“Are you kidding?” She could barely hear over the heartbeat in her ears. Gabriel must have figured out who she was, must have told Chris. If he hadn’t known already.
“Ah ... no.” He scratched his head, pushing hair out of his eyes. “I’m actually pretty serious—”
“Look. Chris.” She dropped onto the bench again and gripped the edge of the table. “I’m not going to sleep with you,” she whispered fiercely, feeling her cheeks flush. “I’m not going to mess around with you under the bleachers. I don’t give hand jobs in the men’s room, or—”
“Wow. You like to get all this out of the way up front, huh?”
“Whatever you’re playing, someone else has tried it, okay?” she said. “I wish you all would just stop screwing with me and leave me alone.”
The table was dead silent for a moment.
Then he stood up. “Sure.” He paused. “You can have the lunch.”
She didn’t look at him.
He hoisted his bag onto his shoulder, then tossed some paper onto the table in front of her. “I’ll see you around, Becca.”
When he was gone, she looked up. An envelope sat on the tray, the corner stuck in the greasy cheese of the pizza.
She picked it up and opened it. Three twenties.
You’re probably thinking I owe you my life.
No. Just sixty bucks.
Becca stared at the money, feeling the crispness of the bills under her fingertips. She had no idea what it meant.
The physics kids stood up, taking their notebooks with them. “At least he didn’t leave it on the dresser,” one said.
Becca flinched, but they were gone, swallowed by the swarm of students. Typical. She was used to drive-by one-liners.
She reached out to seize her water bottle—then gasped and dropped it.
It was freezing. She could hear bits of ice swish inside the plastic. Cold crystals clung to her fingers before melting.
She stared at the bottle, now sweating on the table, droplets of water collecting below it.
Then she swiped her hand on her jeans and turned to lose herself in the crowd.
CHAPTER 7
Work sucked. But at least tonight she got to work the floor. You were supposed to be eighteen, but when people called in sick, Becca got a reprieve from cleaning kennels and scrubbing the pet baths, and instead put on a service smock and a name tag.
Working sales paid a full two dollars more per hour. Not like she needed the money this week, with Chris’s sixty bucks securely stashed in the employee lockers.
She didn’t want to keep it, but she sure as hell didn’t want to have another conversation with him. Maybe she could just never spend it. She’d stick it in the domestic violence jar at the front of the store, or the homemade can for that kid with leukemia.
Then again, gas wasn’t cheap. Or maybe she could replace her cell phone. Or save it for a Homecoming dress.
Homecoming. OMG, Bex. You’re hilarious.
Becca stacked cans of cat food on the shelf, a practiced motion she could do blindfolded. A couple rows over, some guys were jostling each other in the dog food aisle, and Becca sighed. She’d been listening to their bullshitting for ten minutes, and she’d bet her paycheck they were counting on a five-finger discount.
Pets Plus wasn’t exactly well patrolled. It was a PetSmart wannabe, without the big-box budget or the floor space. The only other person working the floor was Jerry, the night manager, and he’d stepped out for a smoke.
When she heard at least a dozen cans rattle onto the tile, followed by a too-loud curse from one of the guys, she set the cat food aside and went to clean up the mess.
She fixed her expression into polite sternness. More cans hit the floor before she reached the aisle. What were they doing, sweeping them off the shelf?
“Excuse me,” she said as she rounded the corner. “Maybe I could help you—”
She stopped short. At least fifteen cans of dog food lay scattered on the linoleum. A few were still rolling, and some bounced off her sneakers to careen into the main aisle. But above it all stood Seth. And Tyler.
She almost couldn’t breathe.
They looked just as sharp and frightening in the fluorescent store lighting as in the darkness of the parking lot. Tyler’s face carried more shadows, his eyes almost electric. They both wore wolfish smiles, and she’d been right—Seth was clearly shoving a can into the black backpack that hung from his arm.
“Hey,” he said, dragging the word into three syllables, a mockery of a catcall. “It’s Chris’s bodyguard.”
Tyler had a can of dog food in his hand, and he tossed it into the air and caught it like a baseball, thoughtfully, as if he’d pitch it at her next. “You following us now?”
Following them? Couldn’t he see the stupid smock and name tag?
She shook her head. “No. Let me just get—”
Tyler grabbed her arm. She hadn’t even seen him move. “Maybe we didn’t get our point across last night.”
“Get your hands off me.” She tried to jerk her wrist out of his grip, but he held fast. She fought him.
Tyler’s free hand drew back with the can, as if ready to let fly at her face.
But Seth caught his arm. “Dude. Not here.”
She stumbled over her words. She couldn’t even get it together to yell for help. Someone was whispering, “Holy crap,” over and over again. It took a second to realize it was her.
“Yeah,” said Tyler, jerking his arm free, the can still in his fist. “Try that kung fu shit again, and see what I do to you.”
“The manager will be right back,” she babbled. “He’s ... yeah. Take the dog food—whatever you want—I’m not going to kung fu—to—ah—”
Tyler pulled her closer. “What’s yours?”
He still hadn’t let go of the can, and she felt certain that he was going to slug her in the face with it. It took her a moment to respond, and even then, she had no idea what he was talking about. “What’s ... mine?”
He leaned in and inhaled, as if smelling the air around her. “Look, you want to play stupid in here, fine. Maybe we can send you home to Chris with a little message.”
How frigging long did it take Jerry to smoke a cigarette? “I don’t live with Chris—I mean, I barely know the guy—”
“Save it.” He gave her a little shake. “That little stunt they pulled last night? The deal is done. Get it? Done.”
He was staring down at her as though his words should have made an impact. She shook her head. “I don’t know what that means.”
He shoved her up against the shelving, until metal dug into her shoulder and scraped her through the shirt. “If they pull this shit again, we’re going to take care of it ourselves. Get it?”
She tried to squirm away from him, feeling her throat tighten.
His grip tightened, and her arm started to ache. No, it started to burn. She squealed, but that only made it worse.
He leaned in. “Get it?”
His hand felt hot through her sleeve, like a branding iron. She could swear her arm was on fire. Tears were in her eyes and she didn’t care now. “But I don’t—”
A dog growled to her left. A dark, menacing growl, the kind that prefaced an attack. She and Tyler both snapped their heads to the side.
Pets were allowed in the store, of course. Nice ones. But a massive German shepherd stood there, his lips pulled back, his black ears flat, a low round of bass rolling from his throat. His tail wagged slowly, a sure sign of aggression. A red leash hung from his collar, but there was no human attached to the other end of it.
Her head snapped back to Tyler. Her mind couldn’t decide which to fear more.
“Get.” Tyler lashed a foot out at the dog. “Go on, get.”
The dog dropped a few inches and did that sharp snapping growl. Tyler lifted the can again, this time aiming for the dog.
“Casper.” A male voice spoke from behind the guys. “Hierr. Fuss.”
Either that
wasn’t English, or her mental faculties had completely abandoned her.
The animal sprang over the spilled cans of dog food, dashed between the two guys who had her, and snapped to attention beside a man at the end of the aisle.
No, not a man, a teenager. Defined features, sandy blond hair with a streak of white, and small, odd tattoos—the new kid from World History.
Could her night get any more surreal?
Tyler and his friend were staring at him, too, sizing him up, their expressions locked in that panic between fight and flight. Tyler’s fingers loosened on her arm. The burning stopped.
“Oh, good,” said New Kid, his tone flat and ironic. “Here’s the dog food.”
“Get lost,” said Tyler.
Becca forced her tongue to work. “Call the cops.”
Tyler jerked her close and shook her hard. “Shut your mouth, you little—”
Then he screamed and she was free.
The dog was attached to his arm, snarling. She could see blood. Tyler scrabbled back, flailing into the shelves of dry dog chow, but the dog didn’t let go. “Get him off me! Get him off! Get him—”
“Platz,” said the new guy. He stepped into the aisle. “Casper, platz.”
The dog released Tyler and returned to New Kid’s side, dropping to the floor beside him. There was blood on his muzzle, but his tongue lolled out, as if it was all in a day’s work.
Tyler clutched his forearm, glaring at New Kid as if he’d done more than just stand there. Blood stained his fingers and appeared in an artful splash across the front of his shirt. “I’m going to kill that dog. I swear. I’m going to rip his goddamn head off—”
“Really?” New Kid leaned back against the shelving and hooked his thumbs in his pockets. “Go ahead. Try it.”
The dog shut his mouth and growled.
Seth grabbed Tyler by the shoulder. “Come on. Just—come on. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Tyler let himself be dragged—for a moment. Then he turned back and looked at her. “You tell Chris. You hear me? You tell him.”
She wanted to tell Tyler to go to hell. But he was leaving, and she wanted that more. So she jerked her head up and down. “I’ll tell him.”
The door chimes rang at the front of the store, and she heard Jerry’s voice as they shoved past him on his way in. “In a rush, aren’t you, boys?”
A moment later, she heard her boss messing with the register.
She stared at New Kid, still leaning against the shelving, dressed exactly as he’d been that morning. The white streak hung over one eye, leaving the other to watch her.
She wiped sweaty palms on her jeans. Her arm felt stiff and sore where Tyler had grabbed her.
The dog pushed up and padded over to sniff her hand, then pressed his massive body against her legs. His tongue hung out the side of his mouth, his ears were cocked sideways, his demeanor as nonthreatening as the old Labrador that slept under Jerry’s desk in the back room. She reached down absently to pet him, letting his wiry fur pull through her fingers.
“You’re not afraid of him?” said New Kid.
“He took me by surprise before. I’m not afraid of dogs.” She cleared her throat and glanced up at him. “You know, if an animal gets threatening, I’m supposed to make you leave the store.”
“Yeah? What’s your policy when people get threatening?”
Heat sat on her cheeks. She’d meant that as a joke. She ducked to start picking up the cans on the floor, setting them haphazardly on the shelves.
The dog was sniffing at her hair. She reached up a hand and rubbed him behind his ear, and he started doing that rawr-rawr-rawr the big dogs always did when you found their good spot.
Sure enough, in a moment he was on the floor, on his back, begging to have his belly rubbed.
“You’re ruining his tough guy image,” said New Kid.
It made her smile. She obliged the dog, giving his chest a good scratch. “Seriously, you should keep him on a leash. They’re tough on dog laws around here.”
“He is on a leash.”
She gave him a wry look. “Then someone should be holding it.”
He smiled, but it was brief, and his gaze was a little too intent. “Did they hurt you?”
Becca looked back at the dog. “Nah. They’re just stupid punks.”
“Who’s Chris?”
She shrugged. “Guy from school. I don’t really know him, but they ... ah ... saw me with him, and they think we’re friends or something.” She gave the dog a final pat and resumed picking up the cans.
New Kid dropped to a knee and started to help her. His arm brushed hers.
She told her cheeks to knock off the frigging blushing already. He’d made that comment to Tommy in class—he’d been kidding, right? Or was he gay? She couldn’t get a read.
“You don’t have to help,” she began, but the dog picked up a can and set it on the shelf, then pushed it with his nose.
She stared. “What kind of dog is this?”
“A German shepherd.” New Kid grabbed a few more cans. The dog grabbed another. “My uncle was a K-9 cop. Casper used to be a police dog.”
“Used to be?”
There was a little flinching around his eyes. She’d said it before registering the importance of words like was and used to be, and now she wished she hadn’t said anything at all. “God—that was stupid. I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be. It’s okay.” He gave a little shrug, but he wasn’t looking at her now. “My uncle died in a car wreck.”
“So you got to keep his dog?”
“Sort of.” His eyes were focused on the shelf, and his hands moved more slowly. “Casper was in the car with him.” He paused, straightening the cans he’d just placed. “Me and my dad, too.”
She studied his profile, the studs and rings along the outside of his ear, the markings on his neck. He didn’t look like any teenager she knew, but was some hybrid of Goth and punk and new age. He rubbed at a can where the ruckus had torn a bit of the paper, and the light caught the stones on his twine bracelets.
“My mom thought it’d be a good idea for her and me to move back here,” he said. “Stay with her folks for a while.”
That had to mean his father had been killed, too. She started to say, “I’m sorry,” but she’d just said that, and he’d brushed it off. It felt odd, kneeling here in the aisle talking about death with some guy whose name she didn’t even know. She wanted to ask, but now, after such an intimate exchange, asking his name felt rude, like they were well past the basics. She fumbled to grab another can, but there weren’t many left.
He reached for one as well, but Casper ducked under his arm and started licking his face. New Kid smiled and lightly pushed him away, scratching the scruff of his neck. “Bravy, Casper. Bravy.”
“Your dog speaks another language? Does he do your Calculus homework, too?”
“German. Just the commands.” He placed the last can and straightened, looking slightly self-conscious for the first time. “Lots of police dogs do.”
She scratched the dog on the top of his head again. “Well, I think he’s pretty cool.”
New Kid moved toward the end of the aisle and grabbed one of the forty-pound bags of dry dog food, and she took a moment to appreciate what that did for the muscles in his upper arms.
He gave her a shadow of a smile, and she realized she was staring. She jerked her eyes away, but he said, “I’ve never used him to meet girls, but this whole rescuing thing could work out for me.”
Check. Not gay. “Well, I’m not sure the cheerleaders would go for someone whose dog weighed more than they do.”
He reached up a hand and pushed his hair off his face. “Who would, you think?”
“Softball team,” she said without missing a beat. “Those chicks are tough.”
He grinned. “Thanks for the tip.” He started to turn for the front of the store, then stopped. “You play softball?”
“Nope.” Now she knew she w
as blushing. “Those bags are heavy. You should take that up front.”
“Good call.” He turned for the end of the aisle and Casper bounded up to walk beside him. She opened her mouth to stop him, to say something witty, to make conversation with someone who didn’t expect her to do him a favor in the dark later.
Right. It’s his first day. That’ll last about five minutes.
Then New Kid stopped. He gave her a smile over his shoulder before looking at the dog. “Casper, she said someone has to hold your leash.”
The dog barked.
Then he dipped his head, picked up the end of the leash in his mouth, and trotted after his master.
Her shift ended at nine-thirty. Becca made it to Chris’s house before ten. Fury got her there, but fear trapped her in the car once she made it to the driveway.
She stared at the front porch for a long minute. If she sat here much longer, someone was sure to notice. She wondered if she should just pull out of the driveway and go home.
But she was supposed to work this weekend. What if Tyler and his friend came back?
She’d been lucky New Kid showed up with his police dog. Maybe she could ask to borrow Casper and just forget Chris Merrick existed.
Excuse me. Yeah, I don’t know your name, but can I borrow your dog? I work three shifts per week. I’ll give him a cut of my pay. Bonuses paid in rawhide.
Right.
The air sat thick and heavy with humidity when she climbed the porch steps to knock. Another storm was coming.
She remembered Gabriel’s comment the night before, about girls not being an oddity around here. She wondered if she’d come across like that, knocking on their door at ten o’clock at night, like some desperate chick mooning after them all, especially after Chris had asked her—what? Out? What had happened at lunch?
The door swung wide. Michael stood in the light of the foyer. Same ponytail, same careless appearance. His jeans looked a little nicer, and he was wearing shoes tonight, but he still needed a shave. A cordless phone was held to his ear.
He wasn’t a big guy, but he sure wasn’t little. She remembered how he’d tried to grab her, and she took a step back. “I—ah—is Chris—”
Storm Page 6
