Doyle was still talking to the window guy. “I’ll leave you to it. Don’t forget to stop at the gate to sign out when you leave.”
I blew out a breath, relieved when the window guy returned to his work. The guard looked at me, then, seeming to remember he needed to deal with me. “What were you doing?”
I pointed toward the laundry basket. “Bringing the dean her clothes. My CSA is in the laundry.”
Quickly collecting the basket, I returned to Doyle. “Ida gave me the key and asked me to bring it here.”
“Her hip bothering her again?”
Sometimes I forgot how small the staff was here at Rosewood. I nodded.
“Listen,” he said, glancing over his shoulder and lowering his voice. “I’m glad you called based on what you saw—better to be safe than sorry.”
“But I was so wrong,” I said, still feeling awful.
“It’s okay,” Doyle said. “You didn’t know he was authorized to be on campus. And it’s easy enough to see how you could have been mistaken with him prying off the window and all. ” He gave me a genuine smile and patted my shoulder.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll just take this laundry in and will return the key to Ida. She’s probably wondering what’s taking me so long.”
“Can I help?” Doyle asked.
“Maybe just open the door,” I said. Nodding toward the key ring which was still sitting on top of Brady’s underwear. Ugh.
Doyle didn’t seem to notice my embarrassment, but grabbed the key and led me around to the dean’s front door. I hurried to put the laundry basket down on her dining room table, hoping that was an okay spot to leave it, because I wasn’t about to linger in her cottage, especially with Doyle the security guy standing outside.
I left the cottage and that’s when I noticed the truck parked beside it with the big A1 Windows sign on it. “You’re so stupid, Emmie,” I said to myself as I locked up.
I turned, but Doyle was backing out of the driveway. I waved at him, thankful I didn’t have to talk to him again. Though as I walked down off the porch, I saw the window guy.
Danny. I felt I needed to try to apologize once more, so I walked around toward where he was working, standing behind a bush until I figured out what to say to him.
He’d managed to get the frame off and was fitting in the new one. Watching him now, I couldn’t believe I’d thought he was doing anything other than fixing the window. The shirt, the toolbox on the ground, the tree branches, the broken window: all signs pointing to him repairing it.
So what had made me zero in on him and assume he was a burglar? Those tattoos? The ones I had thought were dangerously sexy? The shaved head? The memory of his haunted eyes and the way he’d looked at me back in the drugstore? Whatever it was—maybe a combination of all of the above—it had made me unfairly pre-judge him. And of course I felt just horrible about it. I’d always prided myself on being open-minded and inclusive, but when faced with a snap decision, I had basically persecuted this boy for what he looked like. Nice job, Emmie.
“If you’re going to stand there and watch, can you at least give me a hand?” he said, startling me almost out of my skin; I thought I’d been watching him unnoticed. Obviously not.
“Sorry,” I said, stepping forward.
“You keep saying that,” he said, his voice hard and unforgiving. He glanced over his shoulder at me as he held the new window in place and nodded toward his toolbox. “Hand me that mallet there.”
When I hesitated, he sighed, put down the new window and reached for the rubber hammer—what I now knew as a mallet—and slung it through his belt loop before he turned to me. “What do you want?”
I swallowed against my dry and suddenly tight throat. “I wanted to apologize.”
“You did that already.”
I just stared at him. Now what? “You didn’t say you forgive me,” I said, which I realized as I said it was what I’d been waiting for.
His eyes narrowed and he glared at me, making me take a half step back. “You want me to forgive you for assuming I’m some sort of criminal? You want me to smile and say it’s okay that you called the cops on me because I’m doing my job?”
I swallowed again and nodded, desperate not to cry even though the tears were welling up in my eyes. Even though I’d known this guy two seconds, somehow I knew tears would just piss him off more. I fought the urge to run, but with every millisecond that he stared at me, it got harder.
He barked out a laugh. “Well guess what, princess. Your instincts were right on. I am a criminal. I’m not here to steal, but I know what it’s like to take a life, so don’t fool yourself for a second into thinking you need to beg my forgiveness. And before you get yourself into a tizzy and call the cops again, know that I’ve done my time and ‘paid my debt to society,’” he said, even doing air quotes while I stood there, slack-jawed. “So why don’t you take your entitled self back to wherever you came from and leave me to finish my job.”
I stood there like an idiot, unable to form even one word. Every instinct I had screamed at me to get out of there, but my feet wouldn’t move.
“What are you waiting for?” he growled.
“I...you...you killed someone?” fell out of my mouth before I could stop it. Then I gasped at my own stupidity, clamping my palm over my mouth.
He laughed humorlessly again and pointed at the teardrop tattoo under his eye. “You don’t know much about prison tattoos, do you, princess?”
I shook my head.
“The answer is yes. Now can I please get back to work?”
I just stared at him and swallowed again as I nodded, knowing he was waiting for it.
He turned back toward the cottage, but then looked at me one last time over his shoulder. “And don’t worry, princess, I won’t come after you or anything; you’re hardly my type, so you can sleep tonight.”
It was only later that I realized the irony in his statement; he obviously had no idea how his tortured eyes would haunt me throughout the sleepless hours I spent in bed that night and the ones that followed.
But I did the only thing I could then; I backed away until I was out of sight and then turned and ran.
Pass the Butter
He knew what it meant to take a life.
That thought rolled around and around in my head. I was desperate to talk to someone, but Celia was stuck in the kitchen and Kaylee was off at her rehearsal for the school play (she’d skipped dinner because Declan was back and came early to rehearsal to meet up with her). Chelly had been at dinner, but she’d asked me a bunch of questions about one of our school assignments that she’d blown off over the weekend and then had to hurry to finish before she went off to rehearsal, so I didn’t have time to talk to her about it.
How do you bring up the subject, anyway? “Oh guess what, Chelly? I met this really hot guy today who was all tatted up, had sky blue eyes and one of those chiseled jaws that makes you want to run your hand all over it. And also, here’s a funny story: I called the cops on him because I thought he was breaking into the dean’s house, when all he was doing was replacing a window. But yeah also: he killed someone and has done hard time and has prison tattoos. So that happened. Smiley face! Pass the butter, please.”
But as I thought about it, I couldn’t imagine Rosewood security would ever let a dangerous guy on campus. Not in a million years with all the wealthy VIPs who attended here (myself included, if I was being honest, at least about the wealthy part). So how did that work? Did they maybe not know about his past? But he’d said the tattoo on his face was a prison tattoo, so it’s not like it was a secret. I mean, it made sense that I had no idea what it was, thanks to my sheltered life of privilege, but surely a middle-aged security guard would know what it was.
So no, there was no way a convicted murderer would have been allowed on campus. Unsupervised. And with access to the dean’s private cottage.
Unless the guy was totally BSing me to scare me off because he was pissed about my c
alling the cops on him.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized that must be it. There was no other reasonable explanation. He was just a mean guy who was mad (and who could blame him, really?) because I’d unfairly judged and embarrassed him.
Still, I thought indignantly as I ate the last of my fruit salad, sitting by myself after Chelly had left, it’s not like I did it on purpose. And I had tried repeatedly to apologize! He was obviously just a jerk who had gotten off on scaring me as payback. Which, now that I was outside the situation, totally pissed me off.
Not that I ever expected to see him again, but if I did, I’d give him a piece of my mind and tell him I was onto him and his stupid games.
I suddenly almost hoped I’d run into him again just so I could tell him off. Who did he think he was, acting like that? It had been an honest mistake! Just because he was hot and dangerous-looking didn’t mean he could get away with scaring young girls.
Though no matter how indignant I allowed myself to get, I still realized my mistake had been pretty bad; I had totally humiliated him, so maybe best just to call it even and let it go. I mean, the last thing I needed to do was make a guy like that angry. More angry.
But those eyes...I knew for as long as I lived, I would never, ever forget those eyes.
~ ♥ ~
I got up to my room and looked around with a sigh as my eyes landed on Brooklyn’s empty bed. I really missed her, and not just because of the sleeping thing, either. I really liked her—she was funny and nice and everything I could have hoped for in a roommate. The Dave thing, well, I guess if I really thought about it, it was my fault. And anyway, I had broken up with him, so it wasn’t supposed to matter who he dated now.
As I thought about Brooklyn, I inevitably thought about her brother. A nagging piece of me still worried that maybe subconsciously I was trying to get with him to get her back a little. But as I thought about making out with him down in the lounge, I knew that wasn’t true. Certainly not now, anyway.
I sat down at my desk and pulled up Google, because there was another little detail that nagged at me. I typed in ‘teardrop tattoo’ and followed the search to Wikipedia. “Oh God,” I said as I read the article. He hadn’t been lying. Though it said the tattoo could mean one of a few things, none of them were good: it could signify how many years he’d been in jail, that he’d been raped in jail, or that he’d killed someone.
I stared at the screen, frozen. What had he done? What could have happened to him? He wasn’t that old, either, maybe twenty or so? Did he come from a bad family? Did he get into drugs and gangs at a young age? I suddenly had to know. I would have Googled, but I didn’t think searching ‘Danny the window guy’ would get me very far.
Then I remembered something that may not be worth much, but was more than I had to work with on my own.
I texted Rob. Can you meet me?
For what?
I realized he wasn’t inside my head and thought I was probably trying to work my wiles on him. Normally he’d have been right on, but I was a little preoccupied at the moment. I texted back. I need to talk to you about something. Not us.
What?
You said you were a computer nerd, right?
I don’t think I ever said nerd exactly.
Ha ha, whatev.
What do you need?
I need intel on someone and I know you’re just the guy for the job.
There was a long pause before he texted back: Lounge in 10
Perfect.
WWCD
“I can’t just hack into the school security database, Emmie,” Rob said, looking shocked that I’d even ask. “And why won’t you tell me who it is that you want ‘intel’ on?” He did air quotes the same way Danny the criminal in question had done earlier in the day. What is it with guys and air quotes, anyway?
I sighed. “Fine, it’s not a student. He’s a guy who did some work on campus. I just need to find out his last name.” I had hoped Rob would be able to find out more about Danny from the security guys, but when he got all paranoid and touchy about me asking him to get information, I backed off, figuring if I at least had a last name, I could do some of my own Googling. If the guy had killed someone, there had to be a record of it somewhere.
Rob looked at me sideways. “Did some contractor do something wrong? And what are you doing hanging around them, anyway? You shouldn’t be hanging around with contractors.”
“I’m hanging around with you,” I said. “You’re staff.”
“That’s different,” he said, narrowing his eyes, actually looking angry.
“Well if the guy was cleared by security, what’s the issue? Everyone gets cleared, right?”
He didn’t answer, but leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Why don’t you tell me who you’re talking about and I’ll find out what I can?”
“The guy who was fixing the dean’s window today. Daniel or something from A1 Windows.”
“What did he do?” Rob asked, trying to look casual, but I could see he was clenching his jaw. Was that jealousy? Or just good old caveman protectiveness? Whatever it was, my insides liked it, fluttering around in response.
I shook my head. “Nothing. He didn’t do anything.” Other than try to scare me. “He’s just...” I felt my face heat and cursed my stupid fair complexion. I jumped up out of my chair and turned toward the cooler to pour a glass of water.
“What is it?” Rob asked.
I drank half the glass of cold water, stalling. Then I filled it up again and returned to the table. “He had a prison tattoo.”
Rob frowned, but leaned back in the chair, balancing it on the back legs and swinging back and forth in a way that made me nervous he was going to fall over. “What do you mean?”
I pointed at my eye. “He had a teardrop tattoo under his eye. I looked it up. It said it means he killed someone.”
He sat up straight across from me, the front legs of the chair banging down on the tile. His brow furrowed, making him look nothing like the pretty boy I was used to. “And he was here on campus? Today?” he asked, looking almost menacing. Whoa.
I nodded, but suddenly felt like I needed to diffuse the situation. “Fixing the dean’s window. But the security guys knew him and seemed okay with it. I just thought maybe we should check him out, just in case.” As soon as it was out of my mouth, I felt bad, like I was betraying the window guy somehow. But, I told myself, it was more important that the students at Rosewood were safe. Right? It was for the greater good, even if I was suddenly feeling really bad about it.
Rob stood up. “I’ll look into it.”
I nodded and got up, too. “Thanks.”
“Oh, I almost forgot; Brooklyn got a phone,” he said.
“Finally,” I said, pulling mine out of my pocket. I walked toward him and tried not to notice his deliciously masculine scent as he held his phone out in front of me so I could copy the number. “How’s your dad doing?” I asked, because I had to say something or I was going to grab him and mash my face into his neck.
He shrugged. “Same.”
I didn’t push it, figuring I’d get the full story from his sister. Who I was very excited to talk to. Once I was done inputting her number, I slipped the phone back into my pocket and forced myself not to step away from Rob, even though we were still standing really close. Too close. Like, sharing the same bubble close.
I looked up at him, having to lean my head back a little. “So,” I said, giving him what I hoped was a sexy smirk. “One for the road?”
His eyes slid from mine down to my lips and I knew without a doubt he was considering it. Very seriously. Which was (almost) reward enough, so I thought WWCD (What would Chelly do?) and realized I’d put out the bait and now it was time to yank it back. The game was on.
“Never mind,” I said before he had a chance to (reluctantly, I was sure) refuse me. “I know we can’t. I was just joking. Mostly.” I accompanied that last word with a Chelly-esque wink and then swept past him
and out of the lounge, resisting the urge to do a fist-pump until I was sure I was well out of sight.
Good thing, because, “Emmie wait,” he said, jogging to catch up with me. I stopped and faced him.
Please grab me and kiss me senseless, I thought. Though I was disappointed when I quickly realized he just wanted to talk. About his sister.
“You said Brooklyn was dating some guy?”
Some guy. Ha. “Yeah, why?”
“Who is he?”
It was my turn to cross my arms. “Why are you asking?”
He shrugged. “An older brother’s concern.”
“Are you going to check him out while you’re doing your digging?”
The corner of his mouth turned up adorably. “You do know me, Ms. Somerville.”
I rolled my eyes. “You don’t have anything to worry about. He’s criminal-record free and comes from a good family. He goes to Westwood, which should be pedigree enough.”
“Nonetheless. His name, please?”
“Fine,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Dave.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Does this Dave have a last name? Dave...” He made a gimmie gesture with his hand.
I shook my head. “Sorry, I always forget. He goes by Dave, but it’s Willmont Davidson.” I didn’t figure he needed middle names, since I’d never heard of any other guys named Willmont.
“Thanks.” He tapped into his phone. Then he froze and looked up at me. “Wait. That’s the guy I drove home back to Westwood from the hospital after he had that allergic reaction.”
Crap. I’d forgotten about that. Again. “Yeah,” I said, thinking Dave hadn’t told Rob how he’d ended up with that allergic reaction. I sure wasn’t going to be the one to connect the dots for him.
“He seemed like a nice guy,” he said, confirming he obviously didn’t know they’d been making out at the Thanksgiving food drive.
“He is a nice guy,” I said, because it was the truth. Although my voice sounded a bit strangled as I said it.
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