by Ella James
Margo smiled at the Herbert Laurel joke. Mr. Laurel was the boys’ equestrian instructor, a super hottie who had actually modeled for Ralph Lauren in college.
“Well,” Liz demanded. “Is it Alton?”
“Yep.” She inhaled, let her breath out slowly. “Al can’t come.”
“No way! That little rat! Still sick?”
“Still sick.”
“Oooh, Mar. Will you still go?”
“I’ll come down in a little while.” Elizabeth protested, even offered to ditch Mike and go as Margo’s date, but Margo wouldn’t budge.
“I’ll wait till things get started, then I’ll come.”
Elizabeth didn’t want to leave her in their room, but Margo wouldn’t sway. The truth was she didn’t plan to go down to the ballroom at all.
Margo planted herself in their big bay window, the one that hung out over the rolling lawn and mossy woods out to the east. Kerrigan had hundreds of acres. Maybe she would walk them like a ghost on the moors. She’d been reading Wuthering Heights for advanced English Lit and was identifying with it a little too much.
She leaned her head on the window frame and fiddled with her phone, looking through her call log. Alton was a frequent caller. Their relationship worked well because Margo wasn’t interested in any guy, and Alton wasn’t interested in any girl. His romantic preference was a secret until his father—a Virginia senator as conservative as Margo’s father had been liberal—finished paying for his school, and Alton kept the secrets Margo couldn’t bring herself to tell Liz. Not when her BFF was so buoyant over Michael…
Other than Elizabeth and Alton, there were a few calls from Cindy’s security people—two of whom now had posts in New Orleans, a call from Margo’s financial adviser, and two calls from Jana.
Margo had bonded with the Observatory manager after the almost kidnapping, as Jana had taken it upon herself to nurse Margo back to health. Margo was happy to get her calls, but the woman kept prodding her to give Cindy another chance.
She love you. She has her own way.
Maybe it was true. Cindy had called a few times, talking slightly more with each phone call. Though Margo still didn’t feel warm fuzzies toward her, Cindy had invited Margo back to Isis for “real time together,” when Cindy would actually be there.
Thinking of returning to the island made her think of Logan. No way around it. Sometimes at night she still awoke hearing gunshots—or, worse maybe, feeling his hands on her…his mouth on hers.
Margo told herself she didn’t care. She was an awful liar.
The truth was, she thought about Logan even on days she didn’t dream of him, and time hadn’t made it any better. She was beginning to think she would never be able to forget him—or feel interested in anybody else. She was already dreading the day when he’d be on magazine covers and talk shows. Cindy had officially selected the Mars crew, and in a special TIME magazine that explained the technology their shuttle would rely on, Logan had already been featured. Margo had even heard some of the girls at Kerrigan talking about him. She tended to hear that kind of talk since people now realized Cindy was her mother.
She focused her eyes on the candles being lit on the lawn. On the trail, toward the ballroom, that was already scattered with couples. She told herself not to think about Logan and all his girlfriends.
He didn’t want you. He didn’t want to stay.
In fact, he’d left her in a hospital bed. What could speak more clearly of his feelings?
Margo noticed Liz’s bright red dress—glued to a tux she assumed was Mike—and decided she would walk the trail. It was a little silly maybe, but since when did that stop her?
It didn’t take her long to leave the dorms and make her way across the lawn. She was headed toward the woods at a quick, angry pace when someone grabbed her arm.
“Alton?”
He looked like death in a pair of plaid night pants, white undershirt, and moccasin bedroom shoes, and he was waving his arms around like someone drowning. His black hair stuck up everywhere.
“Margo!”
“What are you doing, Alton?”
His eyes widened. “Trying to find you! Were you hiding?”
“No.” Alton’s brows arched. “Maybe. Okay, kind of… Why?”
He turned and pointed to a giant oak tree a dozen feet away, whose base was surrounded by a wooden bench. Margo squinted. The tree looked normal. Dark…
“Alton, are you okay?”
And then she saw someone walking out into the little clearing.
Alton turned and started walking toward the shadow. She watched him slap the figure’s shoulder, flash a thumbs-up her way.
She expected… a security guard? Or was it Cindy (a taller, broader Cindy)? For a second, she even thought of Mr. Timberdime. Then the moonlight hit the shadow’s face, and all the blood left Margo’s head.
It was a mistake. An accident. Logan had come to New Orleans to…visit a museum. Go to Bourbon Street. He’d come here because Cindy had asked him to talk to the headmistress about…science. He would be a guest-speaker. Motivational. At the dance.
It was the only explanation for his suit. For his presence.
As he neared, Margo felt her cheeks heat up. Her whole head flamed, eyes watered, legs shook.
His brown hair was cut shorter. His shoulders looked a little wider. This was a different guy, she told herself. They were divided now by time, by circumstance, by choice.
And yet…he reached for her. Margo stuck her hand out, and Logan’s torso smashed into it as he wrapped his arms around her.
She had gone insane, surely. Hallucinating. His mouth was in her hair, he was saying something and it sounded soft and serious. His lips were on her head, her cheek, her chin. His body was overtaking hers like a wave…undertow tugging her out out out so she could feel smell think nothing else but Logan.
The shock of it made her stiffen. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t breathe.
And then he pulled away. Logan let go of her and gravity returned.
“Sorry. I’m sorry, Margo.” His eyes flickered over her. His mouth was half open. She could hear him breathing, see the ghost clouds of his breath in the cool, wet winter air.
“I— how are you? Oh Jesus, do you have a date? That guy, Alton, he said there was a thing tonight… I— God, I’m sorry.”
He turned away, and Margo’s pulse tripped. “Logan—wait.”
In another second he had closed the gap between them. He stood so close she could feel the heat of his body, smell his shampoo, familiar mountain fresh. She watched his mouth move, no words coming out.
“Logan, what are you doing here?” She felt like she was in a play. Or maybe in a mental institution.
“I have a guest speech.” Margo clutched her chest. “I have a guest speech tomorrow at the prep school. It was the only way I could get away during finals. I… I had to see you.”
He came to see me.
“Why?” She didn’t mean it the way it sounded, but of course she had to know. “Why do you want to talk to me?”
He rubbed his hair, blinked those wide eyes. Clearly, he was upset. Agitated.
“Is it something with…the stuff that night…you saved me?”
Logan was shaking his head. She watched his throat work, his fists clench. Unclench. “Margo…” He let his breath out slowly. “Margo, I came here to see you. I needed to tell you a few things. I’m looking into housing here.”
“What?”
He inhaled deeply, watching her face like he was about to say something vitally important. “Margo, I’ve transferred to Tulane.”
“You have?”
“I’m starting there this spring. Pre-med.”
“Pre-med?” She didn’t understand.
“I’m not going to be an astronaut.” Logan smiled ruefully. “At least not at first. I’m going to get a medical degree first, then maybe work my way into space medicine. If I go to space…” he shook his head, “it won’t be with Cindy. I’m not
telling anyone until after my speech tomorrow at the prep school.”
“What about your…what about Cindy? Why would you leave MIT?”
“Because of you.”
“Because…of me?” She felt like she’d swallowed a frog.
Logan was nodding, but she still didn’t understand.
“So just…you wanted to see me again?”
“Margo, yes.” He sounded breathless. “I want to see you all the time. I want to live here, near you. I don’t want to go away again, Margo. I want you in my life. Is that okay?”
Was that okay?
Margo giggled. It started as a silly little sound and turned into an insane cackle.
“But Logan,” she gasped, “how will you afford it?”
She watched a wry smile spread across his face. “There was a reward for whoever caught your kidnappers. Cindy gave it to me.”
That brought on more laughter. “But…” another gasp— “it’s only five-hundred-thousand—”
“No it’s not. It never was. Cindy was always offering ten million.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Apparently she’d asked the media to keep it on the downlow so you didn’t become a target. I got the money. I transferred to Tulane. And you know what?” He grabbed her hands. “After that, I’m thinking Stanford for med school.” He grinned, and it was like the sun.
“I heard they’re good at that at Stanford.”
“Someone told me.”
“Who?”
His gaze softened, mouth pressed flat and vulnerable; then the corners tipped up. “My girlfriend?”
She grinned, nodded, and Logan’s arms were closing tight around her.
“Your girlfriend,” she gasped. And then leaned in for his kiss.
If you liked Logan and Margo’s story, check out these scenes from two of Ella James’ other books: Stained, book one in the award-winning YA paranormal Stained Series, and HERE, first in a YA sci-fi romance trilogy. Both are out now!
STAINED…
The monster clawed the dark sky, hissing and spitting and belching ash. Its fat orange talons twisted the little house until it cracked, until the walls caved and the roof collapsed.
Neighbors sprang from their quiet homes and stumbled to the yard, drunk from the light, shouting for help. And for nothing. No one inside was alive.
Julia knew this.
She watched the fire as it swelled, as it swallowed glass and gulped brick. She watched while her clothes and books and, God, the bodies of her parents, stoked the beast.
The wet Memphis wind whipped smoke through her hair as the remains of the little house on Galloway Avenue rained over the street.
Sirens wailed, frantic screams interrupted by the sound of a million kettles screeching: The end! The end! And it was the end.
But not for the sirens. They wailed and wailed and wailed—God why were there sirens, hurrying drivers running red lights, when no one was alive?—and lo, the Angel of Death appeared in the air above her home. All black skin and white teeth and red, red eyes. She thought he was laughing, but before she could be sure, his long wings beat the dirty air and he was gone.
Julia staggered into the shadows between her yard and the next. The path behind her led to Dirk and Dwight’s house, through two tidy yards and down three doors.
She shook her head, squeezed her eyes shut. It hadn’t been late. Not that late. Dirk had Ms. Botch for pre-cal. Ms. Bitch. He couldn’t do math, and Dwight just plain couldn’t do school, so Julia had laced up her new pink All-Stars, slipped her notes into her pocket, and sneaked out the window. She hadn’t bothered peeking into her parents’ room. They were snorers, so she knew they were asleep.
Julia had sat on the boys’ front porch and explained trigonometric functions, her cereal-box watch reading 12:40 a.m. when she arrived. Now it read 1:08. Twenty-eight minutes. Twenty-eight minutes and this.
The neighbors stayed near the crumbling curb, bobbing heads together, palms pressed over eager mouths. Soon they would be talking. That foster girl and that poor, sweet couple. Such a shame.
Julia searched for a cue in their script, but she couldn’t find her lines. Because she didn’t have any. Because she would be gone.
She couldn’t go back to the state, not after five years of paradise. Harry and Suzanne had been her parents since she was twelve, and she would follow them into the annals of the neighborhood’s folklore.
As red and white and orange light jumped across cotton gowns and tragic faces, and the sirens out-whined the noise of the inferno, Julia walked away.
It was the water that startled her out of it—startled her awake. Somehow, she’d gone to sleep standing, and when Julia came to, she was a long way from home. The girl who could barely do two miles for PhysEd had walked—well…her brain didn’t seem capable of guesstimation, but it was a stretch. From Overton all the way to the muddy Mississippi.
She was a gunshot from downtown, her bare feet bunched over the short grass that fringed the river. She took a few wobbly steps back, almost into Riverside Drive, and someone’s import horn reminded her of her place.
Heart pounding, Julia crossed the street. She followed the sidewalk past a steep hill bearing a row of river-view homes, until the neighborhood folded into itself and the pretty painted houses became old gas stations, abandoned buildings, and squalid apartment complexes.
Julia sank her nails into her palms as she passed a patch of deserted warehouses. One, a white brick ruin with a faded pecan mural, caught her eye. She ripped three weathered boards off a window and shimmied inside.
Suzanne always bought a giant bag of roasted pecans for Christmas, and that’s what the place smelled like: Christmas. And plastic.
It looked like a nightmare. Crates and boxes and overturned chairs littered the floor. Thick cobwebs covered the corners, and every surface sported a layer of grime.
There were three locked offices and two bathrooms; the men’s had a cracked porcelain sink that worked, and the women’s had a toilet that still flushed—barely. Julia found a torn gray tarp covering a stack of crates and, thinking blanket, ripped it off.
The boxes tumbled down, spilling bucketfuls of rotten, black pecans.
Julia stared at them and her skin came alive, jumping over her bones like a horse’s jittery coat. Once the shaking started, she couldn’t make it stop. She fumbled to her feet, gasping for air. She tripped over a piece of plywood and crawled the rest of the way outside.
She fell asleep under a scrawny oak tree and slept through the night—a stupid thing to do anywhere, much less in Memphis. She woke up cold, confused, and aching.
Julia thought about the twins as she rubbed her neck. If it went right, the cops would think she was dead, so she couldn’t see Dirk and Dwight again. Not even at school, which she suddenly realized she would never again have to attend. Suzanne and Harry would have knocked her a good one for dropping out, but she didn’t care. School was nothing. Not really. She was smart enough already.
To celebrate, she relieved a convenience store of two candy bars, a can of Grapico and, on a whim, scissors. Back in the warehouse, she chopped her thick black hair to her shoulders and frowned at the cloudy mirror.
The girl frowning back was a stranger. Without the ebony curtain around her face, Julia’s smallish mouth and unremarkable nose stood out. Her big brown eyes looked even bigger. She could see too much of her high cheekbones and honey-colored skin. And without the weight of her mane, she felt too light.
The difference in her appearance made her feel faint, so she fled the bathroom and tucked hers herself into her tarp.
The sleep was beautiful. Lying half-awake was a new kind of heaven, though its wonder was relative. The next thing she stole was a bottle of NyQuil, and she spent an entire day asleep.
She might have slept forever, but a loud thud woke her sometime late that night. Julia jerked up, heart pounding, senses scanning though she had no idea why.
Then she heard it: a series of th
uds on the warehouse roof. She pulled the tarp to her chin as clouds of dust rained over her. The banging continued for probably half a minute before it stopped. Julia counted to ten before she opened her eyes, and several more seconds passed before she dared to breathe.
“What the—”
The roof exploded. Julia covered her head as wood beams and chunks of concrete crashed down around her. She pressed against the wall until the racket became a whimper. When the dust cleared, she peeked over a pile of rubble and gasped.
