preparing to undergo the best part of this plan. I hadn’t seen hide or hair of any other Haywards, but I didn’t let that worry me yet. Joseph said they’d be here, so they would. They’d never let me down, and they’d had two hundred and some years to do it if they wanted to. One blink later I was standing in front of Ty Steel’s quiet form. It was the first time I’d seen him like this and I thought it was a look that suited him. Sleeping, snoring, bandaged to the point he looked like a mummy, with more than half of his limbs splinted or casted. The Scarlett boys didn’t take payback lightly when it came to their sister. I wouldn’t have either. I let myself linger over their handiwork a while longer before setting out to do my own. Coming to the side of his bed, I covered my hand over his mouth and nose, not in an attempt to kill him, but to wake him. Lack of oxygen has a way of jerking the body awake. Jerk awake he did. His Frankensteined face grimaced with the sharp movement, but then he noticed who was hovering above him and his eyes couldn’t have opened wider. He tried to make a noise, but my hand caught his throat, trapping it and his airways between my thumb and index finger. “Listen to me, you sick f’er, and listen to me good,” I growled, wanting to hit him so badly now that he was right in front of me. I wanted to hit him for hitting Emma. I knew it was twisted, I knew it didn’t seem right in the don’t repay evil with evil world we were raised in, but what society failed to calculate in forming this saying was that the evil doers didn’t stop spreading evil unless the good guys took a stand and stopped them however they had to. Ty’s eyes were more swollen shut than Emma’s, but he was looking at me, he was paying attention. Holding a man’s windpipe at your mercy has a way of commanding attention. “I’m not who you think I am,” I began, wishing I had the

time to tell him everything about who I was, what I was, so he’d piss himself to sleep every night forward. “I’m not a twenty-year-old, impressionable, idealistic, jerk off boy. I’m the guy who holds slime like you accountable. I’m the guy who tells low lives like you there are ways you can treat a woman and ways you cannot. I’m the guy who takes monsters like you out of the equation if they don’t listen.” I was shaking from the anger boiling to the surface and from holding myself back from finishing him. “So tell me, Ty, are you really listening?” I pinched his windpipe tighter, feeling the pulse dim, his face rainbow through the right shades of colors, knowing my two fingers held him less than a minute away from death. His head moved once. I took that as a yes. “You feel that?” I asked, another pinch tighter. “That’s me holding you a toe away from death. That’s me holding your worthless life in my hands. Would you like to continue living your life? Or would you prefer if I just put you out of your misery now?” Another next to imperceptible bob of the head. I didn’t let go that moment, nor did I the next, but waited for the involuntary gasping to commence. I didn’t want him to doubt my sincerity in making death threats. Releasing his throat, I pulled my hand back and wiped it clean. “I just gave you a gift. Your life, which was mine, back. But now you owe me,” I said, arching a brow. “I don’t give gifts to filth like you without attaching expectations to them. So you’re going to have to earn that gift. You’ll be paying for it until the day you die—whether that’s sooner rather than later makes no difference to me. In fact, it would probably be a relief to know one of the boogeyman of this world was down for the count. Makes my job a helluva lot easier.” This was true on several levels: my job as a Guardian, my job as a boyfriend, and my job as a man who believed it was his job to protect women from the bad eggs of my gender. Ty’s eyes never left mine as he coughed and gasped his way to filling his lungs back up. I’d never seen fear in his eyes until now. I wanted to take a picture so I could show Emma what a quivering, helpless, scared little boy he’d

been reduced to. But again, pictures, no matter how well you hid them or erased them, had a way of always ending up on the table of the lawyer on the other side. “First part of your payment plan is not mentioning the name Scarlett when you talk to the police. You are not to mention seeing them tonight, talking to them tonight, or the little fact that they f’ed you up. When they ask who did this to you,”—I leaned over him, making sure he knew this was one of the important things of all the important things I was “reviewing” with him—“you tell them I did this. I was alone, I was pissed, and paid you back for beating up my girlfriend by letting you feel the fat end of my bat. You will tell them what you did to Emma. You will tell them how long you did this to her.” The red was falling like a curtain over my eyes. “You will have them document every damn date, time, and detail of the abuse. You are not going to get the victim card when you get your jollies by creating them, you got me?” I didn’t wait for a response. If he didn’t tell them the truth, I’d come to him in the middle of the night and snap his neck. But I’d wake him first so he knew what was coming. “The second part of the life repayment plan is you are never—NEVER!”—I slapped him across his bandaged face to drill it home—“to come anywhere near Emma again. If I so much as hear of you walking in the same direction she is, I’m taking that gift I just gave you back,” I growled, lowering my face until my nose was a hair from his. “Capiche, mother-f’er?” Standing tall, I sensed something as familiar as it was relieving. “Emma’s brothers will be watching her, and if by some unlikely, statistical impossibility you get out of jail before I do, I’ve got brothers too.” The door clicked open then, on cue, and two forms ghosted into the room, stacking themselves behind me. And then a third. William nodded his head in acknowledgement as he took his place beside Joseph and Nathanial behind me. “And they’ll be watching you,” I continued, turning my attention back on Ty, fighting through the emotion lumping in my throat. “And by the way, I’m the merciful one in the

family,” I said, tilting my head behind me to fill in the blanks. Angling myself their way, I winked at them. They stayed in character, looking like they broke men’s bones by day and hunted demons by night. God I loved my brothers. They’d taken the intimidation thing seriously. Varying shades of black clung to them, their jaws clenched rabid tight, and their eyes flashed with the deaths they’d had hands in. Nathanial was the most terrifying of course, that was his natural inclination, but William was a close second, and every-day’s-a-great-one Joseph was a distant third. But I had to award him some serious props. It was the longest I’d seen his mouth curled downwards—ever. Flicking the big toe of Ty’s splinted leg, I headed for the door. “Enjoy your pureed pop-tarts, sucker.” Three sets of steps fell into formation behind me, saying nothing else, which jacked the room with another hit of intimidation before we left. Down the hall, the elevator, and past the front desk, we didn’t exchange a single word. Silence was an easy conversation to have with my brothers. We said the most intimate things in silence and you never doubted the others were listening when you said something that needed saying. Only when we were sliding into the Mustang did Joseph pipe up; he always was the first one. If it wasn’t me. Silence didn’t suit Joseph and me like it did William and Nathanial. “So we made it,” he said, pushing on my shoulder as he slid into the seat behind me. “Mind telling me what we’re doing here?” I turned the key over in the ignition, screeching out of the parking lot. “You know how you like hearing every nitty gritty detail in an explanation?” I asked, busting into second gear. “Yee-ahh?” Joseph answered. “You’re not going to get it. Sorry, no time and not enough energy for it right now,” I said, to which I received two sighs, one heavy and one short, and a soft chuckle from the darkhaired older brother riding bitch next to me. I slid William a grin. “Let’s just say, like with most my stories, this is a long one, and you’re just going to have to

make peace with the condensed version.” “Hey, cranky-pants,” Joseph said, sounding as irritated as the class sweetheart, “don’t mind us, we’re just the three brothers who left what we were doing in the middle of the night to get our butts to a critical care unit in California. No questions asked, no thanks even required.” “Your point?” I asked, looking at him in the rear view. “Don’t you have something to say?” he asked. “Something along the lines of appreciation?” “I thought you just said no thanks even required,” I snapped half-heartedly. “I wasn’t serious.” “Thank you,” I said like a smart-ass, attacking the asphalt leading up the on ramp. Something softened in me as the miles per hour ticked higher. Speed was my ultimate calming salve. “No, really. All jokes, wisecracks, and sarcasm aside, thank you,” I said, glancing at each of them. “I needed you here tonight. Thanks for showing up.” “We’ll always show up,” William said, clapping a hand over my shoulder. “I didn’t expect you’d be here,” I said. “I thought you’d be swatting away cat-sized mosquitoes in the middle of some jungle god forgot about, immunizing orphans or something.” “I was,” he answered. “We just got back earlier today. So your timing was impeccable for making a Hayward 911 call.” “And do I want to know how the three of you got here so fast?” I didn’t care, but I guessed it was a good story. I heard the grin in William’s voice. “You know that private jet you suspected I had?” “That you never actually confirmed.” I slugged his arm— he’d been holding out on me. “Yeah, well, let’s just say she’s fast and her pilot has this need for speed gene that runs in the family.” “You bad-ass you,” I said, splitting through traffic like the man with a mission I was. I knew I had limited time with Emma, hours limited, and as much as I loved my brothers, I’d spent two centuries with them. I wanted to spend my last few hours with the girl I loved in my arms.

“How lovely for you two to be having a bonding moment up there,” Joseph said, hating nothing more than being left out, as his face popped in the space between William and me. “But I want to know who the banged up dude we were just playing The Punisher for is.” “You’re a persistent little guy, you know that?” I said, pushing his face back. “I’m going to say this once and quickly. You can get the rest of the details out of the other parties involved if you’re so moved,” I began, swinging into the right hand lane as my exit seemed to pop out of nowhere. That had a tendency of happening when you were cruising at a hundred and twenty with three brothers that had a way of distracting you from your best intentions. “The Frankenmummy used to be my girlfriend’s boyfriend.” I smiled at William from the side at the word girlfriend, wagging my brows. It was the first time I’d used the word in the possessive form. “He beat her for five years before almost killing her tonight when she broke up with him. Emma—that’s my girl’s name,” I explained proudly, “has three brothers, and they were the ones that created the masterpiece you had the privilege of viewing tonight. For reasons that are extensive and rather inconsequential, I’m going to be taking the heat for the manslaughter miss. Ty’s on board, Emma’s brothers are, and I’m assuming, based on the fact I’ll kick all your asses if you’re not, all of you are on board.” I pointed at each of them with my eyes. “I just have one woman to convince.” The trio of brothers around me erupted in laughter, Joseph guffawing in stomach clenching fits. “Yeah, good luck with that, Patrick.” “Here we thought you were the one that knew everything there was to know about women,” Nathanial chuckled in his baritone tenor. “There’s a higher likelihood of you calling mercy when I’ve got you locked in an arm bar than you have of convincing a woman of something she doesn’t want to be convinced of.” I slammed the brakes at the bottom of the ramp, hoping it would startle their laughter away. No can do. “I’ve never, nor will I ever, call mercy because your arm bars are easier to get out of than Rumpelstiltskin’s here”—I

pointed my finger at the youngest Hayward brother—“left armed choker hold’s”—Nathanial’s face went from pissed to mega pissed—“and Emma is different than other women. She’ll understand.” “Sure she will,” Joseph smirked, massaging my shoulders like he was preparing me for a boxing match. “Good luck with that, champ. Let us know how it goes.” Tearing away at the last few miles towards Emma, I found myself checking the rear view mirror for blinking red and blue lights. Whatever I was sentenced to, I was more troubled by the idea the blues would get to me before I got to Emma. I had to see her, touch her, one more time before I did some hard or soft time. “Hey, you guys wouldn’t happen to know where I could find myself a badass attorney with an unheard of win ratio, would you?” Nathanial grunted. “Because you’re my brother, I’ll defend you, but because you are my brother, I’m charging you double.” “You still owe me from that snafu you found yourself in a few years back in Serbia,” I argued. “It wasn’t a snafu,” Nathanial said, his voice tight. “And nothing I couldn’t handle minus one brother on a perpetual ego trip.” “Boy, I’ve sure missed you guys,” I said, pulling into the driveway. “It’s been too peaceful without the three of you around to gang up on me.” I cut the engine, noticing the blinds moving as someone peeked out. “All right, boys. Be on your best behavior. You’re about to meet my future wife,” I said, shutting the door behind me and turning into a double wide sized chest. “What are you playing at, Patrick?” Nathanial growled low in my face, glaring at me. “When Joseph told me you were seeing a girl from school”—I threw the traitor baby of the family a glare—“I didn’t take it seriously since none of your relationships, and I use the term relationship loosely, get anywhere close to serious. But this one’s obviously crossed that line.” He was still growling as he tilted his head to the house where she was somewhere inside. “She’s a Mortal and, last time I checked, our kind is not allowed to

fraternize, let alone Unite, with one.” I shoved him away from me. “William did it.” “That was different,” Nathanial replied, stepping back into the space I’d created. “Why?” I hissed. “Because he was having wet dreams of Bryn for generations?” I shoved him again, taking my anger at the intricacies and impossible rules of my kind out on my bear of a brother. Then I realized what I’d said. I looked over the roof of the car at William. “Sorry, no disrespect to you or Bryn. I’m just pissed at pious Zeus over here.” William waved a dismissive hand, trying to keep from laughing. At least someone had a sense of humor other than me. “It will all work out,” I said, staring at nothing in particular. Nathanial grunted. “Classic Patrick justification for doing something you know isn’t right.” “Classic Patrick solution,” I annunciated, looking up into the lined face of my brother, wondering why everyone thought we looked so much alike. He looked like a hulking, angry troll ninety percent of the time. “It will work. Stay tuned and enjoy the show because I can’t wait to say I told you so when all’s said and done.” “Nothing is ever said and done with you,” Nathanial replied, blocking my path when I tried to move away from him. I could have teleported to get away, but he’d thrown down a silent challenge and that was something I never ran —or teleported—away from. I’d stand square in front of him until I’d worn him down. “Back me up on this, William,” I said, knowing he was the only one who could understand what it felt like to want something more than anything else you’d ever wanted, only to be told it could never be yours. Neither of us were the kind of man that were subservient enough to let that pass. “Leave him alone,” William said in his ever calm voice. “He’s got this.” Pausing, he let that settle between the group of us before continuing. “Can anyone think of a single time Patrick has ever failed at something he set out to do?” he asked, boring his eyes into Nathanial and then Joseph.

“Can anyone think of a time Patrick has ever let us down? Can anyone think of anything Patrick has done that has earned him anything but a future of happiness?” Our eyes locked for only a moment, but it was a powerful one. This was the reason I, and the other two brothers, idolized William. He was a god who’d been born to mankind. Lucky for me, he was on my side. “Let him run the show. I, for one, will be there to provide whatever support you need. Just say the word, and I’m there,” he said, nodding. “Bryn, too.” This time when I moved to get around Nathanial, he didn’t block me. Nothing like one of William’s speeches to make the stubborn headed see reason. “Hey, brother,” I said, grabbing him in a tight embrace and swinging him around. “Have I told you lately that I love you?” I crooned, covering my hand with my heart. “Have I told you, there’s no one else above you?” I continued, singing like I was performing in a sold-out stadium. “Ugh,” Joseph said, coming up behind me and clamping a hand over my mouth. “That’s a Hell on Wheels song and we are no longer on wheels, so please, save us the hell.” I broke his hold and caught him in a neck lock, mussing his hair because it looked better than mine for the first time in eternity and I couldn’t have that. “Come on,” I said, throwing my other arm around William’s neck, messing his hair too because his always looked good and he thought product was a term associated with economics. “You guys are going to love Emma.” “That reminds me,” William said, flipping his hair back once I was done faux-hawking it. “Bryn says she expects to meet the girl who took her place in your heart. Soon. Dinner tomorrow night soon.” “I think I’ll be eating from a metal tray in an orange jumpsuit tomorrow night,” I said, making a face because orange did not compliment me. “We’ll do dinner when I’m out. Although we’ll probably have to do it here since I doubt my parole will allow for out-of-state dinners with family.” Joseph elbowed me. “Like trivial things such as breaking laws has ever stopped you before.”

“Yeah, before,” I said, walking up the pathway, not really caring if Nathanial followed or not. He could stay on the driveway and pout the night out if he wanted. “But now I’ve got Emma. I’ve got responsibilities.” “Holy crap,” Joseph hollered, slapping his knee. “It took him two hundred years, but he finally grew up.” I stuck my tongue out at him as we stepped up onto the porch. “Yeah, well, you’re ugly.” “Burn,” Joseph deadpanned, pushing me against the door. It was open just enough I toppled inside, sliding across the wood floors a few feet before my shoulder rammed into a blood free pair of jeans. “Hey, Tex,” I said, looking up. “You sure know how to make an entrance,” he said, looking down at me like he could squash me, before extending his hand and helping me up. “It’s a middle child thing,” I said, hopping to a stand. Looking back at my brothers filtering into the room, I decided now was the time to get the introductions out of the way. “This is Tex,”—he tilted his chin at the Haywards behind me—“that’s Dallas,” I pointed at the tower leaning against the counter with arms crossed, “and that’s Austin.” I motioned to the Scarlett who was looking a little worse for wear, a little regretful, and a lot sick to his stomach. From the corner of my eye, I saw a swaying motion approach from down the hall. I was grinning like Joseph by the time I turned to her and was laughing for some reason —love had made me kind of mad—as I jogged over to her. I forgot about the six brothers between us staring at each other in the kitchen, I forgot about the cops coming to get me sometime in the near future, I forgot about the world. Except for ours. That would go with me wherever I went. “Did Doctor Grey make me all pretty for you?” she asked, smiling at me. “Radiant,” I answered, resting my hands on her face, not seeing past the bruises and bandages, but seeing the strength and mercy in them. Ty could have killed her, he nearly did, but by the hand of God or the hand of fate, he hadn’t. And it was the first and last thing I’d be thankful to

him for. “Come here,” I said, pressing a soft kiss into her swollen lips. “I want to introduce you to some guys I know.” As we rounded the corner in full view of my brothers, I remembered again why it was I’d give my life for any of them. They all took one long look at Emma, not missing one thing, and smiled. There wasn’t a pause in response as they squirmed from the bruises, there wasn’t a slant of pity in their eyes for the battered girl bandaged before them, there wasn’t a single line of disapproval on any of their foreheads, not even Nathanial, although I knew he disapproved of this for one reason. There was nothing but acceptance. A stroke of eureka occurred right then. Against everything I’d always been told and believed about perfection not being a providence of this fallen world, I knew in my heart just then that was only partly true. There weren’t perfect people, nor were there perfect lives or perfect relationships. There were, however, perfect moments. And this was one of them. “Emma,” I said, keeping her tucked to my side, “meet my brothers. Brothers, meet Emma.” Emma lifted her hand and made a wave. “Nice to meet you, brothers,” she said, staring at them like they were at her. I leaned in to whisper in her ear. “You can stop gawking now. I know they’re not bad to look at, but they’re married men with territorial, uber jealous wives.” Turning her head so her lips were in line with mine, she whispered, “I wasn’t gawking. I was just noticing how I wound up with the hottest one.” I kissed her, not caring that I was making three brothers uncomfortable and three brothers aggravated. “Lord knows I don’t need the boost, but you are good for my ego, woman,” I said, a tad flushed and more than a tad breathless. Stepping forward from the kitchen trenches, William approached us. “We’re also called Nathanial, Joseph,”—he pointed at the corresponding brother—“and I’m William. Although Patrick has a good many other names for me that

I hope he won’t share with you.” Emma extended her hand and William did something that was remarkably out of character for him. He stepped around her extended hand and hugged her, something he only shared with another female if she was in his family. He knew, he accepted it. Only a variable amount of time and two exchanged vows kept Emma out of the Hayward clan. “Nice to meet you all,” she said as William wound his way out of her arms. “Finally,” she added, elbowing me in the side. “I assumed Patrick was lying about his family or he came from some clan of supernatural creatures that would kill me if I discovered their existence.” Nathanial made a solo note, low-pitched, sharp laugh. “How imaginative.” “I’m sorry to be abrupt,” Emma said suddenly to my brothers before looking at me, “but they didn’t tell me a single thing on our way here. Tex said you’d be the one to do all the explaining, and I’m afraid the suspense is killing me as to why we’re all here.” Her face formed with the worry that wouldn’t soon leave it if we slid down the explanation rabbit hole. “Would you guys excuse us for a while?” I addressed the room with an invisible line drawn between the Haywards and Scarletts. “Just, eh, make yourselves comfortable.” Grabbing Emma’s hand in mine, I headed for the balcony for the illusion of privacy. It wouldn’t have mattered if we were two houses down—if my brothers wanted to eavesdrop on our conversation, they could, and knowing Joseph and his expecting this whole convincing Emma thing to be a flop, he’d be hanging on every word. Sliding the door closed behind us, I didn’t think about what I was doing until I was kissing her, bracing her against the railing, moving my mouth against hers not as softly as I should have, but not as roughly as I wanted. I didn’t really care if her brothers were watching and about to kick my butt, and I didn’t care if my brothers were watching and disapproving of every last forbidden Mortal fraternization kiss, I only cared that this was what I had to do right now. Some instances were created ages before the beings

involved in it were even born. This was one of those instances. Me kissing Emma, Emma kissing me, like history had been building it up since the world’s inception. I could have said this was something of a “good” kiss, but there weren’t words, least of all “good.” “Goodness gracious,” she whispered, breathing short when I pulled away just enough to still feel close, but still kind of pained at the distance. “Now I’m even more convinced what you’ve got to say is going to be bad. Very bad,” she said, looking at me, waiting for an explanation. “Why?” I asked, touching the bandage covering the better part of her forehead. I felt the muscles move beneath it. “Because no one kisses like that unless they’re half convinced it could be their last kiss for a while.” Man, that would have been the kind of kiss to end it all on, it was the way I wanted to go—kissing the woman I loved—but I hoped there’d be more before my lips, along with the rest of me, took me to jail. “It’s not so bad,” I began, making a no big deal face. “No one says that unless it is bad,” she replied, tracing a finger over the Stanford lettering of the sweatshirt I’d snatched from one of her brothers. “Just give it to me straight, no more stalling, no more kissing, no more modifiers as you ease yourself into it. Explain until the explaining’s done.” That was typically the way I liked things, the way I did things. I was anti-sugar when it came to coating the truth, but having Emma standing before me now, wanting nothing more than to protect her and give her nothing but happiness, I got why William had been a fan of using it with Bryn. It was the only mercy we had to offer them in the midst of the often cold, always hard, truth. However, just as William had been when Bryn had thrown the no-sugar-today ultimatum on the table, I was incapable of giving Emma anything but the same at her request. “It’s very likely your brothers will be facing some convincing charges for what they did to Ty tonight,” I began, finding it hard to look into her face as the strength began to

melt away, piece by piece. “I doubt there’s any way around serving jail time, which would result in them losing their scholarships, their spots on the football team, the futures they planned on.” I glanced inside at the Scarlett brothers and how their lives could be permanently ruined from tonight, the injustice of it all. I was certain they hadn’t hit Ty half as many times as he had Emma over the course of five years. “I’m not going to let this night demolish everything they’ve worked for. Like you said, the four of you got where you did by employing elbow grease and sheer determination. I won’t let them take the fall for something I would have gladly done had they not taken the honor of it away from me,” I said, trying not to overanalyze what the shift in her expression meant. “I put the bat in their hands, the idea in their heads—I was the mastermind, they were only the muscle. I can’t allow them to serve the time when they wouldn’t be facing it if it wasn’t for me. Especially when their futures won’t be waiting for them on the other side and mine will.” I’d lived three lifetimes of a man’s future and I was finally looking into the green eyes of the one I’d been waiting for. “Patrick,” she said slowly, doubt in her voice, “what exactly are you getting at?” “Everyone’s on board with the . . . modified version of what happened tonight. Your brothers, my brothers, Julia, Ty—” “You saw Ty?” she said, her hands dropping to her side. I nodded my head. “I had to convince crapperware with some persuasive means to align his side of the story with the one I crafted.” Her face dropped too. “And what have you been crafting?” she asked, like she already knew. “Everyone is going to confess to me being the one attacking Ty tonight,” I said, and there it was. The flash of pain tearing open her face I’d wanted nothing more than to avoid. The pain that was perhaps the whole reason I’d avoided relationships in the past, because if you wanted to experience the good, you had to take the bad with it. Because the good was nothing but the norm

without the bad. The norm . . . Everything Emma wanted and yet another reminder of what I couldn’t give her. “You don’t have everyone in on your lie,” she said, trying to break free of my arms. I didn’t let her. “You went to my brothers. Your brothers. Julia. Ty!” she yelled, letting me see the hurt in her eyes. “You went to the devil himself to get him on your side before even talking to me about this?” she asked, wanting me to confirm it again because she didn’t want to believe it. “I did,” I admitted, because there was no other way to put it. “Yeah,” she said, breaking through my arms this time. “I guess it doesn’t really matter what the woman you supposedly love thinks. The boys are all on board, so of course Emma will just go with it, right?” she accused, spinning towards the slider. “But guess what?” she hollered, looking at me over her shoulder. “Everyone is not on board, so good luck getting your story to stick in court.” She rushed through the door, whooshing it shut with a slam. Gripping the railing like I wanted to turn the wood to powder, I tilted my head back and cursed at the moon, at the bloody stars, and universe, and cosmos for aligning the stars to not be in my favor tonight. One more curse flowing under my breath and I followed after her, not because I was worried about what would happen to all of us if she didn’t carve her story to match ours, but because I’d hurt her. No punishment that could be inflicted by man could hurt me worse than this. The sets of brothers were still on opposite sides of the room, although William and Joseph were at least trying to make small talk. “You guys,” I snapped at the pacing Scarletts, “you need to get out of here now. Before the cops get here.” When their pacing continued, I shouted, “Now!” One word put them into action faster than a string of them. While one set of brothers were scrambling into action, I looked to the other set, one of which had a smile of satisfaction taking up the lower half of his face.

“That went well,” Joseph said, clapping his hands at me. “Like you said, convincing a woman is as easy as you are.” William nudged him, shaking his head in a not now kind of way. “Don’t you have a rainbow to paint or something?” I sneered over at him, holding myself back from throwing him to the ground because that’s how we Hayward brothers tended to resolve these kinds of situations. An old fashioned, rough and tumble, fight to the word mercy. “You guys need to get out of here too,” I said, looking at William since he was the only one not smirking at me. “The fewer people here to question when the cops come to get me the better.” I waved at the door. “You can take the Mustang, so make like a tree and leave.” “What?” Joseph said, shoving off the countertop. “I thought you wanted us to sit back and enjoy the show? I wouldn’t want to leave just as it’s about to good.” Motioning to the microwave, he added, “I just threw in a bag of popcorn to enjoy the part where Patrick is about to have his ego bubble burst.” “Get out,” I whispered because it seemed more convincing that a scream. It was. Three brothers hurried out of the kitchen, congregating at the door. “Hey, guys,” I called out, forcing my rage fuse to snuff out. They weren’t the ones I was mad at, and it wasn’t fair to take it out on them because I couldn’t on Ty. “Thanks,” I said, “and sorry for the mood swings.” “When you say sorry,” Nathanial said, opening the door, “are you apologizing for tonight or since the day you were born?” Joseph turned away, probably to hide the expression he was stifling a laugh around. “Yeah, yeah,” I said, shooing them away. “Get out of here, you ugly brutes.” “We love you too, little brother,” William replied before the door closed behind them. Once they were gone, I wished they were back because nothing was waiting for me but the uncomfortable silence only an upset woman could create. This might have been a good time for the cops to come and take me away.

Forcing myself down the hall, I tapped the door of the guest room Emma had occupied a week ago. “Go away,” was her succinct and immediate response. “Not gonna happen,” I said, sounding another knock before letting myself in. “Go. Away,” a blanket covered lump repeated from the bed. “No.” “I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t have anything to say. So be on your merry way to jail.” Her voice was more sad than angry, but more angry than affectionate. “Don’t go to bed mad,” I said, pulling on the blanket. She snatched it right back. “Stay up and fight. You won’t be able to sleep anyways.” “You want to fight?” Emma seethed, the blanket performing acrobatics across the room. “Not really,” I said, taking a couple steps back because she was three shades of pissed. “I’d rather discuss what’s bothering you in a mature, peaceful, you talk and I’ll listen, then I’ll talk and you listen kind of way.” Walking on her knees to the end of the bed, she came to a stand, glaring at me like I’d betrayed her in every way a man could betray a woman. “How about I talk loudly and you listen because I’ve heard ten lifetimes worth of screaming and I made a promise to myself I’d never allow myself to scream at someone. As much as I want to right now.” She might not have been screaming with her voice, but her eyes were picking up the slack. “So, what defense could you possibly have for getting everyone else to go along with your lies, and then you came to me last? Because Emma will go along with whatever, right?” she said, mimicking a man’s voice as she threw her arms around. She wasn’t having any problem moving those arms now. “Emma doesn’t even have a backbone. She won’t stand up to me. She won’t challenge me on this.” Her eyes were too swollen for me to detect the tear before it skied down her cheek. She wiped it away so fast it could have been acid. “What sort of explanation could you have that I’d want to hear?” I glued myself to the wall behind me because I felt my

own anger trickling into my veins, and two hot-heads accomplished nothing but a lot of shattered picture frames. “Was that you trying to twist what I did tonight into something Ty would do?” “No,” she said, cinching her bathrobe tighter. “That was me making a conclusion based on the evidence. You didn’t ask me. You didn’t come to me first, second, or even third. You came to me last, telling me this was the way it was going to be.” And then I got that everything-looks-different-fromsomeone-else’s-point-of-view ideology. Perception is reality. “God, Emma. I’m sorry,” I said, tapping the back of my head against the wall. “It was a crappy thing to do now that I hear it from your shoes. When I came up with this hairbrained scheme, you were being stitched back together and I had to get to Ty before he talked. But you’re right, I should have come to you first,” I admitted, realizing it now, of course. Why would anyone upstairs want to make my life easy? “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. And just so we’re straight, I’m not telling you that you have to go along with this. I’m asking you.” And I was. I wouldn’t force anything on her, even myself if she didn’t want me to. “I respect whatever decision you come to and I mean that. I’m not just saying it because I’m supposed to. “So,” I said, walking towards her, wanting to kiss her so badly I knew I shouldn’t, “are you going to tell me what’s really bothering you?” I waited for her answer. And waited some more. I knew me not including her in my quest to make myself a felon had upset her plenty, but it wasn’t what was still causing the skin between her eyes to line. “When I have a tough time deciding where to begin, I find starting with the truth helpful,” I said, trying to be supportive, but I knew it could be taken as a remark coming from the mouth of an insufferable smartass. Emma collapsed on the end of the bed. “I’ve lived twenty years without you, one month with you, and for one night— one fraction of a night—you’ve been mine. And now I’m losing you,” she whispered into her lap.

And I got it. Got to the heart of the problem. Now that I’d identified it, I could work towards fixing it. “Emma, you are not losing me,” I said, kneeling in front of her. “I’m just going to spend a little time behind bars, maybe none since I have an attorney on my side that doesn’t know how to lose.” I took her hands in mine, focusing on the feeling, knowing there’d be more than a few nights I’d spend dreaming of this moment. “And I haven’t just been yours tonight. I was a lost cause the day you called me out on a perfect sun-tanning day.” A corner of her mouth lifted in a sad smile. “It won’t matter how long you’re in there because you’re going to end up resenting me. You’ll blame me for being there, and you’ll be right to.” She looked at me, apology etched in her face. “Nobody would be in this mess if it wasn’t for me. And I know I’m not very good at relationships, given my colored history, but blame and resentment have a way of choking out anything good that might grow in a relationship.” Why were women so adept at twisting things up into the worst possible conclusion? “You talk this crazy every Thursday night?” I asked, kissing her when I wanted to shake my head in frustration. Embrace the good at all costs, I’d heard someone say once, and I was going to do just that. “Listen to me, Emma,” I said against her mouth. “I love you. Nothing’s going to change that, a little jail time least of all, although no promises I won’t come out with facial tattoos and a bald head, looking ready to bench press a bus.” She laughed, less sad this time. Something was finally getting through, but it was like trying to smash through a concrete barricade with a pencil. “But you’re going to lose everything you’ve worked for too. I try not to make it a habit of mingling with convicted felons,”—she lifted an eyebrow at me—“but it’s common knowledge that a mark like that stays on your record for awhile and makes employment difficult to ascertain.” I wanted to shake my hands to the sky in exasperation. She was worried about me going away for all the wrong reasons. All I was worried about was not being able to kiss her until her, me, or both of us were senseless.

“The only thing I’m concerned about waiting for me outside of those exit gates is you,” I said, meaning it. My job didn’t require a clean record, Stanford could kick me out for all I cared,—I’d found exactly what I’d been looking for there —and I certainly didn’t need any more money. “Everything will be fine. Everything is fine now. Since I know you don’t believe it in your present state of woman crazy, can you just take my word for it?” It was asking a lot—trust wasn’t something that was easy to give away. She touched my face, like perhaps she didn’t think it was real, until the trio of lines folded between her eyes smoothed. “Fine,” she said, blowing a chunk of hair off her forehead. “Now seems like a bad time to stop trusting you anyways, especially since I’m about to tell you I love you for the first time.” I didn’t hear it right away. I mean, I heard it, I just didn’t process it. It was what put the surreal in life. Hearing someone loved you because they did, because they’d chosen to, not because they shared the same DNA as you, but because they’d observed, studied, and analyzed you, and they’d liked what they’d seen. They’d loved it. “Do you think you could say that one more time?” I asked, turning my ear. “Just because I wasn’t expecting it and I really want to give myself over to the moment and this time I can at least brace myself for it?” I was rambling. Patrick Hayward was rambling like an idiot. And I didn’t care. Looking at me, no, seeing me, Emma opened her mouth. “I love—” I couldn’t wait for the third and final word. I was kissing her again, which felt a lot more like consuming, but it was a joint effort. Pressing against her, we took our kiss horizontal, the mattress molding around her while I held myself above her. I didn’t want to brace my forearms on either side of her head, but the reminder of her bruised body stayed relatively in the front of my mind when nothing else did, so I held myself just above her, just barely against her. Minutes passed, the kissing nowhere near cresting, when something that felt a lot like responsibility filtered its

way through my male one track mindedness. “Em?” I whispered, hoarse from our mouth marathon. “There’s one more thing I’m asking, asking, you to do,” I said, rolling onto my side next to her. She rolled onto her elbow, pressing a peck to my mouth before replying, “What?” “I need you to be strong,” I began, hoping I’d deliver this with as much strength as softness. “I need you to tell the cops everything. I need you to do what your mom didn’t. I need you to tell them everything Ty ever did to you, down to the last finger he laid on you.” Against everything I’d prepared myself for, her face didn’t blanch white, her eyes didn’t fill with fear, her shoulders didn’t fall with doubt. Emma had found the strength I’d known was there the whole time. “And there will probably be a trial, and you’ll have to tell the god-awful story all over again. And I know how hard it will be for you to relive, to admit to strangers you were abused by the person who should have loved you unconditionally, but you need to do this so the SOB gets locked away for awhile and gets a permanent mark on his record.” I ran my thumb down the side of her face, having to dodge bandages and stitches like it was an obstacle course. “So next time he’s raising his hand to the next girl who falls for his act, he’ll think twice. He’ll wonder if this girl is as strong as you are, able to stand up to him. To hold him accountable for his actions.” I kissed the tip of her nose, watching a tear fall on her cheek. I didn’t realize it was mine at first. “Lock him away, Emma. And then I swear to you, he’ll never hold any sway in your life again.” Her hand slid into the curve of my neck and, somehow, I felt what she was going to say before she said it. “You didn’t need to ask, tell, or demand me to tell my story,” she said, peaceful like I’d never heard her. Peaceful like the silence after a thunder storm in the summer. “I gave Ty too much of my life, and I’m not going to give him any more. I’ll tell everyone on the face of the planet my story if that’s what it takes to be free of him. I don’t even care if he only serves a week. That’s one week he can’t hurt anyone else,” she said, inhaling. “I know if I’d had one week without having to

live in fear of every moment alone with him, every word I said that could set him off, it would have been like paradise.” I wanted to kiss her again, I wanted to do more than just kiss her, but I heard the sound I’d been listening for approaching at last. Ty hadn’t wasted any time telling his story, but I’d said what I needed to say and could face what was to come next with a ready heart. “All right, Em,” I said, pulling her up with me so I could hold her one more time. “The cops are almost here.” Turning her head, like she was trying to pick up the sirens, she said, “How do you know? I don’t hear a thing.” “They’re a little over one mile away,” I said, opening Pandora’s box just a crack, just enough to plant the seed so that when I told her everything, that seed would have taken root and could be built upon. “And you can hear them from a mile away?” There was nothing antagonistic about her voice, just curiosity. Asking for an explanation—one that I couldn’t give at this time of impending arrest. “I can,” I said, moving right along to my closing point. “When they get here, don’t say a word. Okay? Once we’re gone, go to the nearest police station and make your report.” “Since I’m a fan of efficiency and convenience, why can’t I just tell these cops, in the comfort of your home, what happened?” she asked, her fingers gripping into my back like she too was already experiencing the separation anxiety I was. “These cops are coming to arrest a bad guy, not take a domestic violence report from a nice girl,” I said, steering us out of the bedroom because I didn’t want anyone busting down my front doors. “We need empathetic, non-biased cops on our side here and I promise you the ones about to come through that door won’t be.” She could hear the sirens now—her head whipped towards the door like she was ready for an invasion and tear gas. Ever so slightly, so much so I could barely detect it, she started to tremble. “This is no time to lose your courage now, Em,” I said,

squeezing her shoulders. “Be brave. I promised you everything will be all right and that’s a promise I made with no maybes, no conditions. That’s a promise I’ll go to my grave to keep.” I looked hard at her, kissing her lips for the last time in what would be a while. The cops were already power-walking up the driveway—three of them. “Okay?” “Okay,” she whispered, bobbing her head. “I love you, Emma Scarlett,” I said, pressing my forehead against hers. “You make me every shade of crazy, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m coming back for you, and I better find you waiting for me because I don’t care what, why, or who it is, I’m not letting you go without a fight.” A rapping that thundered into the room and made both of us snap to attention, whipping our heads towards the door. I slid her a reassuring smile before turning and walking towards the door, but she didn’t let me go alone. She wouldn’t let me face this without her at my side. She was just as much my protector as I was hers, and that made me feel every kind of good a man could feel. Resting my hand on the handle, I exhaled. Sliding her hand over mine, she gave it a squeeze and helped me get this over with. “Patrick Hayward?” the cop sporting a buzz cut, a mastiff sneer, and a pair of handcuffs boomed as soon as the door was open. I nodded, spinning a one eighty, my hands crossing together over my back. “You’re under arrest for the aggravated assault of Ty Steel. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney.” I smirked at the floor—my attorney was going to kick their attorney’s ass. And then I looked back up at Emma. At her anxious face, but still peaceful eyes. I was going to jail for a crime I didn’t commit for a woman I loved. And I’d do it all over again. And I’d never been so bloody happy in my life before. As officer bull mastiff started pulling on my freshly

handcuffed wrists, I slid a smile into position, and I’d bet my fortune my eyes even twinkled. “Don’t worry about me, Em. No bars can keep me caged.” THE END

Table of Contents CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN CHAPTER NINETEEN