The Liberator (A Dante Walker Novel) (Entangled Teen) (7 page)

I send the desk onto its side, then look for something else to throw. But there’s nothing left. And though my dead heart is pounding with rage, I know this isn’t helping. I rip my shirt over my head and stride back and forth across the room bare chested.

A thought snaps into my head. I stare forward, but my eyes don’t focus on anything in particular. I’m thinking…thinking.

Or maybe it’s more like
remembering.

Remembering the way Rector’s black, leathery wings sprouted from his back. And the way Kraven’s white, glowing ones hung in the air behind him. I don’t know why I visualize their wings now. Max and I have pondered them a million times over the last several weeks, and though the issue of wings didn’t seem to surprise Valery, I suspect she doesn’t know how they work.

I’ve tried in the past to conjure my own set of wings, deciding if Kraven and Rector had them, maybe I did, too. I was never successful, though. But then again, I never tried while I was like
this
, while every nerve ending felt like it was on fire.

Growling like an earthquake, I throw my arms open wide and call out for wings. I roar, my entire body quivering. Sweat drips down my chest. Dark hair falls into my eyes. My muscles scream in pain. A burning smell fills my nose. But still I summon what I believe must be there.

And suddenly, two things happen.

My phone starts ringing, and a loud sound thunders through the room.

9

Charlie’s New Dress

Cocking my head, I realize the booming sound is someone knocking on my hotel door. But I don’t care about that. All I see is Charlie’s name lit up on my phone display. Racing across the room, I grab my cell and accept the call.

“What’s up?” I try to come off as chill, but instead sound like someone crotch-kicked me. “I’ve been calling.”

Smooth, ass clown
, I think.
Real smooth
.

I’m new to this whole caring thing. I quickly realize that I’m not that good at it, that I’ve kind of skipped over affection and jumped right into Lifetime-movie-stalker.

“Heeeey, Mr. Walker,” she sings.

One hundred percent drunk. That’s Charlie. I know because I’m sober. How is this happening?

Some persistent bastard keeps knocking on my door, so I cross the distance and swing it open. A woman stands on the other side, her face Bloody Mary–red. She points a finger the size of a cornhusk in my face. “You need to be quiet,” she hisses.

“Oh-kay,” I snap back. Then I slam the door before she can add anything else and go sit on the overturned mattress. “Charlie,” I say into the phone, “are you all right?”

She laughs. “I’m doing
real
good. Annabelle and I went to a Christmas party.”

I have no idea why, but I get a sinking sensation in my stomach. “Oh, yeah? Have fun?” is what I
actually
say, but what I really want to ask her is, “Why are you going out? Shouldn’t you be missing me? Also, since when did you start liking parties? Thought you preferred movies at home and shit?” Because honestly, it was always me dragging her to parties, so what changed?

“I did. It was so much fun,” Charlie purrs. “How’s the assignment going? What’s Aspen like? Is she…is she pretty?”

I’m relieved that she seems concerned about Aspen. I guess even someone like Charlie can get jealous, because even though she’s absolutely stunning now, sometimes she forgets to see herself that way. And sometimes I miss the old Charlie’s quirky beauty.

I’m about to reassure her that my eyes are only for her when a voice rings in the background—Annabelle, I think. “Did you tell him how you almost killed yourself?”

I leap to my feet. “What’s she talking about?”

“Nothing,” Charlie responds, her mouth too close to the receiver. “At the party we were seeing who could hold our breath the longest underwater. And guess what? Guess what happened?”

“You won?” I say. I can picture her smiling face in my mind, so it’s hard for me to be upset. But I don’t like the idea of Charlie playing let’s-almost-drown-ourselves while intoxicated. And what the hell were they even doing swimming in December?

“Yep,” she says. “And he said I couldn’t.”

I swear on all that is red and bacon-y, if she says Max is the one who challenged her, I’ll tear out his scrotum. “Who said you couldn’t?”

“This guy, my new neighbor. The party was at his house.”

My blood freezes in my veins. “Charlie, what’s this dude’s name?”

She pauses on the other end of the line, and I’m just about to start throwing things again. But I remember Man Hands knocked on my door and asked me to be quiet, so I don’t.

“His name is Salem.”

The desk chair flies into the wall with a loud clatter. So much for restraint. I glance at the door and expect to hear the beefy woman knocking again, but the sound doesn’t come.

“Charlie, that guy’s brother was the one who was creeping outside your window,” I say as evenly as I can.

“Yeah, Easton.” She announces this like we’re discussing Tupperware. “Look, Salem told me all about your run-in. He said to tell you he was really sorry about what happened. He kept asking me where you were. Said he wished you could’ve been there so he could show you his brother is a good person.” Charlie grows quiet, and I can tell she’s biting her nails. “They’re really cool, Dante. When you get back here, I bet the three of you will be friends.”

“I don’t want you anywhere near those guys,” I say through clenched teeth. It’s all I can manage, because now I’m remembering the way Salem looked at me with challenge in his eyes. And now he’s getting Charlie drunk and telling her to hold her breath underwater and playing Nice Guy. Well, I’m calling him on what he is—a sleazer.

“Okay, first, they really are nice people.” Charlie’s voice gets louder. “And third, I do what I want.”

I don’t tell her that she actually only named two things, not three. And I don’t jump on a plane to Alabama and tie her to the bed like I’d like to (for numerous reasons). Instead, I squeeze my eyes shut and say, “I know. It’s just those guys—”

“Those guys were hanging out with Max all night. He liked them. He said so.”

This actually does cause me to hesitate. Because I trust Max, I really do. And if he was around those dudes and didn’t sense anything off about them, then maybe I actually am looking for danger in the wrong places. Maybe I need to concentrate on the collector who was in my room tonight instead of the fact that two guys invited Charlie to a party.

One of which I caught staring up at her window.

Okay, okay
. I hold my hand up like I’m negotiating with myself.
I’m letting this go
.

“You look so hot,” Annabelle slurs in the background. “Can’t believe you actually wore it.”

It’s the freaking Fourth of July in my head right now, explosions detonating left and right. But I bite my lip and remain calm. “You get a new outfit or something?”

“He can hear everything you’re saying,” Charlie tells Annabelle.

“Good. Everything I say is magical,” Annabelle responds. “Can he hear me when I say, ‘Screw Bobby!’?”

Charlie laughs before returning to our conversation. I can almost taste blood by the time she answers me. “Bobby was kissing another girl tonight. He and Anna are over.” Her voice goes from sad to excited in the space of a breath. “And yeah! I went shopping. Got a new dress.”

“—that’d fit an American Girl doll.” Annabelle howls with laughter.

“I bet you look hot,” I say. And it’s the truth. I can picture her now, all legs and hips and big, innocent eyes. I bet she looks like Little Red Riding Hood, attracting all kinds of wolves.

“I look pretty good,” she slurs.

“Try
amazing
,” Annabelle interjects.

“Amazing,” Charlie says, “I look amazing. And you look beautiful, Annabelle. Bobby’s an idiot.”

I adore her confident words, even if I know they add up to a lie. She’s never been comfortable with her appearance, and I can’t think of anything that would’ve made that change.

Briefly, I think about mentioning the collector who was in my room but decide against it. I don’t want to scare her, and I know Valery and Max have her safety covered. For now, the best thing to do would probably be to get off the phone and call it a night. Then maybe call her again in the morning when I know she’s sober. But even as I think this, I know it’ll be hard to get off the phone. I
know
Charlie, which means I know she’ll want to keep talking until the sun comes up.

Charlie yawns through the phone. “Hey, I better run. Got to get some shut-eye before school tomorrow.”

My mouth drops open.
She’s
got to run? Trying to maintain what pride I have left, I recover quickly and say, “Yeah, I’m pretty beat, too.” And then, because my heart starts to race at the thought that she’s actually about to hang up, I add, “Hey, how many days you got left before winter break?”

I already know the answer to this question, and Charlie pauses like she
knows
I know. “Just this week. Then it’s Play Day every day.”

“Play Day, huh?” I say. “I don’t like the sound of that one bit.”

Charlie laughs lightly. “Good night, Dante.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Good night, angel. Tell Annabelle I’m sorry about Bobby. Guy’s a douche.”

“Wait,” Charlie says, as if I were about to hang up the phone, which I wasn’t. “You know I miss you, right?”

Rubbing a hand over my face, I grin. “That’s good to hear. I miss you, too.”

Charlie hangs up, and I sit with the phone pressed to my head for several seconds before leaning back on the naked mattress. Thoughts of Salem and Easton try to wiggle their way into my mind, but I shove them aside and think of Charlie.

Gripping the ivory horn in my fist, I concentrate on the feel of her lying in her bed. I think of the way she looks when she laughs, and the way her skin smells. And with a knot in my chest, I think of how tonight she sounded like someone else entirely.

Despite the surge of anxiety I felt earlier, I cling to Valery’s assurance that for now, all is well.

My eyes slip closed, and I fall into a deep sleep.

10

Here I Am to Stay

On the ride over to Aspen’s house, I think about the collector who paid me a visit last night. There’s not much I can do but keep my guard up. Not like I can go running around Denver trying to sense a cuff nearby. Dumb.

So instead, I focus on my assignment. I focus on the fact that Valery said Aspen was important, though that could mean a thousand different things. I know it’s not her fault that I’ve been sent to liberate her, but right now, I’m feeling resentful. After all, if she had her shit together, I’d be back with Charlie. So yeah, I’m not a happy camper this morning. But a job is a job, and no one can pull tricks like I can to get crap done.

It’s painfully early as I cruise through Aspen’s gate and head up the drive, but I’ve got to catch this girl before she heads off to school. After killing the engine and striding up her walkway, I stop and admire myself in the glass door. Looking mighty fine, if I do say so myself: red
v
-neck, dark denim, designer combat boots, and enough testosterone rolling off me to satisfy Nicki Minaj. Pow!

I knock once on the ten-foot tall door and wait until a little window opens. A guy cocks an eye at me like this is
The Wizard of Oz
and he’s Emerald City’s damn gatekeeper.

“How’s it going?” I ask him, stuffing my hands into my pockets. “I’m here to pick up Aspen for school.”

The door swings open, and an older dude with Aspen’s green eyes stares back at me. He’s a burly guy, the kind with a barely visible neck. And he isn’t doing himself any favors with his too-tight dress tie. “Who are you?” the guy says, and I notice his voice sounds a little like how I imagine an alligator might talk, all throaty and showing way too much tooth.

“Dante Walker.” I stick my hand out because parents love that crap, but this guy only nods his head toward something behind him.

“She’s upstairs,” Crocodile Man says. “I’m going to work, so no funny business.”

I want to tell him not to worry, that we need to head out, and I’m a guy who likes to take my time when performing “funny business.” But I decide against this and instead move aside as Aspen’s dad brushes past me toward the garage. I take this as my cue to enter his humble abode, so I walk inside and shut the door behind me.

My eyes bug out of my head, because even though I was raised on the green, I’ve never seen this kind of excess. The place looks like a pic that’d pop up on Google when you typed in “Americans Who Prosper from Child Labor.” Glancing down, I notice the floors are Italian stone, the real kind. The kind that crack and soak up anything that spills but shows others how much more money you have than them.

There are also pops of designer wall paper in all the right places. Poor people think wallpaper is out, but that’s because they’re a generation behind the wealthy. And always will be. The rich will always say to themselves, “What do the poor people hate today? Ah, yes. Wallpaper. Good. Let’s
embrace
that, then.”

Crawling toward the top floor is a pair of sweeping stairs that’d make any Disney princess weep with joy. I imagine if most girls saw them, they’d run out and buy every wedding magazine they could get their simple hands on.

Not Aspen, though. I’ve only spent one evening with her, watching her, and already I know she’s never pictured how she’d look in a wedding dress.

For some reason, I assume Aspen’s room is probably upstairs, so I ascend quietly. When I get to the top, I stop and glance both ways down a gold-and-white hallway. I choose to turn left and am soon rewarded by the sound of heavy base.

At least the girl’s got an ear for music
, I think as I stroll toward deep, screaming vocals.

I push the cracked bedroom door open the rest of the way and find a girl who looks every bit like Aspen but is half her age. The girl child’s eyes grow large when she sees me.

“Aspen,” she calls, and I notice the alarm in her voice.

Holding my hands up, I try to look innocent. “Sorry, I was actually just looking for—”

Pain shoots up my spine as I’m slammed into a wall. Aspen’s face is inches from mine, her forearm pressed against my neck. When she recognizes me, she lets up, but not much. As she cuts off my oxygen, I can’t help noticing she’s wearing fingerless gloves again; yesterday’s pair was black, and today’s gloves are bright green.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she snarls. “Who the hell
are
you?”

“D-Dub in the flesh,” I manage, thinking this girl might do well in the WWE. She certainly has the charm for it.

Aspen glances at her sister, who’s moved closer. And the look she gives her baby sister tells me everything I need to know; Aspen would do anything to protect her. “Don’t come out of your room, Sahara. My
friend
and I are going to have a little chat.”

Sahara nods, her big, vulnerable eyes still enlarged.

Aspen grabs my upper arm and leads me down the hallway. I could easily overpower her, but I let her do her thing, since it’s mildly amusing.

After my prison guard has pushed me into a bedroom covered in reds and blacks, she turns on me. “Look, I was a little messed up yesterday, so I let it go that I didn’t know who you were. But I’m not now,” she states. “Let’s start with what the hell were you doing in my sister’s room?”

“Such salty language,” I
tsk
, trying to refrain from yawning, because seriously, this girl is boring me.

Aspen steps closer in an attempt to intimidate yours truly, but that so isn’t happening.

“I came to see you, not her,” I offer, remembering I have to befriend this girl for the sake of the assignment. “I didn’t know which room was yours.”

“Now you do,” she says, breaking eye contact. I decide the gesture means she’s nervous, which tells me even though she’s acting all Fearless Woman, I must make her uncomfortable. And that means, my friends, that it’s time to spew lies.

“Aspen, listen, your dad and my dad work together. I was sent over to make nice with you so that Pops will get a leg up. But I’d rather saw my own arm off than be his damn pawn. So I decided instead I’d come over and make your life hell.” I grab the cigarettes from her nightstand, pull one out, and light it. “I’ve since decided I don’t fucking care enough to do even that.”

One corner of Aspen’s mouth quirks upward. “Such salty language.”

I grin and offer her a cigarette from her own pack, knowing Charlie would not be pleased to see me full on smoking. But hey, she’s out partying, right? Aspen takes the cigarette. “Shouldn’t we be off to the playground?”

“We’re out for winter break.” Aspen sits on her bed and stares out the window, taking long pulls on her cigarette. I follow her gaze and notice the mountains look larger from here. Less like titties and more like mom boobs. I plop down on a black suede chair in the corner and admire the silver studs along its curved back. It’s very Adam Levine.

Aspen glances back at me and the small diamond in her nose catches the light. “So you hate your old man?”

I already know Aspen despises her own dad. I mean, maybe I’m wrong, but something tells me when you flip your parent the bird, you’re kind of over them. Remembering this, I say, “If I could use him as shark chum, I would.”

Aspen laughs hard and clean, like there’s nothing holding her back. “I feel ya.”

Blowing a perfect ring of smoke into the air, I inspect her room closer. Part of bringing this girl in means knowing what would motivate her to live a purer lifestyle. And there’s no better place to start, I decide, than studying her natural habitat.

Her bed is queen-sized, even though she could easily fit three kings in here. And her floor is covered in black carpet, which I’m certain she picked out. A miniature crystal chandelier hangs from the center of the ceiling, and all along the walls are splashes of red and white. Near the soaring window is an enormous black leather beanbag. Overall, the room is designed for a rock star and looks similar to a deck of playing cards.

I can’t help thinking Charlie would like the bold red. That maybe this is the room she’d actually like to have, even though everyone would rather picture her in something pink and sparkly.

Eyeing the area near the beanbag, I notice there are little trinkets on the window ledge. I stand from the pimp chair and move across the room. Aspen sees what I’m headed toward and leaps to her feet.

“Those are mine,” she says, and I’m surprised at the possessiveness in her voice.

Ignoring her, I edge closer. They’re music boxes, I realize. Well, not boxes, actually. More like just the little mechanical parts of music boxes, all silver cords and string. On the side of each device is a little crank. I want to turn one so bad, but suddenly I feel like my hands are too big. I glance at Aspen who’s standing close by, her face lined with worry. She flicks her cigarette into a chrome trash can like she never wanted it in the first place. “Do these actually play anything?” I ask.

Her eyes glare past me at the trinkets, and I note the blue eye shadow smudged over her lids. I wonder why she wears it, because Mom—who also has green eyes—always said the shade was blasphemous.

“Yeah, they work.” Aspen steps around me as if she’s guarding them. Then, maybe because she can tell how badly I want to pick one up, she chooses one from the back. Then she rolls it between her gloved hands and gives me a long look. It’s like she’s silently conveying how much these things mean to her, though she’d never say it aloud. Glancing away, she holds it out to me, trying hard to act like she doesn’t care if I crush it under my heel.

I take it from her and then, balancing my cigarette in the corner of my mouth, I crank the miniature lever. Music ticks out from the gadget and I can’t help but laugh. It’s freaking awesome. I have no idea why, but it is. Aspen turns away and goes to get another cigarette. She lights it and curls up on her bed like a compressed coil, like if I make one wrong move, she’ll fire across the room. “Why do you have these?” I ask around my cancer stick.

She shrugs. “Why not?”

I spin the lever a few more times and then put the gadget back exactly where it was. Then I glance around the room again, looking to see what else I can find. This time my eyes land on a checkerboard. At first I think it’s décor, considering her room is splashed with reds and blacks. But the board and pieces are blue and yellow, and look way too intricate to be intended for actual play. Still, I know better than anyone that rich kids’ toys are always extravagant. Even crap like board games. I reach for a yellow checker.

“Stop!” Aspen yells, leaning forward. “Just…just stop touching things.” My arm freezes in midair, and a chill shoots over my skin. Most people would assume she’s just some spoiled brat who can’t share. But when I see the fear hidden in her eyes, I know better.

“What are you worried about, Aspen?” I ask quietly. And for once, I actually care what comes out of her mouth. I know Aspen likes to party, but before, I thought this was about a girl whose daddy didn’t pay attention. Now I’m not so sure.

My eyes rake over her dark hair, the small diamond stud in her nose. I watch her hands clench and unclench, and I zone in on her fingerless gloves.

Aspen toys with a small silver chain around her neck. It’s an unconscious action but one I notice all the same. There isn’t a charm on her necklace. It’s just an empty thread, like whoever bought it forgot the most important part.

I take a small step closer. “Aspen?”

In a flash, she’s on her feet. “Don’t give me that look. I’m warning you. Don’t you
dare
look like you feel
sorry
for me.” She jerks a finger in my direction. “I have everything. And I certainly don’t need some poser acting like I’m the one who needs help.”

Poser?
my mind screams.
Moi?
But then I remember I’m wearing high fashion while driving a busted-up Kia.

I consider letting this go, but I’ve never backed down from a challenge. And this girl, she’s tossing ’em around like it’s the freaking summer Olympics. In three quick steps, I close the distance between us. I grab her upper arms and jerk her so that she can’t avoid my eyes. “You’re real good at pushing people away, aren’t you?” I growl around my cigarette. “Push, push, push. That’s Aspen.” My eyes search her face as I reconsider what I just said. “Push them away or pull them closer, right? So close they can’t even see you clearly anymore.” Cigarette in hand, I put my mouth right next to her ear. “I don’t get pushed around easily, doll. And there’s only one girl I let pull me in.”