Undead Much

by Stacey Jay

  “Ye­ah, I know whe­re it is.” Aaron shot me a surp­ri­sed lo­ok. “That’s whe­re I go. They’re re­al­ly ni­ce the­re. I know the nur­ses pretty well.”

  “Well eno­ugh to swe­et talk them out of so­me me­di­cal re­cords?” The words we­re out of my mo­uth be­fo­re I had ti­me to con­si­der the­ir wis­dom. Ex­ha­us­ti­on was cle­arly ero­ding my bra­in-to-mo­uth fil­te­ring system.

  “Me­di­cal re­cords?”

  “Ye­ah, my pa­rents ha­ve be­en ac­ting re­al­ly funny la­tely and my dad’s be­en go­ing to the doc­tor way mo­re than nor­mal. It’s ma­de me worry, but they won’t tell me anyt­hing,” I sa­id, dig­ging in­to my do­nut bag as I spo­ke. I co­uldn’t lo­ok at Aaron and tell this par­ti­cu­lar fib.

  How aw­ful was I, to be pre­ten­ding my dad might be sick? Pretty aw­ful… but that didn’t stop me from mo­ving for­ward with my has­tily for­med plan. “If I co­uld get my hands on the­ir me­di­cal re­cords, I know I’d fe­el so much bet­ter.”

  “The nur­ses aren’t go­ing to just turn them over to you or me.” Aaron pa­used to le­an aga­inst the ho­od of his car. “The­re are laws aga­inst that kind of thing. They co­uld get in big tro­ub­le.”

  “Ye­ah, you’re right.” I bit in­to my йcla­ir, but not even the burst of cho­co­la­te co­uld lift my spi­rits.

  “So you can’t just go in the­re and ask for them,” he con­ti­nu­ed. “You’re pro­bably go­ing to ha­ve to ste­al them.”

  “Ste­al them?” I as­ked, so­un­ding shoc­ked, as if that hadn’t be­en my plan all along. I was fa­irly shoc­ked, ho­we­ver, that Aaron had co­me aro­und to the idea so easily all on his own.

  “He’s yo­ur dad.” He shrug­ged and sto­le the last bi­te of йcla­ir from bet­we­en my sticky fin­gers. “You’re wor­ri­ed. I think you de­ser­ve to know the truth, even if you ha­ve to get a lit­tle cre­ati­ve to get it. I’d be happy to ta­ke you.”

  I watc­hed him chew and swal­low. “Awe­so­me. Thanks so much, I’m su­re you can get back be­fo­re the last bell rings-”

  “Screw the bell, I’ve got study hall first pe­ri­od. Co­ach Fisk won’t even no­ti­ce I’m go­ne. I’d fe­el bad le­aving you down the­re to find yo­ur own way back.” He prac­ti­cal­ly jog­ged aro­und the car to open the do­or for me. “Be­si­des, you’ll ne­ed so­me­one to cre­ate a di­ver­si­on whi­le you sne­ak be­hind the front desk.”

  “Re­al­ly, you’d do that?” I as­ked, gra­ti­tu­de ma­king me ig­no­re the way his hand lin­ge­red on my back as he ur­ged me in­to the pas­sen­ger’s se­at.

  “Su­re. It’ll be easy. The nur­ses over the­re lo­ve me.” Aaron grin­ned, the lo­ok in his eyes ma­king it cle­ar he knew the ef­fect he had on most girls, and wo­men for that mat­ter.

  Still, no mat­ter how gra­te­ful I was, the boy did not­hing for me. May­be that was why I at­trac­ted his at­ten­ti­on. Pe­op­le al­ways se­em to want what they can’t ha­ve, just be­ca­use they can’t ha­ve it. Li­ke me and the who­le nor­mal-li­fe thing. Wo­uld I want to be ave­ra­ge so badly if I was re­al­ly just the girl next do­or?

  I didn’t know, but at the mo­ment, ave­ra­ge still so­un­ded pretty dar­ned won­der­ful.

  CHAPTER 15

  The­re was so­met­hing wrong with me. Ob­vi­o­usly. So­met­hing girly wit­hin me was bro­ken, or I sho­uldn’t ha­ve be­en ab­le to re­sist the charms of Aaron Chris­ti­an Pe­ter­son. Fe­ma­le he­ads tur­ned to sta­re at him as we dro­ve down the stre­et, and the nur­se be­hind the desk at the cli­nic had a lust-indu­ced se­izu­re of so­me kind when he step­ped in the do­or.

  She was scur­rying aro­und fetc­hing cof­fee mi­nu­tes la­ter, as tho­ugh not­hing ga­ve her mo­re ple­asu­re than ca­te­ring to the blond god’s every whim.

  Her wil­ling­ness to aban­don her post in the na­me of caf­fe­ina­ting the hot­tie didn’t gi­ve me much ti­me to plan, but the less ti­me I had to think, the bet­ter. If I sto­od aro­und dwel­ling on what I was abo­ut to do, I knew I wo­uld chic­ken out. The­re­fo­re, the se­cond Aaron fol­lo­wed the nur­se in­to the bre­ak ro­om, I chec­ked to ma­ke su­re the mom with the sick tod­dler be­hind me was dist­rac­ted; then I va­ul­ted over the desk and das­hed to­ward the rows of fi­les at the back of the ro­om.

  We we­re early eno­ugh that the­re we­ren’t any ot­her nur­ses or doc­tors mil­ling abo­ut, but that wo­uldn’t be the ca­se for long. I knew that they star­ted sche­du­ling ap­po­int­ments at eight fif­te­en. I had may­be ten mi­nu­tes be­fo­re doc­tors and pa­ti­ents star­ted po­uring in and Frisky the desk nur­se re­tur­ned to her post.

  Luc­kily, Ple­asant Mo­un­ta­in had a ni­ce and or­ga­ni­zed fi­ling system. Des­pi­te the con­fu­sing exp­lo­si­ons of num­bers on the si­de of each chart, the pa­ti­ent re­cords we­re in go­od ol’ alp­ha­be­ti­cal or­der. I fo­und the Berrys easily, and Mom and Dad’s fol­ders so­on af­ter.

  I had the ma­in com­part­ment of my back­pack open and the fi­les half­way in­si­de when fo­ots­teps so­un­ded to my right.

  “What are you do­ing?”

  Crap! Think fast, Berry!

  “Excu­se me? Did you he­ar me?” The vo­ice was fe­ma­le, but I didn’t turn aro­und to see if it was Nur­se Frisky or so­me­one el­se.

  Inste­ad, I mo­aned as if in pa­in, hunc­hing over my back­pack as I sho­ved the fi­les in and tug­ged the zip­per clo­sed. “Oh… oh, no.”

  “Are you okay?” she as­ked, the an­ger fa­ding from her to­ne. “How did you get back he­re?”

  “I was lo­oking for the bath­ro­om,” I gro­aned, ama­zed at how qu­ickly the lie ca­me in­to my we­ary bra­in. May­be I’d ha­ve to go wit­ho­ut sle­ep mo­re of­ten. It ma­de me think fas­ter on my fe­et. “I think I’m go­ing to be sick.”

  Mo­re gro­aning en­su­ed and the nur­se-not Frisky as it tur­ned out, but a shor­ter, ro­un­der wo­man we­aring that per­fu­me ol­der la­di­es li­ke that re­al­ly did ma­ke my he­ad exp­lo­de and my sto­mach cramp-to­ok my arm and gu­ided me thro­ugh a lit­tle do­or at the si­de of the ro­om and back to­ward the bath­ro­om in the lobby.

  “He­re you go. Co­me check in with me at the desk… when you’re do­ne.” She slam­med the do­or, not any mo­re in­te­res­ted in watc­hing a stran­ger vo­mit than the ave­ra­ge per­son. You’d ex­pect mo­re from a nur­se, but I wasn’t go­ing to comp­la­in.

  Sag­ging with re­li­ef, I kept up my mo­aning for a se­cond or two be­fo­re tur­ning on the wa­ter. Ho­pe­ful­ly that wo­uld co­ver the so­und of my not retc­hing. Now I just had to kill a few mi­nu­tes, find Aaron, and sne­ak out the front do­or. The hard part was over, but I was still pretty fre­aked. I had sto­len so­met­hing. It was a first if you didn’t co­unt the ti­me I fil­led my poc­kets with co­oki­es from a sa­lad bar when I was se­ven.

  My hands we­re sha­king as I dam­pe­ned a pa­per to­wel and pres­sed it to the back of my neck. So­me thi­ef I was. My he­art ra­ced and I’d bro­ken out in a cold swe­at. I fa­ced down ra­bid Un­de­ad with less angst. But then, Set­tling was in my blo­od-cri­mi­nal ac­ti­vity cle­arly was not.

  Which was furt­her evi­den­ced when a soft knock at the do­or ma­de me scre­am. “Me­gan? Are you okay?”

  Thank God. It was only Aaron. “Um, ye­ah. I’m go­od, I’ll be out in a se­cond.”

  “Ye­ah, a se­cond wo­uld be go­od. Or may­be less?”

  Ta­king the not-so-subt­le hint, I shut off the wa­ter, grab­bed my back­pack, and stuck my he­ad out of the do­or. “We’re go­od to go? No one’s watc­hing the front do­or?”

  “The nur­se who ca­ught you just went in­to the bre­ak ro­om.”

  “How did you know she ca­ught me?”

  “The en­ti­re of­fi­ce knows. You so­un­ded li­ke you we­re
dying of Ebo­la or so­met­hing.” He grin­ned be­fo­re cas­ting a qu­ick lo­ok over his sho­ul­der at the empty hall. “You got the fi­les?”

  “Ye­ah, just ba­rely.”

  “You had a chan­ce to lo­ok at them?”

  “No, not yet, I just put them in my back­pack for-”

  “Go­od, let’s go.” He grab­bed my hand, pul­ling me to­ward the exit. The mom with the sickly lit­tle boy was still the only one in the wa­iting ro­om, and she didn’t spa­re us a se­cond glan­ce as we scur­ri­ed to the do­or.

  Aaron wa­ited un­til we we­re ne­arly to his car be­fo­re be­gin­ning to la­ugh. “God, I tho­ught you we­re to­ast.”

  “Me too.” I jo­ined him in a slightly hyste­ri­cal gig­gle.

  “Qu­ick thin­king on the barf at­tack,” he sa­id, ope­ning the car do­or for me. I star­ted to sit down, but Aaron le­ve­ra­ged his body in front of mi­ne, step­ping so clo­se I scramb­led back un­til my butt hit the do­or be­hind me. Ni­ce guy or not, the du­de re­al­ly ne­eded to work on the con­cept of per­so­nal spa­ce.

  “Thanks, I-”

  One hand grip­ped the do­or next to my sho­ul­der, bloc­king any es­ca­pe from the squ­are fo­ot of spa­ce he’d trap­ped me in­to. “But I ho­pe yo­ur sto­mach re­co­vers fast. I’d still li­ke to ta­ke you to bre­ak­fast.”

  I strug­gled to ma­in­ta­in eye con­tact as his fa­ce mo­ved un­com­for­tably clo­ser. He’d be­en re­al­ly help­ful. I didn’t want to let him know he bor­der­li­ne cre­eped me out. “We sho­uld pro­bably get back to scho­ol.”

  “We’ve got ti­me. Co­me on, I’m star­ving.” His ot­her hand lan­ded pos­ses­si­vely on my hip, to­uc­hing me in a way no one but Et­han had ever do­ne, sen­ding shi­vers of ap­pre­hen­si­on up my spi­ne that knot­ted at the ba­se of my neck. This wasn’t fe­eling fri­endly or ca­su­al any­mo­re, but what co­uld I re­al­ly do?

  I co­uldn’t just sho­ve him away af­ter he’d go­ne out of his way to help me.

  “But what if so­me­one se­es us skip­ping class?”

  “No one will see us.” Clo­ser and clo­ser, un­til his stran­ge not-Ethan smell in­va­ded my no­se. He smel­led li­ke too much co­log­ne and so­me sort of spicy so­ap. I didn’t li­ke his smell. Not the le­ast lit­tle bit. “I know this lit­tle pla­ce down­town by the ri­ver. Tiny di­ner. Only bu­si­nes­spe­op­le go the­re. We won’t see an­yo­ne we know.”

  I suc­ked in a bre­ath and fo­ught the ur­ge to en­ga­ge in self-de­fen­se mo­ves. “Ple­ase, Aaron. I just ne­ed to get back to scho­ol.”

  He sig­hed. “Okay, fi­ne, I’ll ta­ke you back to scho­ol. Just get in the car.”

  “Um…” God, now I didn’t want to get in the car. Crazy or not, I sud­denly didn’t be­li­eve that he in­ten­ded to ta­ke me back to Ca­rol. “May­be I sho­uld just catch the bus and you can go grab yo­ur­self so­me bre­ak­fast.”

  “That’s ri­di­cu­lo­us. I wo­uldn’t think of it.” He smi­led and step­ped even clo­ser.

  Now every inch of us was in far-too-clo­se-for-my-com­fort con­tact. So­me fe­mi­ni­ne ins­tinct wit­hin me scre­amed at me to knee the bas­tard bet­we­en the legs, but I fo­ught to ke­ep my co­ol.

  “Co­me on, let’s go,” he sa­id, grab­bing my back­pack and pul­ling it away, even when I ma­de it cle­ar I didn’t want to hand it over.

  “Hey, lis­ten-”

  “Hurry, or we’re go­ing to be la­te.” He yan­ked the back­pack away from me and threw it in­to the back­se­at be­fo­re grab­bing me by the arm.

  I was get­ting re­ady to tell him to get his paws off of me-screw wor­rying abo­ut over-re­ac­ting-when a hand clam­ped down on Aaron’s sho­ul­der and tug­ged. “Hey, what the-”

  “Get away from her.” It was the first ti­me I’d se­en Cliff in the gla­ring light of early mor­ning, but he didn’t lo­ok any mo­re de­ad than he had be­fo­re.

  In fact, he lo­oked mo­re ali­ve than ever. His che­eks we­re flus­hed with an­ger and so­mew­he­re he’d fo­und a he­avy oran­ge and brown swe­ats­hirt and cor­du­roy pants that fit him well eno­ugh to show the buff physi­que be­ne­ath his clot­hes. His gre­enish-brown eyes prac­ti­cal­ly glo­wed with pur­po­se be­hind his glas­ses, and a musc­le jum­ped in his jaw. He was a man on a mis­si­on, and if I’d be­en Aaron, I wo­uld ha­ve be­en fre­aked to be on the re­ce­iving end of a lo­ok li­ke that even if Cliff was a full six inc­hes shor­ter.

  “Um, okay… and you are?” Aaron la­ug­hed un­com­for­tably, li­ke Cliff was the crazy one and he hadn’t be­en go­ing all high-pres­su­re to­uchy-fe­ely on me a few se­conds ago. But thank­ful­ly, he mo­ved away a bit. “I’m Aaron, Me­gan’s fri­end from scho­ol.”

  “I don’t ca­re who you are.” Cliff sa­id, and gla­red at the hand Aaron held to­ward him, then re­ac­hed out and to­ok my hand, pul­ling me over to stand be­si­de him. “Get out of he­re. Now.”

  “What the-Me­gan, do you know this guy?” Aaron as­ked, cas­ting a con­cer­ned lo­ok my way. “Do you re­al­ly want me to le­ave?”

  “Ye­ah, Cliff is my… co­usin. He can gi­ve me a ri­de ho­me.” I tri­ed to smi­le, but I was star­ting to sha­ke all over aga­in. The cont­rast bet­we­en how sa­fe I felt with my hand in Cliff’s and how an­xi­o­us I’d be­en a se­cond ago was mes­sing with my he­ad.

  “Okay.” He pa­used, his brow wrink­ling as he ga­ve Cliff anot­her subt­le on­ce-over. “As long as you’re go­ing to be okay?”

  “Ye­ah, I’ll be fi­ne. Thanks for all yo­ur help,” I sa­id, pra­ying he wo­uld just le­ave al­re­ady.

  Aaron comp­le­tely fre­aked me out. One se­cond I was su­re he was a cre­ep, and the next he had me won­de­ring if I was the one who was in­sa­ne. May­be I simply had is­su­es. Af­ter all, I’d had the­se pa­nicky mo­ments with my own boyf­ri­end, so­me­one I lo­ved and was de­fi­ni­tely at­trac­ted to. May­be I was the fre­ak, and not­hing we­ird had be­en go­ing on at all. “All right. Well… ta­ke ca­re.” Aaron smi­led be­fo­re wal­king aro­und to the dri­ver’s si­de. “And let me know how things go with yo­ur dad.”

  “I will.” It was only af­ter his car had di­sap­pe­ared that I re­ali­zed I was clenc­hing Cliff’s hand in a de­ath grip. “Sorry, I didn’t re­ali­ze-”

  “Don’t worry abo­ut it. Are you okay?” He grip­ped my fin­gers when I tri­ed to let go and bro­ught his ot­her hand to my fa­ce. It was anot­her inap­prop­ri­ate to­uch from a guy who wasn’t my boyf­ri­end, but Cliff’s to­uch didn’t ma­ke me af­ra­id. It only ma­de me want to to­uch him mo­re. Ne­ed to to­uch him mo­re.

  “Not re­al­ly.” Be­fo­re I cons­ci­o­usly de­ci­ded to clo­se the dis­tan­ce bet­we­en us, I’d pul­led Cliff in­to a hug. But on­ce his arms we­re wrap­ped aro­und me, I stop­ped thin­king abo­ut whet­her hol­ding him was smart. The wa­ve of diz­zi­ness ca­me, but un­der­ne­ath was the buz­zing, won­der­ful fe­eling of be­ing right whe­re I was sup­po­sed to be. “Glad you we­re he­re.”

  “I had a fe­eling you’d co­me back af­ter last night, so I wa­ited aro­und. Sorry I ran off. I just knew things wo­uld go se­ri­o­usly awry if the cops fo­und out I didn’t ha­ve a pul­se.”

  “It’s okay. You we­re right to run.” I’d be­en angry last night, but Cliff was one hund­red per­cent right. He co­uldn’t let pe­op­le know what he re­al­ly was. What I’d le­ar­ned this mor­ning at the SA me­eting ma­de me even mo­re su­re of that.

  He hug­ged me tigh­ter. “What we­re you do­ing with that guy, B?”

  “He was gi­ving me a ri­de, and he knew so­me nur­ses he­re.” I snif­fed and bu­ri­ed my no­se in Cliff’s neck. He smel­led so much bet­ter than Aaron, smoky li­ke a camp­fi­re and ot­her warm, sa­fe things. “He was hel­ping me.”

  “It su­re didn’t l
o­ok li­ke he was ‘hel­ping.’ That du­de’s got so­me se­ri­o­usly dis­tur­bing per­so­nal energy.” Cliff’s hands smo­ot­hed in com­for­ting circ­les on my back. “Se­e­ing him to­uch you ma­de me want to cut his hands off.”

  I pul­led back to lo­ok Cliff in the fa­ce. “So it was cre­epy?”

  “Are you crazy? Of co­ur­se it was cre­epy.” His hand cup­ped my fa­ce aga­in as he ga­ve me that see-stra­ight-thro­ugh-you lo­ok. “You’ve got to trust yo­ur­self, trust yo­ur ins­tincts.”

  “But may­be he didn’t me­an to ma­ke me un­com­for­tab­le. May­be I wasn’t ma­king it cle­ar that I-”

  “You we­re bac­king away from him li­ke he had the pla­gue.” Cliff gla­red at me and his fin­gers dug a lit­tle in­to my ha­ir. But this ti­me, the firm to­uch didn’t ma­ke me af­ra­id. At le­ast not af­ra­id of Cliff. The fact that I co­uld be thin­king mo­re-than-fri­endly tho­ughts abo­ut him aga­in af­ter vo­wing ne­ver to do so only a few ho­urs ago was anot­her mat­ter en­ti­rely. “Why the heck did he think it was okay to ke­ep pus­hing you? He knows you ha­ve a boyf­ri­end, right?”

  I didn’t say a word, just sta­red in­to Cliff’s fa­ce, now only a few inc­hes away from mi­ne. It didn’t ta­ke long for him to get the mes­sa­ge. He flus­hed a de­eper sha­de of pink and step­ped away, sho­ving his hands in­to his poc­kets. If I ne­eded any con­fir­ma­ti­on that Cliff’s fe­elings we­ren’t pu­rely pla­to­nic, I had it.

  Holy crap. How did this hap­pen? How did I ma­na­ge to get an Un­set­tled crus­hing on me? Mo­re im­por­tantly, how did I let a part of myself start crus­hing right back on him?

  I was an aw­ful girlf­ri­end, an unp­ro­fes­si­onal Set­tler, and as so­on as I got my li­fe back on track, I had to get Cliff back in his gra­ve. May­be, on­ce I’d fi­gu­red out what was in tho­se me­di­cal re­cords, I-

  “Oh no! The me­di­cal re­cords. I left them in my back­pack.”

  “And yo­ur back­pack is… ”