by L. L. Muir
“It's not humility, Miss Phillips. It's honesty.”
“Uh huh.” She dropped the Southern belle act. “Can you believe that crap? Calling us Miss Phillips and Mr. Shaw? I think he does it so we'll think he's cool, like he thinks we're all just adults, sitting around shooting the breeze. As if.”
“I don't know. At least his class hasn't been boring. Yet. But I've only been in it a couple of times.”
“Well I heard,” she leaned on his open window, “that Mr. Evans likes to date eighteen-year-olds. My friend heard that Mr. E calls lots of his old students after they graduate. To. Hang. Out! Can you imagine? He's like almost 60!”
Again, Jamison toyed with the thought of getting his hands on Mr. E’s cell phone. Maybe it was watching a man his age so into texting that made something seem...off about the guy. If he was texting young girls, that was sick, as in...sick.
Suddenly Jamison wished he could keep Mr. E from reading his essay from that morning.
Ew, and he so did not want to be calling him Mr. E!
Someone honked.
“I gotta move.” He started rolling away and Miss P backed up, no doubt preparing to pounce on him as soon as he was parked.
Sure enough, as soon as the pickup stopped moving, she was back at his window.
“Miss Phillips?”
“Yeah.”
“What the hell is your name?”
She laughed. “Rachel.”
“Well, Rachel. I need a big favor, and I thought you might have the time to help me.”
“Oh, anything. Really.”
And he believed her. Really.
Step 7. Check and then some.
***
Step eight was easy enough. After he pulled the pickup under the carport of the shed, he ducked inside the tack room and shut off the breaker for the yard lights. When night came, the lights wouldn’t come on automatically, as they usually did. No one would notice, though; they'd just think the night was unusually dark, or so he hoped. He and his mom had turned them off plenty of times for star-gazing, and it was always days later, after a couple of comments about how dark it was outside, that someone would remember to turn the yard lights on again.
***
It was early yet when Jamison arrived back at the school. All the student-officer-sweatered kids were delicately building up the wood for the bonfire. Even from the parking lot he could hear one young man giving orders, reminding the others that since he was an Eagle Scout and knew more about fires than they ever would, they'd better do just as he said or they'd be sitting around trying to get the damned thing lit all night. Another kid shouted he had lighter fluid and wouldn't let that happen and the struggle for dominance was on.
Jamison walked to the bleachers, out of earshot, and sat down to wait.
It was going to be a long night. He wished he could take a nap, there on the cold aluminum seats, but he didn't want to wake up frozen to death, or miss Skye. If she came and couldn't find him, she might take off and jack up all his plans.
It didn't matter if those idiots got the fire started or not, it only mattered that she showed. There was no other chance. It had to be tonight. Who knew how long it would be before he woke up with his memory wiped out again? Even now he feared waking up to the smell of real bacon cooking. Maybe bacon would scare the shit out of him for the rest of his life.
Pity, that, his granddad would say.
Pity, all of it.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Lucas, I’m going to the Homecoming Bonfire.” Sky reached for her keys.
“Is that wise?”
“I have no idea. I need to have Jamison’s trust. I assume that doing teenage activities with him will earn me that trust.”
“No reason for him not to trust you already. We eliminated his suspicions.”
“True. But he’s also surprised us. I’d rather be sure.”
“It is your call to make. You still have the odd awareness of him?”
“I do. I still don’t understand it.”
“Ours is not to question.” Lucas nodded sagely.
“I try not to.”
“Don’t give him reason to suspect you again...if possible. That is all the advice I have.” Lucas dropped his hands from his hips, a sure sign the conversation was over.
“I may be quite late.”
“Time is a mortal concern.” Lucas waved away her comment.
“Just staying in character.”
“Oh, all right, then.” Lucas lowered his brow and propped his fists on his hips. “Don’t let me catch you sneaking in here at four in the morning, young lady.”
“Yes, Uncle.”
She kissed him on the cheek and laughed her way out the door. That had been easy, but she supposed she hadn’t really expected much of an argument. As far as the general population knew, they were mild mannered eco-nuts, not polygamists. If a Somerled teen was out past dark it didn’t mean he or she would be cast out of their society.
Skye tried to control her imagination as she drove off. Her foot tended to lay a bit heavy on the gas pedal, even when she was in no hurry. Time, as Lucas had just reminded her, was a mortal concern, but when her tasks involved mortals, time was also a concern of hers.
If she was late for the bonfire, would he leave? Would another girl distract him? Was he as easily distracted as many other boys in their school?
Oh, here comes the mental demolition derby again.
She tried to pay attention to the speedometer. Already she was well over the limit. She lifted her foot, but by the time the car reacted there were red and blue lights flashing in her rear view mirror.
Wonderful. She’d be even later, and the sun was also speeding—toward the horizon.
“Give me a warning,” she whispered into the mind of the deputy as he walked up to her window.
“Wow, Skye Somerled. Surprise, surprise.”
“Sheriff Cooke?” She smiled her coyest smile and added a blush just in case.
“How many warnings have I given you, honey?”
“Some.”
“Oh, now don’t try to lie. How many?”
As if she could lie!
“More than a few. Less than a hundred.”
If he asked if it was more than twenty, she was in trouble.
“How many tickets have I issued?”
“To me?” Her voice squeaked.
She didn’t have the ability to remove memories, but she could strongly suggest people remember, or not. Suggestions were her specialty, but at the moment, she couldn’t come up with a pleasant one.
“How many tickets have I issued, to you, for speeding?”
“None?”
“Wrong.”
“Wrong?” Was his memory faulty, or was hers?
“The answer is ‘one.’”
“Really? When?”
“Right now, sweetheart. You’re going to get your first ticket. Congratulations.” The man started writing on his little clip board. “And I’d bet it won’t be your last, but no one would cover that bet.”
Skye sat in shock while the sheriff took his time writing her up. He’d seen that license and registration so much since she’d started driving, he should have the numbers memorized, but that didn’t seem to make things easier. As she watched him in the mirror, it looked like he wasn’t doing anything but staring at his computer screen.
Probably playing a leisurely game of chess, making her wait the equivalent of all the tickets he never gave her, but should have. She was so going to miss the bonfire.
***
What seemed like an hour later she was headed off toward the high school, sending the sheriff a strong suggestion to head in the other direction for the rest of the evening.
She passed the west side. No flames yet.
She found a parking space and headed over. No breeze. Less danger. Good.
The dirt and grass of the field made for uneven footing and she was forced to watch where she walked. Only when she joined the crowd closing aroun
d the huge pile of wood was she able to look at the people.
A blond head. Too short. Another, but that one was female. So many hats!
She closed her eyes and tried to focus on Jamison. That link between them was growing stronger by the second. He was coming.
She turned to look at the parking lot behind her.
Nothing.
Then she faced the school.
There. Coming from the football field. Dressed in black. It was impossible to tell from the distance, but he seemed to have picked her out of the crowd.
Oh, yeah. White clothes. Duh.
She, the angel, and he, the devil.
Something deep inside shivered, but she ignored it.
A small contingent of the band struck up the school song, but Skye didn’t take her eyes off Jamison. Only a few seemed to know the song, but others hummed. She didn’t care.
Someone with a mega phone called the mighty Flat Spring Spartans forward and the football team, all carrying wood torches, came around the corner of the auditorium. They ran toward the crowd, passing quite near Jamison, but the serious lad in black couldn’t seem to take his gaze from her, either.
Something shivered again.
The team’s pounding feet showed Skye what a racing heart must feel like—a rumbling in her chest, powerful, insistent, uncontrollable. Surely it was just the team.
A great whooshing sound finally ripped her attention to her left where the pile of wood was engulfed in violent flames, accompanied by a strong smell of kerosene. The crowd cheered as the remainder of the team filed by, tossing their torches into the fire as they passed.
By the time she turned back toward Jamison, he was only a few yards away. He hadn’t slowed. A few more strides and he was against her, pushing her back a step with his momentum, reaching out for the sides of her face, pressing his lips against hers.
She hadn’t given him the suggestion to kiss her. Truly she hadn’t. And in front of the crowd? She wouldn’t have. But she was very glad he’d thought of it.
Skye returned the kiss with what little knowledge she’d learned from watching others, marveling that no one shouted, “Hey, the Somerled chick is kissing someone and he’s not her own kind!”
She pulled back, but he didn’t let her move far. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her tight against him. They probably resembled a couple of trees that had been planted too close together and now grew as one.
She looked toward the crowd. The flames had died down after the first flare and people had moved closer to the fire. No one was looking their way. People at a distance were looking at the fire, not the white and black shapes smashed together at the back of the pack.
“You have my scarf.”
“Yes, I do. And I’m not ready to give it up just yet.”
“Why not?”
“I’ll explain later.”
“Are you making a little voodoo doll of me?”
He looked at her sharply, then smiled. “Something like that. Only this doll will do whatever I want.”
“Please don’t tell me it’s lifesize.”
He choked on a laugh, but said nothing.
He looked at the fire, sniffed, then grinned. A wicked light gleamed in his eyes and her first impressions of a devil hit her again.
“What are you up to, Jamison Shaw? You look guilty as sin.”
There was that sharp look again, and then the smile. She’d never noticed that about him before. It was as if she was standing there with a different guy and she was suddenly uncomfortable. She pushed on his chest. He resisted, but finally let her pull back.
“Answer me. What are you up to?”
His smile broke into a grin.
“It’s the wood. I brought some of it...from Granddad’s pile.” He raised his eyebrows. Twice.
“Not the pig shed!”
“Oh, yes. The pig shed.”
“Oh, Jamison, you didn’t.”
“Actually, I didn’t think about the smell. Granddad did. I wonder if they’ll even notice.”
They both turned toward the flames. The orange light danced, illuminating grinning teenagers who had less attention for the fire than they had for each other. Old couples stood silently together with bored faces. Newer couples grinned and chattered like they were on stage being interviewed; the only thing missing was a microphone.
The burning pile shifted. A shower of ash burned itself up into the air, and faces stopped grinning, mouths stopped chattering. Noses started curling.
“Nope, Granddad, it didn’t rain enough,” Jamison murmured in her ear.
People started backing away from the fire. Someone mentioned a stink bomb.
“Nope, smells like a pig farm.”
“Someone put pig manure on the fire?”
“We’re all going to smell like pig shit tomorrow!”
“Our field will stink!”
“What a shitty bonfire.”
“Come on, let’s go.” Jamison took her hand and pulled her toward the road. “Let’s walk. I didn’t drive.”
“We can take mine.”
“Nah. Let’s walk back to my place. I can bring you back for your car later. Afraid of a little walk, Skye? I thought Miss Somerled wasn’t afraid of anything.”
“Very funny. And what about you, Mr. E? What are you afraid of?”
“Why, I’m afraid someone will steal my phone and read my text messages.” Jamison laughed when his voice cracked.
She laughed too, but poor Mr. E.—he was in for a tough time. No doubt Jamison had guessed the English teacher’s real fear, and when the rest of the town found out, he’d be lucky to avoid a lynching. She wondered if Jonathan would be asked to handle that. He had a great gift for problems of the heart...at least the romantic kind.
“I’m afraid it will take a while for that smell to get out of my nose.” Jamison sniffed his collar, then smiled. “I think we got out of there in the nick of time.”
“I’m sure.” Actually, she had no idea what a pig shed, or pig shite—as Kenneth called it—smelled like. She only knew to follow Jamison’s cue and turn up her nose. That was one sense she didn’t covet at the moment.
The walk took longer than she expected, but she didn’t complain. Heaven forbid he should call her a coward.
The word ‘coward’ pinged in her head, reminding her of the conversation in English class. Why did Jamison believe himself a coward? And there was no doubt about it, the guy believed it as if God himself had given him a scarlet ‘C’ to wear on his chest.
She pried at his memories but couldn’t reach them. She couldn’t touch Texas. How much had Lucas cleaned? Or was it just a clear patch in his mind she couldn’t get past, like a stretch of wet ice she couldn’t cross?
Skye resolved to let it go for the moment. Maybe she’d get Jonathan to take a stab at him. If she could help Jamison, even a little bit, before she was gone, she’d feel better about going.
The stars got brighter as they started down Route 4, leaving streetlights behind. Jamison hadn’t let go of her gloved hand since they’d left the fire and she wondered how many people in the passing cars had noticed. Enough that no one offered them a ride, that was for sure.
She didn’t mind walking. It wasn’t as if she would tire, and she wasn’t worried about Jamison wearing himself out. She just wanted to keep the hand-holding a private matter.
She didn’t have to remember to breathe. In fact, breathing in sync with someone was quite an interesting thing. It was as if Jamison tuned his breathing to hers, or she to his. And it made for intriguing music in her ears. Every swallow, every irregularity in his cadence was like a change in key.
Something caught on her boot and she nearly fell, but his hand squeezed tight and he refused to let her go down.
That silly shiver went through her, as if she had bones and the shiver rolled through the marrow.
She stopped. She had no bones. It had to be her soul that was shivering. But why?
He held fast and stopp
ed with her. “What’s the matter? Do you need to rest?”
“Yes. I guess I do. Just for a minute.”
He led her over to a fence and released her hand so she could climb up and sit on the top rail. The bottom rail had crescents gnawed into it. Some horse had taken a liking to the flavor of the wood, apparently, and had eaten off the softer edges of the planks. Maybe he’d not been fed well. Very sad.
“Are you cold?” He reached up and rubbed the front of her thighs.
“Why? Are you going to offer me my scarf now?”
He grinned. “Not yet. I don’t have it on me.”
“Oh. Well, I’m not cold anyway.”
“You shivered.”
“I have no idea why. Maybe you’re scaring me tonight.”
He froze, but a split second later he was all smiles. She doubted a mortal would have caught the original reaction. But to a being for whom time didn’t move in a straight line, it was plain to see he was hiding something.
Suddenly her wariness was very real. If Mr. Evans were there he’d say “Ah hah! Do you see, Mr. Shaw, how she trembles?”
A mathematical equation written on an English teacher’s blackboard flashed in her mind.
“If fear, then hide.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Skye changed her mind. Back by the road, completely visible to anyone driving by, was where she wanted to be.
She jumped off the fence and Jamison was instantly in front of her, pinning her against the chewed up lower rung.
“Careful,” he said, holding her waist like he was trying to support her.
But was he?
She tried to read his expression, but found him focused solely on her. She poked once again at his memories, going back just a little while, back to the bonfire an hour ago. She got nothing. The blank wall that dropped in front of her made her think of all kinds of freaky, alien scenarios, but they were silly.
It didn't make sense.
Were they defenses? Why would she find defenses in his mind? Why would Jamison be on guard? Unless Lucas had slipped up and Jamison remembered his earlier suspicions, that she and her people were murderers, Jamison had no reason to be...
Did he remember?
