Listed: Volumes I-VI

by Noelle Adams

  She liked these people. Some of them she even loved. But she didn’t want to talk to any of them. She didn’t want to see them.

  She wanted to hide under the covers and wake up from this endless nightmare.

  After an hour and a half, she couldn’t take any more sympathetic smiles or soft voices asking how she was. She felt too hot. Claustrophobic. She slipped away from the crowded rooms where people were mingling and eating from paper plates.

  She went outside to the front porch and breathed deeply of the summer air, trying to catch her breath since it seemed impossible to cool down.

  She hadn’t cried all day, but the world felt like a gray, slow-motion dream.

  “Are you ready to leave?”

  She stiffened at the unexpected voice and turned her head to see Paul standing on the walk that led up to the house. He wore the dark suit he’d worn to the graveside service and stood with his normal confident, almost arrogant stance.

  He hadn’t come over to Chris’s house with her after the graveside service. She didn’t know why but didn’t care enough to ask.

  “I shouldn’t,” she said, her voice sounding hoarse like she’d overused it, although she hadn’t really been talking that much. “They went to so much trouble.”

  “They did it for you. They’ll want you to do whatever you need to do.”

  Emily looked longingly at the chauffeured car—which was the vehicle Paul had started to use now that he went around with bodyguards all the time.

  She still didn’t think Vincent Marino was capable of violence against her. Or against his own son.

  But Paul evidently did.

  She wondered what it was like for him to believe that his father might try to kill him.

  She didn’t have the emotional capacity at the moment to wrap her mind around it.

  “Let’s go,” Paul said. He held out one hand in a subtle beckoning gesture.

  Emily took a step toward him before she remembered her manners. “I need to tell Chris and his folks first. I need to thank them.”

  “I can tell them, if you want—”

  “No. I’ll do it.”

  She went back into the too-hot, crowded house and managed to explain that she needed to leave. The Masons looked at her in kind pity, and Chris gave her an awkward but sincere hug.

  He’d given her a surprise party in this house for her seventeenth birthday. Less than a year ago.

  He’d given her a birthday kiss at the end of the evening, and she’d had dreams for weeks afterwards that he was finally starting to develop feelings for her.

  He wasn’t. It was one of those daydreams that just died.

  All of them did eventually.

  Now she could hardly remember being the girl with such a crush on him.

  Paul was waiting by the car when she returned.

  When they got in and the driver pulled away from the curb, she leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes.

  She was so incredibly tired. Her mouth and her eyes felt so dry.

  Paul sat in the seat beside her, and she could feel his presence. He wasn’t a naturally quiet person, so he must be trying to give her some space.

  He was used to being the prince of whatever room he walked into. Which was why she was vaguely surprised that he’d been so helpful for the last few days, taking care of all the logistics so she didn’t have to do anything but just show up.

  On that thought, she opened her eyes. “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “For helping me out with all the arrangements. For everything.”

  He glanced away, looking uncomfortable. “It was nothing.”

  “It wasn’t nothing to me.”

  When he didn’t respond, she changed the subject. “Any luck with getting a job?

  “Actually, yes, thanks to you.”

  “Thanks to me?”

  “Yeah. You gave me the idea. I threatened the board with going to the press, and they caved and gave me a position.”

  “Really?” She tried to be happy for him. Even felt a few flickers of interest. “What’s the position?”

  “Assistant Vice President of Management.”

  “What does the Assistant Vice President of Management do?”

  “From the first week of work, he evidently is the dumping ground for all tedious or impossible projects that anyone wants to get rid of.”

  She gave a huff of something close to amusement. “Oh. Well, at least it’s something.”

  “Yeah. It’s better than nothing.”

  There was silence for a moment until Paul changed the subject, asking carefully, “Have you thought about what you want to do now?”

  “I want to go home and sleep for days.”

  “I meant long term,” Paul explained. “Where do you want to live? What do you want to do? I know you’re emancipated and working at the coffee shop, but you’ll need to figure out a long-term plan.”

  “I know that.” She frowned, annoyed he was bringing up things she didn’t want to think about. “I can’t sort all that out today.”

  “You don’t have to figure it all out right now, but you must have some idea. Isn’t there anyone you want to live with?”

  She shrugged and looked out the window, trying not to snap at him the way she wanted.

  “What about your former stepmother? Weren’t you close to your stepsister? What was her name?”

  “Stacie. We’re not close anymore. We haven’t talked since her mom walked out on my dad.”

  “But you liked them, didn’t you? If they’re as close to family as you have, maybe—”

  “No,” she bit out, jerking her head back to glare at him. “They aren’t family. I have no family.”

  He appeared briefly annoyed at her tone but quickly masked it. Evidently, he wasn’t going to argue with the pitiful girl whose aunt just died. “You need to live somewhere. You’ll start college in the fall, so maybe—”

  “I’m not sure I’m going to college.”

  “What?” His gray eyes had widened, and his abrupt tone and intensity were really getting on her nerves. “That’s crazy. I thought you were planning—”

  “I might go sometime. I just can’t stand the thought of it right now. I can’t go about life like nothing happened.”

  Paul’s expression softened slightly. “I guess I can understand that.”

  “How nice for you—to be so understanding.” She’d intended to sound sarcastic but not quite so bitter. She rubbed her face and wished it wasn’t so stuffy in this car, wished Paul’s body wasn’t emanating so much heat. “Sorry. I just want to get the trial over with. I can’t worry about anything else until that’s done. After it’s done, then…” She sighed thickly. “Then I’ll try to start my life again.”

  He was silent for a really long time.

  Finally, she turned to study him through narrowed eyes. “What?” she demanded, when she saw what looked like reluctance on his face.

  “I don’t know. It just doesn’t sound very…healthy. To isolate yourself from your friends, to put your whole life on hold for so long, after going through—”

  “Oh, just shut up.” She hated how young she sounded even as she said the words. She straightened up and managed to say a bit more lucidly, “You’ve put your life on hold for this vendetta against your dad, so I’m not sure you can lecture me about emotional health.”

  “It’s not a vendetta.”

  “Isn’t it? Aren’t you doing everything you can to get him sent away to prison for life?”

  “But not for retribution.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “For justice?”

  “Why do you sound so dubious?” He looked almost offended, as if he’d forgotten he was supposed to treat her with kid gloves.

  “You’ve never struck me as someone who would move heaven and earth for some sort of high-blown ideal.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  He wasn’t meeting her eyes. He was looking out the car widow past her
head, but she suddenly wondered if she’d offended him.

  “I didn’t mean it as an insult,” she explained. “But he’s your dad, and a belief in justice isn’t really enough to…to do what you’re doing.”

  “Betray him, you mean?”

  She swallowed and felt her whole body flush at his frigid tone. “I didn’t mean that. I think you’re doing the right thing. But it’s got to be hard—since he’s your dad.”

  “Our relationship was never anything like yours with your father.”

  “I know.”

  “He was never really a father to me.”

  “I know.”

  Neither said anything for a full minute.

  Then Paul added, as if as an afterthought, “I owe it to my mother.”

  “Owe what?” Even two months ago, she never would have had the boldness to question Paul Marino so directly. He’d always been a prince—too distant to really touch.

  But nothing felt the same now. Not even Paul.

  “I owe it to her to make something of my life. To do something…something worthwhile.”

  Emily suddenly understood Paul in a way she hadn’t before.

  His mother’s death had been a kind of turning point for him. He was trying to buckle down and work a real job. He wasn’t in the gossip columns for partying, drugs, or wild stunts nearly as much as he used to be. She hadn’t really thought about it much, since so much had happened to her in the meantime, but he must be trying to turn over a new leaf.

  “Oh.” She was so hot she was sweating, and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I thought it was about winning. Beating him.”

  “That too.”

  His tone was dry, but she was sure he was speaking the truth.

  Everyone had something that was most important to them. Getting justice for his father—for his mother’s sake—was the most important thing to Paul.

  Emily wasn’t sure what was most important to her anymore, and the idea of figuring it out nauseated her.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to call up your former stepmother and stepsister? Surely you want to be around people you know and trust at a time like this. You’re just seventeen, and I’m not sure it’s a good idea—”

  “Who the hell asked you whether it’s a good idea?” Her voice was more bad-tempered than she’d expected. “I’m the one who gets to make decisions for me. I’m letting you protect me. I’m not letting you boss me around.”

  She sucked in a ragged breath, suddenly so hot she could barely breathe. She fumbled at the door, trying to find the control for the window.

  “I wasn’t trying to—”

  “Can we please open a window?” she interrupted, suddenly panicking as the air blurred and thickened in front of her eyes.

  Paul reached over to roll down her window, and she leaned toward the rush of fresh air, breathing it in desperately.

  When she finally leaned back against the seat, she could sense Paul watching her, scrutinizing her. She was vaguely embarrassed but felt too bad to care.

  He didn’t say anything.

  Finally, he reached over and put a hand on her forehead.

  She pulled away from his touch immediately, but he must have felt what he needed to feel.

  He pressed the intercom that connected to the driver and said in a voice that was upsettingly urgent, “We need to get to a hospital. Now. Now.”

  And that was the first time it occurred to Emily that she might have a fever.

  EXCERPT FROM SALVATION

  If you enjoyed Listed, then you might enjoy Salvation by the same author.

  Gideon was supposed to be watching the game on TV, but I knew he was secretly watching me as I came back to the couch. I handed him the beer and tried not to wince at the stab of pain from my knee up to my hip as I sat back down.

  If he saw it, he didn’t mention it. Just took a long sip of the beer.

  He’d just been here an hour, but I was already ready for him to leave, since he was making me feel defensive and self-conscious. If he would just act like he had during the weeks at the Center, I wouldn’t have minded. He’d only talked about innocuous things then. It had been nice. Distracted me. Hadn’t made me think about anything painful.

  It was different now, though. He was different. He seemed to always be pushing farther into my privacy, even when he was pretending to be casual.

  I was sometimes tempted to tell him not to come by anymore, but I couldn’t bring myself to be such a heartless bitch to a man who’d been nothing but good to me.

  “My team at work is having a cookout tomorrow,” he said, when the next commercial came on.

  He paused, as if I was supposed to respond, so I just said, “Really?”

  “Yeah. In the afternoon. Do you want to come with me?”

  The invitation startled me, and I stared at him for a minute. He obviously wasn’t asking me out. There was nothing like that in our relationship and, if I’d sensed even a hint of it, I would have shut him out of my life completely. I was mostly surprised he would ask me to do something he must know I didn’t want to do.

  I’d made it very clear since I’d left the Center that I didn’t want to be around a lot of other people.

  “It will be really low-key. We can leave any time you want.”

  I frowned and took a sip of water, mostly for a reason to stall. “I don’t think so,” I said at last, as I lowered the bottle.

  Now he was frowning. “Why not? You might have a good time.”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  Now I was getting annoyed with him. As always, I tried to force down the feeling, since it made me feel like an ungrateful ass. “Because I know. I’m not up to hanging around with a bunch of strangers.”

  “It won’t be like that. They’ll be grilling and playing volleyball and there will be kids around to distract everyone. You won’t have to talk to anyone you don’t want. It might be good for you to get out a little.”

  “I’ll decide what’s good for me.” My arm was hurting from my wrist all the way up to my shoulder, so I assumed I’d pulled something the night before when I was working out. I rubbed at the pain unconsciously and tried not to scream at Gideon. “You don’t get to make choices for me.”

  “I’m not trying to make choices for you.” His voice was rough with impatience. “I just think you’re not letting yourself get back into life, and I don’t see how it can possibly be good for you.”

  “I’ll decide what’s good for me,” I gritted out, using the same words I’d used before because I couldn’t think of another reply. “I don’t want to go.”

  “Okay. Fine.” He leaned back against the couch, taking another gulp of his beer, and I could tell he wasn’t happy with me.

  I didn’t care. I wasn’t happy with him either.

  I felt frustrated and jittery and upset, and I really needed him to leave soon so I could get back on the elliptical trainer.

  “Did you hurt your arm?” Gideon asked.

  I blinked in surprise, and he nodded down at my arm, which I was still rubbing compulsively.

  I dropped my hand immediately. “Not really. It’s just a little tendonitis or something.”

  He reached over and took my wrist in his hand, and I jerked away from him.

  “What the hell?” he asked, his eyes searching my face in that intrusive way again. “I was just going to rub it for you.”

  I didn’t want him to. I didn’t want him to touch me. I wanted him to just go away so I could push myself into battered oblivion again. But, if I objected, it would just give him more ammunition for his concerns, so I relented and stretched my arm out.

  He took it again and very gently started to rub the inside of my wrist.

  I tried to relax back against the couch so he wouldn’t see that it bothered me. His eyes were focused on the television, as if his massage was simply an afterthought, hardly on his radar at all. But his touch seemed strangely careful, starting softly and grow
ing more firm as he moved slowly from my wrist up to my elbow.

  He had to touch me over my sleeve as he moved up my arm, since I was wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt. It was a warm night, but I felt safer without any skin showing, so I never wore tanks and shorts anymore.

  He didn’t say anything. He seemed to be thinking only about sports. But he kept up the massage for a long time.

  It actually felt good. Really good. Easing the sore muscles, soothing them with pressure, causing pleasant sensations to ripple up through my shoulder. His fingers were strong and gentle at the same time, and I didn’t really understand how they could be both.

  I took a shuddering breath and tried to pretend I wasn’t reacting. But I was. I was.

  I didn’t want it to feel good. My body couldn’t feel good. It didn’t match how the rest of me felt, and so it was a jarring incongruity. Upsetting in a way I couldn’t articulate.

  Something inside me was shaking, but I used all the will I could muster to force it down, to keep the shaking from moving into my body.

  He was just rubbing my forearm. He hadn’t even moved past my elbow.

  He’d massaged back down to my wrist, and I thought he was nearly finished. But then he started up my arm again, and this time his fingers were under the fabric, pushing up my sleeve as he went.

  It felt even better and even worse. He was touching my skin, and the resulting sensations were pleasant, soothing, really good. And I simply couldn’t feel good.

  For the first time, I looked over at him, trying to figure out a way to tell him to stop without worrying or offending him. But, as I looked over, I saw he wasn’t watching TV anymore. He was looking down at my inner forearm and the inside of my elbow.

  And I knew—I knew—what he was doing. He was checking it. Because I always wore long sleeves. He was checking to see if I was cutting myself or doing drugs or something. He was using the excuse of the massage to pry even more.

  I jerked my arm out of his grip and glared at him coldly, pushing my sleeve back down.

  He saw the look and understood it. He knew I knew what he’d been doing and how I felt about it, so I didn’t have to say anything.

  He wasn’t actually wrong. It just wasn’t taking the form he suspected.