Pretending

by Shanna Clayton

  I’m reluctant to do it, but can see no other option. Resting my weight against him, I lay my head on his shoulder and allow him to lead me out of the sorority house. He does it in a way that makes it look like he’s simply walking beside me, not practically carrying me like he’s actually doing. As soon as the outside air hits me, I feel a little better.

  While we wait for the cab, I breathe in his spicy cologne. “You smell really good.” The words just kind of slip out without shame. I blame the champagne for that too. Hopefully I won’t remember this come tomorrow.

  “Thanks,” he says, chuckling.

  “Just so you know, I don’t usually drink this much.”

  “I didn’t think you did, but either way, I wasn’t judging.” The cab pulls up, and Wesley opens the door. “Guess we’re even now. Chase told me you helped out when they dropped me off last night.”

  He helps me inside, then shuts the door behind me and gets in on the other side. The cab driver asks where we’re going, and it occurs to me there’s just one address to give him. Our address. That seems weird to me right now. It’s always been just my address.

  Wesley gives him the directions, and then we pull out onto the street. I hold my stomach like it’s about to detach itself from my body.

  “Easy on the gas, man,” Wesley says to the driver. “Your tip will be worth five trips as long as you slow it down.”

  The car slows, and the ride becomes smoother.

  “Thanks,” I whisper.

  “No problem.”

  “All I did was show them to your room.”

  “Huh?” he asks, confused.

  “Your friends. I didn’t really help them. I just showed them the way to your room.”

  “Oh.” He leans across me and grabs my seatbelt, buckling me in. “How did you know where it was?”

  I think about the times I’ve snuck in there while he was gone, snooping through his lackluster belongings, which I’m beginning to see never shed any real light on his personality. “Easy. I followed the scent of women and cheap booze.”

  “You’re funny.”

  “Or maybe it was booze and cheap women. Either way, I suppose.”

  “You could be a comedian.”

  Resting my head against the seat, the swirling in my head and stomach calms. Sitting down makes me feel so much better. “Oh no, Gwen!” I pat the pockets of my pants, feeling for my cellphone. It’s not there. “Oh no, my phone!”

  This night keeps getting worse and worse.

  “It’s okay,” Wesley assures me, pulling out his cellphone. “What’s her number? I’ll text her.”

  Thankfully Gwen has had the same phone number since seventh grade, otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to remember it in my current state. Wesley sends her a text, letting her know I took a cab home. Then he calls my phone, but it goes straight to voicemail. Not knowing where my phone is gives me an uneasy feeling, but there’s nothing that can be done tonight.

  I relax against the seat again, feeling my eyelids droop. Kent House is about twenty minutes from campus, more remote than most of the old Victorians in this area. That’s what Harland loved about it though. He said it gave him room to think, whatever that meant.

  “He used to talk about you all the time,” I murmur sleepily.

  “Who?” Wesley asks.

  “Harland.”

  The cab stays quiet, and I keep my eyes closed. In the dark of my mind, I see Harland’s dark hair tinged with gray on the sides, and his blue eyes, a few shades lighter than Wesley’s. I hear his laughter, remembering the way it filled the halls of Kent House. The sound of it warmed the whole house.

  “When he spoke about you and Sam, it was like listening to a fairytale.” My voice sounds dreamily faraway. “His whole face lit up, his voice changed, and he would go on and on about your adventures together…in my mind, you guys were heroes. Like Indiana Jones or something.”

  Wesley doesn’t say anything. I get the feeling I may have treaded onto a sore subject. Over the years, he’s made it pretty obvious he harbors some deep resentment for his dad. I’m not sure why; Harland never spoke about it, and I never asked.

  It bothers me though. Harland was a genuinely good person, the kind the world doesn’t get enough of, and he adored both of his boys so much. Sure, he liked to play pranks on people—maybe sticking Wesley and me together was his biggest prank of all. And sometimes it was hard to pry him from his research. The man truly loved to work. But aside from that, I can’t imagine why Wesley could hate him so much.

  It shouldn’t bother me.

  But it does.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  WESLEY

  The moment I’m positive Dahlia is sleeping, I snatch the crooked glasses from her face, stuffing them in my pocket. They look uncomfortable to wear while sleeping anyway. Holding onto them for a while isn’t such a bad idea. As far as I’m concerned, I’m doing her a favor. At least until she starts banging into walls and falling down stairwells.

  Even without the glasses, tension lines her brow. Sleeping with her hair tied into that knot doesn’t look comfortable. I need to do something. Seeing her looking so stiff is bothering me.

  Carefully, I work my fingers into her hair, prying out the pins latching her bun to her scalp. She stirs slightly, then relaxes into my side, giving me better contact. Soft locks absorbed in a flowery smell fall from the loosened bun, slowly bringing back the girl I met earlier today. I continue pulling the pins out, one by one, until a sharp one pricks my finger.

  “Son of a—”

  Dahlia stirs again, and I close my mouth. Blood seeps from my index finger. I press it against the bottom of my shirt, narrowing my eyes on her sleeping figure. Does she realize she’s wearing miniature weapons in her hair?

  “You are forbidden,” I whisper while throwing the pins out the window, “to wear these again.”

  Tossing out the hairpins stirs up old memories. Images of my mom reading Snow White to Sam and me at bedtime when we were kids flood into my head. We didn’t like the fairytale much, preferring dragons and robots to dwarves and poisoned apples. But it was our mom’s favorite. After she left, we’d make up our own stories and act them out. Our twin beds became pirate ships, and we’d chase each other around the room with plastic swords.

  I lean my head against the seat, pushing all those nights from my mind. Getting over his death has been the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I don’t know if I’ll ever get over it, or get over the unfairness of him dying so young. I thought finding the Saiful Azman would bring us both peace, but it hasn’t yet. As soon as it’s safe, the sword is going in Sam’s grave. Where it belongs.

  You have to rest, brother. Your treasure is in Kent hands now.

  I’m not sure he’ll get my message, but it makes me feel better to think it’s possible.

  Outside the trees and stars rush by in a blur. The pain is still there in my chest, and it’s suffocating. Desperately, I try to think of something else. Anything else.

  Dahlia draws her arm across my chest, laboring a sleepy sigh. It startles me for a second, but then I notice how relaxed she is. Seeing her like that, with all the tension gone, is nice. It’s a sign of trust. A subconscious one, anyway. I wrap my arm around her, cradling her against me, and she buries herself into my shoulder.

  This is Dahlia.

  The same girl I’ve ignored for years.

  Why does it seem so unreal?

  ~ ~

  DAHLIA

  “Are you carrying me?”

  I’m half awake when I feel Wesley scoop me up into his arms and carry me up the porch steps.

  “Nope. You’re only floating. Go back to sleep.”

  I blink several times, then wipe my eyes groggily. “You are carrying me.”

  He fumbles with the keys. The lock clicks, and he uses the side of his body to push the tall wooden door open.

  “Kind of ironic,” I say with a yawn.

  “What is?”

  “That you’re jus
t now carrying me across the threshold. You’re sort of late, you know.”

  “Uh, that’s for newlyweds,” he says, chuckling.

  I wince, catching what I just implied. “Right…I meant it in a metaphorical way.”

  He glances down at me. “Metaphor or not, you’re right. I am late.” He begins to climb the wide staircase leading to the second floor. “I am very late concerning you entirely.”

  “You do realize I can walk, don’t you? And what do you mean by ‘concerning me entirely?’”

  “I’d rather carry you.” He turns a corner, veering toward the east wing. “And I mean there are things I should’ve done long ago.”

  “What kind of things?”

  He shakes his head. “We’ll save that conversation for later.”

  I wish I hadn’t asked. Waiting to understand the meaning behind that cryptic reply sounds exasperating. I’m not sure what Wesley suddenly wants from me, but I know I don’t want to play this game. Before this morning, he never acknowledged my presence. Knowing his motives are based off the way I look pisses me off.

  “Put me down.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we’re almost to your bedroom…fucking hell.” Wesley pauses and swings around, and my head to spins. “Where is your bedroom?”

  He’s so frustrated and lost that I forget my anger. Laughter bubbles up inside my throat. I cover my mouth to stop it, but it comes out anyway.

  Wesley stares at me like I’m a crazy person. “You think this is funny?”

  Slowly, I peel my hands away from my face, keeping my lips even. “Not at all.” The corners of my mouth curve despite my struggle to stay straight-faced. “But I’d rather go to the kitchen anyway.”

  “Are you hungry?” he asks. “I can have some food sent for.”

  Sending for food means sending for Hannah, and although I’m not sure if she still works here, I’d prefer not to risk dealing with that girl ever again.

  “No need to wake the staff. I’m perfectly capable of making my own food.”

  “Fine. I’ll make you something.”

  “And have you get lost on the way to my room?” Another giggle escapes. “I don’t think so. Put me down.”

  Wesley obliges me, effortlessly standing me upright on the floor. When my feet touch the carpet, my stomach violently swirls. I grab onto his arm, not expecting the nausea to rush back so quickly.

  “Whoa,” he says, steadying me. “You’re not walking. And you’re definitely not cooking. I’ll make you something to eat.”

  He draws me back up into his arms with ease, making my weight seem feather-light. Arguing is pointless. Everything around me is spinning, or my head is, I don’t know which. Closing my eyes, I rest my head against his shoulder. Now I understand why he wanted to sleep on the stairs the other night. If it weren’t for him, I’d probably end up on the ground too. For one long moment, I’m intensely grateful for Wesley. Or his shoulder at least. Either way, the feeling is…unexpected.

  When we get to the kitchen, he gently sets me on a barstool behind the counter. “So what are you in the mood for?” He opens the fridge, sticking his head inside, then shuffles stuff around in there.

  “Breakfast.” I lay my head against the countertop, liking the way the cool marble feels against my cheek. “It’s after midnight, so I think it’s acceptable.”

  “Breakfast it is,” he says, pulling out a carton of eggs. “You’re in luck because I make a mean omelet.”

  Harland was good at making omelets too. No matter how hard I try, I can’t get my eggs to turn out as fluffy as he could.

  Wesley slides the cutting board to the same counter I’m perched at and begins chopping veggies. I watch his biceps shift as he chops, almost in a daze. It makes me a little mad. Why does he have to ooze sexuality all of the time? Seems unfair.

  “Do you like mushrooms?” he asks, startling me out of my daze.

  I lick my lips, thinking about the question. Something about mushrooms…

  “Yes.” I’ll go with that. Yes or no answers work most of the time.

  He lowers his arm for a moment, studying me. “So are you ready to give me an explanation?”

  “An explanation for what?”

  He draws his finger across my cheek, then holds it up to display the makeup residue.

  “Oh that.” I scoot the barstool back a few inches and sit up straighter. “That’s just how I do my makeup.”

  “Care to tell me why?”

  “Not really.”

  He arches a brow, giving me a look that says he won’t be brushed off so easily. But what am I supposed to say? I have deep-rooted issues that no one could possibly understand? Somehow I doubt that will go over very well.

  I cross my arms over my chest; my defenses going up. Wesley can stare at me like that all night, but it won’t matter. Spilling my guts to him isn’t going to happen. And who does he think he is anyway, coming out of nowhere and invading my privacy like he has the right—

  “You’re beautiful, you know.” Dark blue eyes meet mine, and my mind goes blank. “Underneath your disguise. Why would you want to hide that?”

  Breathing is…difficult. The air in my lungs is depleting. Good God, and why am I so hot all of a sudden? He hasn’t even turned the stove on yet. I fan my hair away from my face. It’s down. That’s weird. Last I remember, it was secured on the top of my head in a tight bun…

  Those eyes continue to stare me down. Like he’s figured me out.

  I don’t like it. “I’m not hiding anything.”

  “That’s bullshit,” he says, not breaking his stare. “And you know it.”

  He’s doing it again, working that same magical spell he used on me this morning. His heated gaze, the warmth of his lips drawing closer and closer…wow he’s good.

  I push against the counter, scooting the barstool back several more inches. Being in the same room with him used to feel like being miles apart. Now I feel the need to put up a freaking barrier.

  Wesley only grins, that same cocky grin that makes me want to smack him. He knows he holds some kind of force over me, and he’s clearly gloating about it. Ass.

  “What’s the matter, babe? Afraid to be near me?” At first it looks like he’s cracking up, but as soon as he gets a good look at my face—and I’m going for murderous—he lets out a long sigh. “Don’t worry. That’s not what I want from you.” He sets down the knife. “Tonight, anyway. I won’t pretend I’m not interested. Obviously, you can tell from this morning I am definitely interested. It’s just well, tonight…all I want is to talk. Get answers and stuff.”

  He’s rambling, which puts me at ease. It’s nice to see him a little nervousness. Especially after that disgusting display of conceit a second ago. God knows he makes me more nervous than anyone I’ve ever met; it feels good to know I can provoke a similar reaction.

  Wesley runs a hand through his hair, then walks to the sink and rinses his hands. He turns a dial on the stove and places the frying pan over one of the burners. “I’m not giving up until you tell me, you know.”

  He can’t be serious—can he? “Are you really that stubborn?”

  “When I need to be.” He looks up at me. “Being stubborn isn’t always a bad thing. It’s how I managed to hunt down most of the treasure I’ve found. When I want something, I don’t give up until I have it.”

  He’s talking about things other than treasure, and I believe him. He’s the type of person that always gets what he wants.

  “I already told you I’m not hiding anything. This is the way I normally look.”

  “You didn’t look like that in the library.”

  “That’s because I was wearing old clothes. I was cleaning, in case you didn’t notice.”

  He cracks an egg and pours it into the pan. “Oh I happen to notice just about everything about you, babe. Now that I can see through your disguise.”

  Thank God it’s dark in here, because I can feel myself blush.
I want to stay unaffected, but I can’t. Wesley has his own brand of paying someone attention.

  “Why do you care how I look anyway? You’ve never bothered before.”

  He stays silent for a long time, stirring the eggs. The pan sizzles as I watch him. I’m usually good at reading people, but figuring Wesley out is impossible.

  He sets the spatula down on the counter. “No, I haven’t.”

  I wait for him to say more, but he continues to stay silent. I’m fishing for something. I don’t know what that something is, but it definitely isn’t “No, I haven’t.”

  I look out the kitchen window. Stars shine brighter out here, one of the good things about living in the middle of nowhere. But it’s the same scenery I see every night, and it does nothing to keep my mind off the guy behind the stove. Maybe if I try counting them…

  One. Two.

  Nope. Not working. They sparkle and blend together into their dark blue background, reminding me of Wesley’s eyes.

  “How’s your cut?” I ask, trying to find some neutral territory between us.

  “Would you like to change the bandage again?”

  Of course he would go there. Should’ve seen that one coming. “You could’ve popped a stitch by carrying me up the stairs.”

  “Concerned? For me? I’m touched.”

  The corners of my mouth pull into a frown. I don’t like how unconcerned he is about his health. I’ve never seen anyone that beat up, not in real life anyway.

  “I’m fine,” he says, glancing at me. “I’m not bleeding, and I didn’t rupture anything by carrying you up the stairs.”

  “Good.”

  I feel guilty enough for making him bleed once today already.

  Wesley sets a plate down in front of me. The omelet looks and smells delicious, covered in cheddar cheese and chopped tomatoes. “Thanks,” I tell him.

  “The grease should help your stomach,” he says. “Your hangover won’t be as bad.”

  I pick up my fork and dig in. It tastes just like Harland’s omelets. “So about your trip to Egypt,” I say between bites. “You never did tell me about it.”