He was going to be here in a few minutes. Inside my car. With me.
Shit.
That was the reason why my body was on edge.
My heart was doing somersaults inside my rib cage, and I sucked in deep breaths to calm it.
“It’s fine, it’s fine. If he doesn’t like it, he can kiss my fine flat ass.”
That he squeezed the other night.
Screw you, voice in my head. Screw you.
Anything pertaining to what happened that night was taboo.
I shook off my thoughts, nudged the rearview mirror, yawned again, checked my makeup. I had done a great job hiding the bruise under my eye. I couldn’t tell it was there. The huge, chic glasses covering half of my face also helped.
“Your eyebrows are on fleek.” I winked at myself, fixed the rearview mirror back into its place. “You’re gorgeous. You’re perfect. You’re all set. Let’s do this.”
7:48 a.m.
It was a five-minute drive to his place. Why did I leave early?
Could it be that you’re excited?
“Of course not.” I rolled my eyes. “Puh-lease. Be serious.”
I just didn’t want to be late. I wanted to show him I was a pro at adulting and serious about fulfilling my part of the deal.
The heat often emphasized smells, made them stronger, I thought as I eased my foot on the gas pedal. Maybe a couple sprays of perfume would make the car smell better.
Eyes on the road, I zipped open my bag using my right hand, felt around inside for my perfume, and spritzed a couple times. Five seconds later, I was hacking my lungs out.
“Holy smokes, what the fuck?”
I cranked open my window—it wasn’t automatic—and gulped cool, fresh air. Eyes still on the road, I quickly reached over to open the passenger window, heard the sharp zap of the seat belt as it locked in and snapped me back, nearly choking me.
Pissed, I pulled over to the side of the street, slammed my brakes, unbuckled my seat belt, and, finally, thank God, opened the two windows.
The source of the terrible smell was lying happily on the mat on the passenger’s side.
It was the same boxy shape as my perfume—except it wasn’t my perfume. It was Dylan’s cologne.
What the hell was it doing in my backpack?
I blew out a defeated breath, leaned my forehead against the steering wheel.
8:03 a.m.
I was late.
* * *
He was waiting outside for me.
Under the portico where he was shielded from the rain, he leaned against the wall, wide shoulders, long legs crossed at the ankles, hands in pockets. He looked dark and broody and so brutally beautiful.
He was wearing black sweatpants and a thick, dark-blue sweater with the sleeves pulled up just under his elbows so that the thick, corded muscles of his forearms were visible. He had a backpack slung carelessly over his shoulder.
The wind rose and blew his loose, dark curls, covering his eyes. I couldn’t see the blue of them, but his head came up, a proud lion sensing prey, as I rolled my car in his driveway.
My hands curled tightly around the steering wheel. I could feel the pulse in my neck beating wildly. Slowly and surely, his eyes found me in the rain.
I shivered.
But it was only because the windows were both open and the cold wind had soaked into my bones.
He didn’t take his eyes off me as he walked to my car. Confident, long strides that ate up the ground in a matter of seconds.
I faced forward, refusing to turn my head so I could watch him. My heart jerked as the passenger side door creaked open. He reached in, grabbed my backpack, and gently threw it along with his into the back seat.
Butterflies danced in my belly as he slid his big body inside my small car. I jumped a little when he slammed the door closed.
Then we were locked in together. And the air around me changed.
In my peripheral, I saw him crank his window closed, then push the seat way back to accommodate his long legs. I heard his soft groan as the seat jolted to a stop and his body rocked slightly, then settled back.
His broad shoulder nearly touched mine. I would have moved a little to my left if I could, but I was paralyzed.
God, he was just so big. It was impossible to ignore his presence or even pretend to.
I gripped the steering wheel harder as I felt his eyes watching me.
“Can I?” he asked quietly. Whispered it.
I didn’t even know what he was asking, but I nodded. I gasped as he carefully reached over, grazing my arm as he reeled my window closed.
“You’re shivering,” he said, a hint of frustration in his voice as he turned the heater on full blast.
He grasped the back of his sweater, pulled it off. The black shirt he had on shifted up, showing the hard muscles on his stomach.
“Here,” he said, offering his sweater to me.
I closed my eyes when, without warning, he placed the sweater on my head, pulled it down.
I blinked, strands of hair falling on my face, my glasses fogging up. His mouth twitched into a hesitant smile.
I saw his throat working. In a husky voice, he asked, “Can I touch you?”
There was that same need I’d heard from him the other night. But there was no regret, no hesitation in him letting me know his intentions. He wanted me to know exactly what he wanted.
He wanted me.
No apologies.
I nodded.
He brushed my hair to the side—fingers stroking, sliding softly—and tucked it behind my ear. I trembled as my skin absorbed the warmth from the pads of his fingers.
“Right arm.” His voice was rough.
I pushed my right arm into the sleeve.
Normally, I would protest at being taken care of like this, but with him, in this moment, I craved the intimacy.
“Left.”
His sweater drowned me. It was three times my size, at least. It was warm, and it smelled…blue. Blue. I couldn’t help associating the color to his scent—it was fresh, sweet, cool ocean air. I wanted to pack his fragrance and eat it like candy if I could. I wanted to savor it bit by bit. It was perfect.
“Are you warming up?” he murmured.
“Yes.”
We stared at each other for a moment, the air thick with tension. His gaze was intense on my face, watching my every reaction.
Then he moved back.
“If you’re trying to get out of this deal by freezing me to death”—he whispered the words, but the challenge, I realized, was there—“you’re going to have to come up with something more creative. This”—he swept a hand at the window—“is child’s play. You’re only going to get yourself sick.”
What?
“You’re not getting out of this deal,” he continued. His jaw was hard, his eyes glittering with a dare.
I was so shocked by the words coming out of his mouth that mine hung open. He thought I deliberately made it cold inside the car to get out of the deal.
“Unless your word means nothing to you,” he finished.
He meant my principles.
Where did this guy come from? How was it so easy for him to unearth the perfect words to get the perfect response he wanted from me? To find my weakness, to use it without shame, to goad me, to get what he wanted…
And why was I playing in his web? I had to find his weakness and use that against him to level the field. Or turn the tables on him.
I’ll find his weakness. If it’s the last thing I do.
My nostrils flared. “Listen up, buddy—”
“You called me babe the other night,” he interrupted.
“—if you think… What?”
“I said you called me—”
“Shh. Shh. Shh.”
“—babe the other night.”
My face felt hot.
Just as I was finding my footing, he pulled the rug out from under me again. He’d opened the box filled with our dark secrets from that night. We weren’t supposed to talk about it until X amount of days had passed or some bullshit rule someone had made up that I was totally willing to follow if it would save me from this.
Too late.
I was engaging with a player who broke every rule in the game.
“I called you babe that night as an insult.”
His thumb grazed the corner of his mouth, going back and forth, back and forth, as if he was contemplating something.
“Tell me,” he started. A small smile appeared on his lips. And still, he kept rubbing. “Did you kiss me that night as an insult too?”
Oh, he did not just go there.
If I were a volcano, my lava would have been all over him by now.
“Because,” he continued, looking at me like he wanted to eat me in one big bite, “I want more.”
Oh, no, no, no. He’s not doing this to me again.
I blinked rapidly, shaking my head. Resetting it.
Focus. Call upon your inner Jedi. She’s in there somewhere.
“Is that why you reached for my zipper the first chance you got?” I shot back. “I mean, that was my first kiss!”
His eyes widened in surprise.
Aha! Finally!
But at what cost to me? I didn’t mean to blurt that out. I had just handed him another golden weapon he could use against me.
“I’m not sorry about that night, Spitfire,” he said.
Spitfire. That nickname he’d given me the first time we met. It felt…funny, like a tickle in my belly, hearing him say it again.
My arms started to hurt. I realized I was still gripping the steering wheel. I let my arms fall to my sides and slumped back against the seat.
“But I am sorry for…going too fast.” He looked down, hiding his face from me. “I’m not used to taking it slow.” When he turned his gaze on me, the full power of his eyes penetrated my shield. “Next time, babe, we do what you want, when you want it,” he said with a huskiness in his tone that made me shiver. It felt like a promise.
Holy smokes. My face felt hot again, and it was dangerously and quickly spreading throughout my body. I wanted to bite my lip, but I was afraid he would be able to tell that I was…turned on.
No! I was not turned on.
I leaned away as far as I could, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath.
His scent had taken over every bit of air space in this car. It was drowning me. I opened the window a crack. Better.
“We have”—I cleared my throat—“to discuss this deal. I’m not going to be at your beck and call just because you need a ride. I have a lot of responsibilities.”
“Give me your class schedule.”
“You’re not getting my class schedule. What are you, my keeper?”
“If you want.”
“I don’t want,” I said. “I’ll give you the times I’m available, and you can call me if you need a ride then.”
“No. That’s cheating.”
He was so disagreeable. So damned argumentative. It frustrated me because it was so damn…interesting. And exciting.
“How is that cheating?”
“You could only give me the times you want to be available, not when you actually are.”
“What the—”
“Why don’t I give you my schedule too? Although I should warn you that it’s all over the place.”
Suddenly, he moved closer. His face inches from mine as he asked in a soft, seductive voice, “Kara?”
Air. I needed air.
“Hmm?”
“What time is your class?”
“Eleven.”
“I woke you up too early,” he said softly.
“I-I was going to study and do homework anyway.”
His hand reached out to touch my cheek. I wanted to lean closer, rub my face against his wide palm like a cat. Instead, I leaned away, gathered all my battery charge so I could find the strength not to succumb to him.
“This isn’t happening again,” I said. “That night—it was a mistake. A mistake I don’t intend to repeat.” Suddenly, my body felt heavy, and I slumped against my seat. Was exhaustion catching up to me?
He was silent for a moment. Then, “I’m driving,” he said coldly. “Get out of the car.”
“You’re not driving.”
“Yes, I am.”
“This isn’t even your car!”
“It is until you finish my motorcycle.”
How did the conversation suddenly come to this point? We were just…
He slid out of the car and pulled open my door.
“You can barely keep your eyes open. I’m not letting you drive like this.”
He was right. I was very tired; I could hardly lift my head. I felt like the cheese in my whiz was gone, the fizz in my pop evaporated. I was too exhausted to argue with him.
The car was warming up considerably, and I thanked God that I could barely detect Dylan’s toxic cologne. I yawned, covering my mouth with my hand.
I only had three hours of sleep last night and just a little more than that every night this past week. Trying to fulfill both my work and school duties was taking its toll. And it was so easy to just give up trying to control everything for a while. Just for a little while.
Instead of getting out of the car, I crawled to the passenger side as slow as a turtle, taking my sweet time. I heard him sigh, then suddenly, he was on the other side of my car, closing the passenger door.
How the hell did he get there so fast?
“Did you teleport?” I asked him sleepily when he settled in the driver’s seat.
“What?”
“Nothin’.”
“Seat belt,” he said.
I was going to put it on, but now that he said it, I didn’t want to.
“Kara,” he growled.
I turned away from him, lowering the seat so I was lying at a comfortable angle. I was so exhausted I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore, let alone argue with him. Maybe I could relax for a bit while he drove us to school. It was so warm in here. His sweater smelled so good, felt so comfortable. If I had my own place, I’d want this scent to cover every surface of it. I let out a contented sigh, closed my eyes, and fell asleep.
Chapter 15
Cameron
There was a maze in my childhood that I would never forget. It had been a refuge for me when I was a kid, trying to escape from everyone’s expectations. Trying to just be.
It had been a safe haven until that vicious night when life sharpened its claws and made me bleed. Before everything fell apart because of one mistake.
It had been a welcome surprise when I found the maze. Raven and I had just moved to a new neighborhood—for the sixth time that year. I was eight years old, but Raven had made me pack our bags so many times that every place and every face started to look the same.
It only got worse when my father divorced her and remarried. Before, her attention had been divided between me and my father; now, it was concentrated solely on me. It was toxic.
If the kid inside me yearned for an adult to lean on, or for a friend, it was easily squashed by the reality that was my mother. Raven’s demands and emotional instability stopped me from reaching out to anyone.
People stopped mattering to me—just as I stopped mattering to them. It was easier to stop caring.
But at night, when I was alone in a huge house, with my mother out partying or doing whatever the hell she pleased, and when the confines of that house started to represent what was lacking in my life that an eight-year-old boy couldn’t fathom, the maze had been my sanctuary.
/> She’d lock me in the house, but a kid could escape if he had half a brain and enough guts.
Funny how I despised the nights I was locked up. Funny how miserable I thought they were when the worst was still yet to come—the night that shattered everything.
But I’d locked away those memories. Locked them tight.
It didn’t take long to find the maze. The kids in my class often talked about a haunted mansion on my street. They said it was cursed, that whoever entered it would be cursed as well, so there weren’t a lot of people in town who had the balls to venture inside.
The mansion stood on twenty acres of land. It was owned by a writer who never left her house. Rumor had it that it took a year before they found her dead body in the mansion and that she still haunted it up to this day—especially the intricate maze she had built for her lover behind it.
It was a siren’s call to an angry, lonely boy, but I wasn’t afraid of a stupid ghost or a stupider curse. I wasn’t afraid of anything.
Armed with a flashlight and nothing else, I broke into the mansion. A flimsy board served as the front door, as if it didn’t need protection from anything. As if it were daring anyone to smash the board and go inside. All the windows were boarded up with drywall now covered in graffiti.
I only made it to the foyer that first night before my imagination got the best out of me and I ran back to my house, trying my best not to piss my pants.
The dark, cold, and damp room freaked me out; it felt like an evil clown was hiding in there, waiting for me.
It took me a whole week before I tried again. I had cut classes and sneaked out of school, so I’d have the light of the day to guide me.
I climbed the long winding staircase that was covered with unidentified debris, stopped when I reached the landing. There were impressive floor-to-ceiling windows that dominated the wall. I walked toward them, wiped away the thick dust on the glass at eye level, and gawked at what I saw behind the mansion.
The maze spread out before me. The magnificent green of it, the fascinating twists and turns. I was mesmerized. My immediate fascination with the maze overpowered any lingering fear I may have had for the house and I ran straight to it.
The maze was massive. Tightly packed bushes and trees as high as a house served as walls—some of them dead and brown, some green. A few of the partitions were made of steel and wood, buried in vines so thick and fat I could barely see what was behind them.
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