Evermore (10 page)

"Isn't the lead a girl?" I open my lunch pack, finding half a sandwich, a cluster of grapes, a bag of chips, and more tulips.

She shrugs. "He tried to convince me to tryout too, but it's so not my thing. So, where's tall, dark, and hot, a.k.a. your boyfriend?" she asks, unfolding her napkin, and using it as a placemat for her strawberry-sprinkle cupcake.

I shrug, remembering how, yet again, I forgot to secure his number, or find out where he lives. "Enjoying the perks of emancipation I guess," I finally say, unwrapping my sandwich and taking a bite. ' Any news on Evangeline?"

She shakes her head. "None. But check this out." She raises her sleeve, showing me the underside of her wrist.

I squint at the beginnings of a small circular tattoo, a rough sketch of a snake eating its tail. And even though it's far from complete, for the briefest moment, I actually see it slither and move. But as soon as I blink, it's stagnant again.

"What is that?" I whisper, noticing how the energy it emanates fills me with dread, though I can't fathom why.

"It's supposed to be a surprise. I'll show you when it's finished." She smiles. "In fact, I shouldn't have even told you." She adjusts her sleeve and glances around. "I mean, I promised I wouldn't. I guess I'm just too excited, and sometimes I suck at keeping secrets. Especially my own."

I look at her, trying to tune into her energy, find some logical reason for why my stomach should feel as awful as it does, but I come up empty. "Promised who? What's going on?" I ask, noticing how her aura is a dull charcoal gray, its edges loose and frayed all around.

But she just laughs and pretends to zip her lips shut.

"Forget it," she says. "You'll just have to wait."

When I get home from school, Damen is waiting on the front steps, smiling in a way that clears the sky of clouds and erases all doubts.

"How'd you get past the gate guard?" I ask, knowing for a fact that I didn't call him in.

"Charm and an expensive car works every time." He laughs, brushing the seat of his dark designer jeans and following me inside. "So, how was your day?" I shrug, knowing I'm breaking the most fundamental rule of all—never invite a stranger inside—even if this stranger is supposedly my boyfriend.

"You know, the usual routine," I finally say. "The substitute vowed to never return, Ms. Machado asked me to never return—" I glance at him, tempted to keep making stuff up since it's clear he's not listening. Because even though he nods like he is, his gaze is preoccupied, distant.

I head for the kitchen, poke my head in the fridge, and ask,

"What about you? What'd you do?" Then I hold up a bottle of water in offering, but he shakes his head and sips his red drink.

"Went for a drive, surfed, waited for the bell to ring so I could see you again." He smiles.

"You know you could've just gone to school and then you wouldn't have had to wait for anything," I say.

"I'll try to remember that tomorrow." He laughs.

I lean against the counter, twisting the cap on my bottle around and around, nervous about being alone with him in this big empty house, with so many unanswered questions and no idea where to begin.

"You wanna go outside and hang by the pool?" I finally say, thinking the fresh air and open space might calm my nerves.

But he shakes his head and takes my hand. "I'd rather go upstairs, and check out your room."

"How do you know it's upstairs?" I ask, squinting at him.

But he just laughs. "Aren't they always?" I hesitate, wavering between allowing this to happen and finding a polite way to evict him.

But when he squeezes my hand and says, "Come on, I promise not to bite," his smile is so irresistible, his touch so warm and inviting, that my only hope as I lead him upstairs is that Riley won't be there.

The moment we reach the top of the stairs, she runs from the den and calls, "Omigod, I am so sorry! I so don't want to fight with—oops!" She stops short and gapes, her eyes wide as Frisbees, darting between us. But I just continue toward my room as though I didn't even see her, hoping she'll have the good sense to disappear until later. Much later.

"Looks like you left your TV on," Damen says, going into the den, while I glare at Riley who's skipping alongside him, looking him up and down, and giving him two very enthusiastic thumbs up.

And even though I beg her with my eyes to leave, she plops right down on the couch and places her feet on his knees.

I storm into the bathroom, furious with her for not taking the hint, for overstaying her visit and refusing to split, knowing it's just a matter of time before she does something crazy, something I can never explain. So I yank off my sweatshirt and race through my routine, brushing my teeth with one hand, rolling deodorant with the other, spitting into the sink just seconds before pulling on a clean white tee. Then I ditch the ponytail, smear on some lip balm, spritz some perfume, and rush out the door, only to find Riley still there, peering into his ears.

"Let me show you the balcony, the view's amazing," I say, anxious to remove him from Riley.

But he just shakes his head and says, "Later." Patting the cushion beside him as Riley jumps up and cheers.

I watch as he sits there, innocent, unaware, trusting he's got the couch to himself, when the truth is, that prick in his ear, that itch on his knee, that chill on his neck, is courtesy of my dead little sister.

"Um, I left my water in the bathroom," I say, looking pointedly at Riley and turning to leave, thinking she'll follow if she knows what's good for her.

But Damen stands up and says, 'Allow me."

And I watch as he maneuvers between the couch and table in such a way that clearly avoids Riley's dangling legs.

Then she gapes at me, and I gawk at her, and the next thing I know she's disappeared.

"All set," Darnen says, tossing me the bottle and moving freely through the space that, just a moment ago, he navigated so carefully. And when he catches me gawking, he smiles and says,"What?"

But I just shake my head and stare at the TV, telling myself it was merely a coincidence. That there's no possible way he could've seen her.

"So would you please just explain how you do it?"

We're sitting outside, curled up on the lounge chair, having just devoured almost an entire pizza, most of which was eaten by me, since Damen eats more like a supermodel than a guy. You know—pick, pick—move the food around—take a bite—pick some more, but mostly he just sipped his drink.

"Do what?" he asks, arms wrapped loosely around me, chin resting on my shoulder.

"Do everything! Seriously. You never do homework, yet you know all the answers, you pick up a brush, dip it in paint, and voila, the next thing you know you've created a Picasso that's even better than Picasso! Are you bad at sports?

Painfully uncoordinated? Come on, tell me"

He sighs. "Well, I've never been much good at baseball," he says, pressing his lips to my ear. "But I am a world-class soccer player, and I'm fairly skilled at surfing, if I say so myself."

"Must be music, then. Got a tin ear?"

"Bring me a guitar and I'll strum you a tune. Or even a piano, violin, or saxophone will do."

"Then what is it? Come on, everyone sucks at something!

Tell me what you're bad at."

"Why do you want to know this?" he asks, pulling me closer.

"Why do you want to wreck this perfect illusion you have of me?".

"Because I hate feeling so pale and meager in comparison. Seriously, I'm so mediocre in so many ways, and I just want to know that you suck at something too. Come on, it'll make me feel better."

"You're not mediocre," he says, his nose in my hair, his voice far too serious.

But I refuse to give up, I need something to go on, something that'll humanize him, if only a little. "Just one thing, please? Even if you have to lie, it's for a good causemy self-esteem."

I try to turn so that I can see him, but he grips me tighter and holds me in place, kissing the tip of my ear as he whispers, "You really want to know?"

I nod, my heart beating wildly, my blood pulsing electric. "I suck at love."

I stare into the fire pit, wondering what he could possibly mean. And even though I seriously wanted him to answer, that doesn't mean I wanted him to answer so seriously.

"Um, care to elaborate?" I ask, laughing nervously, not sure if I really do want to hear it. Fearing it might have something to do with Drina—a subject I'd rather avoid.

He presses against me, his breath drawn out and deep. And he stays like that for so long I wonder if he's ever going to speak. But when he finally does, he says, "I just always end up—disappointing." He shrugs, refusing to explain any further.

"But you're only seventeen." I move out of his arms and face him.

He shrugs.

"So how many disappointments could there be?"

But instead of answering, he turns me back around and brings his lips to my ear, whispering, "Let's go for a swim."

One more sign of how perfect Damen is—he keeps a pair of trunks in his car.

"Hey, this is California, you never know when you'll need them," he says, standing at the edge of the pool and smiling at me. "Got a wet suit in the trunk too, should I get it?"

"I can't answer that," I say, wading in the deep end, steam rising up all around. "You just have to see for yourself."

He inches toward the very edge and pretends to dip his big toe.

"No testing, only jumping," I scold.

"May I dive?"

"Cannonball, belly flop, whatever." I laugh, watching as he executes the most gorgeous arcing dive, before popping up beside me.

"Perfect," he says, his hair slicked back, his skin wet and glistening, as tiny drops of water cling to his lashes. And just when I think he's going to kiss me, he ducks back under the water and swims away.

So I take a deep breath, swallow my pride, and follow.

"Much better," he says, holding me close.

"Scared of the deep end?" I smile, my toes barely touching the bottom.

"I was referring to your outfit. You should dress like this more often."

I gaze down at my white body in my white bikini and try not to feel overly insecure next to his, perfectly sculpted, bronzed self.

"Definitely a big improvement over the hoodies and jeans." He laughs. I press my lips together, unsure of what to say.

"But I guess you gotta do what you gotta do, right?"

I search his face. Something about the way he just said that seemed like he meant something more, like he might actually know why I dress the way I do.

He smiles. "Obviously it protects you from the wrath of Stacia and Honor. They're not too keen on competition." He tucks my hair behind my ear and smoothes the side of my face.

"Are we competing?" I ask, remembering the flirting, the rosebud retrieving, our brawl today at school, the threat I've no doubt she'll make good on. Watching as he looks at me for the longest time, so long that my mood has changed, and I move away.

"Ever, there was never any contest," he says, following me. But I duck underwater and swim toward the ledge, grabbing hold and wriggling out, knowing I need to act fast if I'm going to have my say, because the moment he comes near, the words will evaporate.

"How can I possibly know anything when you run so hot and cold?" I say, my hands trembling, my voice shaky, wishing I could just stop, let it go, reclaim the nice, romantic evening we were having. But knowing this needed to be said, despite whatever consequences it brought. "I mean, one minute you're gazing at me in—in that way that you do—and the next thing I know you're all over Stacia." I press my lips together and wait for him to respond, watching as he climbs out of the pool and moves toward me, so gorgeous, wet, and glistening. I fight to catch my breath.

"Ever, I—" He closes his eyes and sighs. And when he opens them again, he takes another step toward me and says, "It was never my intention to hurt you. Truly. Never." He slides his arms around me and tries to make me face him. And when I do, when I finally give in, he looks into my eyes and says, "Not once did I set out to hurt you. And I'm sorry if you feel that I played with your feelings. I told you I'm not so good at this sort of thing." He smiles, burying his fingers in my wet hair, before coming away with a single red tulip.

I stare at him, taking in his strong shoulders, defined chest, washboard abs, and bare hands. No sleeves for hiding things under, no pockets to stow anything in. Just his glorious half-naked body, dripping-wet swim trunks, and that stupid red tulip in hand.

"How do you do it?" I ask, holding my breath, knowing damn well it didn't come from my ear.

"Do what?" He smiles, his arms encircling my waist, pulling me closer.

"The tulips, the rosebuds, all of it?" I whisper, trying to ignore the feel of his hands on my skin, how his touch makes me warm, sleepy, verging on dizzy.

"It's magic." He smiles.

I pull away and reach for a towel, wrapping it tightly around me. "Why can't you ever be serious?" I ask, wondering what I've gotten myself into, and if there's still time to retreat.

"I am serious," he mumbles, pulling on his T-shirt and reaching for his keys as I shiver in my cold damp towel, watching speechless as he heads for the gate, waves over his shoulder, and calls, "Sabine's home," before blending into the night.

The next day, when I pull into the parking lot, Darnen's not there. And as I climb out of my car, sling my bag over my shoulder, and head for class, I give myself a pep talk and prepare for the worst.

But the moment I reach the classroom, I'm completely immobile. Staring stupidly at the green painted door, unable to open it.

Since my psychic abilities evaporate wherever Damen's concerned, the only thing I can actually see is the nightmare I craft in my head. The one where Damen's perched on the edge of Stacia's desk, laughing and flirting, retrieving rosebuds from all manner of places, as I slump by and head for my seat, the warm sweet flicker of his gaze skimming right over me as he turns his back so he can focus on her.

And I just can't go through with it. I seriously can't bear it. Because even though Stacia's cruel, mean, horrible, and sadistic, she happens to be cruel, mean, horrible, and sadistic in a straightforward way Holding no secrets, cloaking no mysteries, her unkindness is out there, clearly displayed. While I'm just the opposite: paranoid, secretive, lurking behind sunglasses and a hoodie, and hoarding a burden so heavy there's nothing simple about me.

I reach for the handle again, scolding myself.This is ridiculous. What are you gonna do—drop out of school?

You've got another year and a half to deal with this, so just suck it up and go inside already!

But my hand starts to shake, refusing to obey, and just as I'm about to make a run for it, this kid comes up from behind, clears his throat, and says, "Uh—you gonna open that?" Completing the question in his head with an unspoken—You fuckin' freak!

So I take a deep breath, open the door, and slink right inside. Feeling worse than I ever could've imagined, when I see Darnen's not there.

The second I enter the lunch area, I scan all the tables, searching for Damen, but when I don't see him, I head for my usual spot, arriving at the same time as Haven.

"Day six and no word on Evangeline," she says, dropping her cupcake box on the table before her and sitting across from me.

"Have you asked around the anonymous group?" Miles slides in beside me and twists the cap off his Vitamin Water.

Haven rolls her eyes. "They're anonymous, Miles." Miles rolls his eyes. "I was referring to her mentor."

"They're called sponsors. And yeah, she's no help, hasn't heard a thing. Drina thinks I'm overreacting though, says I'm making way too big a deal"

"She still here?" Miles peers at her.

My eyes dart between them, alerted by the edge in his voice and waiting for more. Since most everything to do with Damen and Drina is psychically off limits, I'm as curious to hear the answer as he is.

"Um, yeah, Miles, she lives here now. Why? Is that a problem?" She narrows her eyes.

Miles shrugs and sips his drink. "No problem." Though his thoughts say otherwise and his yellow aura turns dark and opaque as he struggles with saying what he wants, versus not saying anything at all. "There's just..." he starts.

"Just what?" She stares at him, eyes narrowed, lips pinched.

"Well..."

I stare at him, thinking: Do it, Miles, say it! Drina's arrogant, awful, a bad influence, pure trouble. You're not the only one who sees it, I see it too, so go ahead and say it—she's the worst!

He hesitates, the words forming on his tongue as I suck in my breath, anticipating their release. Then he exhales loudly, shakes his head, and says, "Never mind."

I glance at Haven, seeing her enraged face, her aura flaring, the edges sparking and flaming all around, forecasting a major meltdown scheduled to start in just three-two-one,

"Excuse me, Miles, but I'm so not buying that. So if you have something to say, then just say it." She glares at him, cupcake forgotten as she drums her fingers against the fiberglass table. And when he doesn't respond, she continues. "Whatever, Miles. You too, Ever. Just because you're not saying anything doesn't make you any less guilty."

Miles peers at me, eyes wide, brow raised, and I know I should say something, do something, make a show of asking just what exactly it is that I'm guilty of. But the truth is, I already know. I'm guilty of not liking Drina. Of not trusting her. Of sensing something suspicious, sinister even. And not doing nearly enough to hide those suspicions.

She shakes her head and rolls her eyes, and she's so upset she practically spits out the words, "You guys don't even know her! And you have no right to judge her! For your information, I happen to like Drina. And in the short time I've known her she's been a way better friend to me than either of you!"

"That's so not true!" Miles shouts, eyes blazing. "That's such total bullsh—"

"Sorry Miles, but it is true. You guys tolerate me, you go along with me, but you don't really get me like she does. Drina and I like the same things, we share the same interests. She doesn't secretly want me to change like you do. She likes me just as I am."

"Oh, is that why you changed your entire look, because she accepts you for who you really are?"

I watch as Haven closes her eyes and takes a slow breath, then she looks at Miles and rises from her seat, gathering her things as she says, 'Whatever, Miles. Whatever, both of you."

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, behold the big dramatic exit!" Miles scowls. "I mean, are you kidding? All I did was ask if she was still here! That's it! And you turn it into this major ordeal. Jeez, sit down, find your happy place, and chillax already, would you"

She shakes her head and grips the table, the smal elaborate tattoo on her wrist now finished, but still red and inflamed.

"What do you call that?" I ask, gazing at the ink rendering of the snake eating its own tail, knowing there's a name for it, that it's some sort of mythical creature, but forgetting which one.

"Ouroboros." And when she rubs it with her finger I swear I saw its tongue flicker and move.

"What does it mean?"

"It's an ancient alchemy symbol for eternal life, creation out of destruction, life out of death, immortality, something like that," Miles says.

Haven and I gaze at him, but he just shrugs. "What? So I'm well read."

Then I look at her and say, "It looks infected. Maybe you should have it looked at."

But as soon as it's out I know it was the wrong thing to say, and I watch as she yanks down her sleeve, as her aura sparks and flames. "My tattoo is fine. I'm fine. And excuse me for saying so, but I can't help but notice how neither one of you is freaking out over Damen, who, by the way, never comes to school anymore. I mean, what's up with that?"

Miles gazes down at his Sidekick, and I just shrug. It's not like she doesn't have a point. And we watch as she shakes her head, snatches her cupcake box, and storms away.

"Can you tell me what just happened?" Miles says, watching her slalom through the maze of lunch tables, in a big hurry to nowhere. But I just shrug, unable to shake the imageof the snake on her wrist, how it turned its head, focused its beady eyes, and looked right at me.

The moment I pull into my drive, I see Damen, leaning against his car, smiling.

"How was school?" he asks, coming around to open my door. I shrug and reach for my books.

"Ah, so you're still angry," he says, following me to the front door. And even though he's not touching me, I can feel his emanating heat.

"I'm not angry," I mutter, opening the door and tossing my backpack onto the floor.

"Well that's a relief Because I've made reservations for two, and if you're not angry, then I assume you'll be joining me."

I look at him, my eyes grazing over his dark jeans, boots, and soft black sweater that can only be cashmere, wondering what he could possibly be up to now:

He removes my sunglasses and earbuds and sets them on the entryway table. "Trust me, you really don't need all those defenses," he says, lowering my hood, tucking his arm through mine, and leading me out the front door and over to his car.

"Where are we going?" I ask, settling onto the passenger seat, complacent, spineless, always so eager to go along with whatever he says. "I mean, what about my homework?

I have a ton of catching up to do."

But he just shakes his head and climbs in beside me. "Relax, you can do it later, I promise."

"How much later?" I peer at him, wondering if I'll ever get used to his amazing dark beauty, the warmth of his gaze, and his ability to talk me into just about anything.

He smiles, starting the car without even turning the key.

"Before the stroke of midnight, I promise. Now buckle in, we're going for a ride."

Damen drives fast. Really fast. So when he pulls into the parking lot and leaves his car with the valet, it seems as though only a few minutes have passed.

"Where are we?" I ask, gazing at the green buildings and the I sign marked EAST ENTRANCE. "East entrance to what?"

"Well, this should explain it." He laughs, pulling me toward him as four shiny sweaty thoroughbreds trot by with their grooms, followed by a jockey in a pink-and-green jacket, thin white pants, and muddy black boots.

"The race track?" I gape. Like Disneyland, it's pretty much the last place I expected.

"Not just any race track, it's Santa Anita," he nods. "One of the nicer ones. Now come on, we've got a three-fifteen reservation at the Front Runner."

"The what?" I ask, standing my ground.

"Relax, it's just a restaurant." He laughs. "Now; come on, I don't want to miss post."

"Um, isn't this illegal?" I say; knowing I sound like the worst kind of goody-good, but still, he's just so—lawless and reckless and—random.

"Eating is illegal?" He smiles, but I can tell his patience is running thin.

I shake my head. "Betting, gambling, whatever, you know." But he just laughs and shakes his head. "It's horse racing, Ever, not cockfighting. Now come on." He squeezes my hand and leads me to the elevator bank.

"But don't you have to be twenty-one?"

"Eighteen," he mumbles, going inside and pressing five.

"Exactly. I'm sixteen and a half."

He shakes his head and leans in to kiss me. "Rules should always be bent, if not broken. It's the only way to have any fun. Now come," he says, leading me down a hall and into a large room decorated in varying shades of green, stopping before the front podium and greeting the maitre d' like a long lost friend.

"Ah, Mr. Auguste, so wonderful to see you! Your table is ready, follow me."

Damen nods and takes my hand, leading me through a room full of couples, retirees, single men, groups of women, a father and his young son—not an empty seat in the house. Eventually stopping at a table just across from the finish line, with a beautiful view of the track and the green hills beyond.

"Tony will be right over to take your orders. Should I bring you champagne?"

Damen glances at me then shakes his head. His face flushing slightly when he says, "Not today."

"Very well then, five minutes 'til post."

"Champagne?" I whisper, raising my brows, but he just shrugs and unfolds his racing program.

"What do you think about Spanish Fly?" He looks at me smiling when he says, "The horse, not the aphrodisiac."

But I'm too busy gazing around to answer, struggling to take it all in. Because this room is not only huge, but it's also completely full—in the middle of the week—the middle of the day even. All these people playing hooky and betting. It's like a whole other world I never knew existed. And I can't help but wonder if this is where he spends all his free time.

"So what do you say? You wanna bet?" He glances at me briefly, before making a series of notes with his pen.

I shake my head. "I wouldn't even know where to begin."

"Well, I could give you the whole lowdown on odds, percentages, stats, and who sired who. But since we're short on time, why don't you just look this over, and tell me what you feel, which names you're drawn to. It's always worked for me." He smiles.

He tosses me the racing form and I look it over, surprised to find three distinct names jump out at me, in a one-two-three order. "How about Spanish Fly to win, Acapulco Lucy second, and Son of Buddha third?" I say, having no idea how I got there, but feeling pretty confident in my picks.

"Lucy to place, Buddha to show" he mumbles, scribbling it down. "And how much would you like to wager on that? Minimum bets two, but you can certainly go higher"

"Twos good." I say suddenly losing confidence and unwilling to empty my wallet on a whim.

"You sure?" he asks looking disappointed.

I nod

"Well I think you got some sound picks, so I am betting five. No! Make that ten."

"Don't bet ten," I say pressing my lips "I mean I just picked them, I don't even know why."

"Looks like we're about to find out." he says standing as I reach for my wallet.

But he just waves it away, "You can reimburse me when you collect your winnings. I'm going to post. If the waiter comes by order whatever you want."

"What should I order for you?" I call, but he moves so fast he doesn't even hear me.

By the time he returns the horses are all in the gate and when the shot goes off, they bolt from their stalls. At first appearing like shiny dark blurs, as they take the corner and race for the finish. I spring from my seat, watching as my three favorite picks jockey for position then jumping and shouting and screaming with glee, when they all cross the finish line in my perfect one, two, three.

"Omigod we won! We won!" I say, smiling as Damen leans in to kiss me. "Is it always this exciting?" I gaze down at the track, watching as Spanish Fly trots into the winners circle and gets draped with flowers, preparing for his photo op.

"Pretty much," Damen nods "Though there is nothing like that first big win, that's always the best."

"Well I'm not sure how big it will be," I say wishing I had a little more faith in my abilities, at least enough to broaden the stakes.

He frowns "Well since you only bet two, I'm afraid you won somewhere around eight."

"Eight dollars?" I squint, more than a little disappointed.

"Eight hundred" he laughs "Or Eight hundred and eighty dollars and sixty cents to be exact. You won a Trifecta, meaning win, place, and show in that exact order."