She went with something safe. “I’m surprised you’re not saving all that energy for tryouts. They’re after school, right?”
He shook his head. “Not for me. You were right. Anderson caught on.”
Layne almost stumbled on the trail. “What do you mean, she caught on?” God, if her dad knew she’d fixed some kid’s test—especially the future felon’s—he’d have her off to an all-girls’ boarding school before she could explain herself.
Yeah, and what explanation would you give? Sorry, Dad. He was hot.
“Not you.” Gabriel’s voice was flat. “She just figured out I was cheating.”
“So you’re off the team? Are you suspended? Are you—”
“A week and a half. She gave me a week and a half to hand in perfect homework and take a unit test—myself. Then I can try out for the team, if I can pass.”
She stared at him. “But . . . that’s great! You can just do the work, and—”
“It’s not great.” His words could cut ice again. “I can’t even do the goddamn homework; I’m not going to pass the test.”
“But I can still help you—”
He put out a hand to stop her. “Yeah? Why?”
Breath fought its way into her lungs. “Because—because—”
His eyes were fierce. “What, you want to put some do-gooder activity on your transcript? Helped the resident fuckup pass a math test? Why do you even give a shit, Layne?”
She jerked back. His chest was rising and falling quickly, and she had a suspicion that if she put a hand against the front of his sweatshirt, she’d find his heart beating every bit as rapidly as hers. Sunlight was pouring through the trees now, and sweat crept along her neck.
Abruptly, he turned away, blowing out a long breath and running his hands back through his hair. “I’m sorry. This isn’t about you.”
Layne wanted to put a hand on his shoulder, but she wasn’t sure how he’d take it. What had he said? I had to get out of the house.
She kept her voice careful. “So your parents are pissed?”
“No.” His hands dropped, falling into his pockets again. He had to have a cell phone or something there; she could see him fiddling with something. He started walking again, saying nothing, so she hustled to catch up.
“My parents died when I was twelve,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“My older brother is twenty-three, so he has custody.”
She had no idea what to say.
He glanced her way. “It’s been five years,” he said flatly. “I’m over it.”
She didn’t believe that for a minute. “So . . . your older brother . . . is he pissed?”
“He would be, if he knew. We had a big fight last night about . . . other stuff.”
She had arguments with Simon, but she imagined Gabriel wasn’t one to fight with words and tears and threats to tell a parent. “No sense adding fuel to the fire, huh?”
“Something like that.”
“Are you going to get Nick to help you?”
Gabriel hesitated. “I don’t think that’s going to happen.” Another pause. “Nick and I aren’t speaking.”
Wow, pain hid behind those words. She only had bits and pieces of this story, like reading the first sentence of every chapter in a book. Something powerful had happened—she just couldn’t piece it together.
He’d been banned from the team, from a sport she knew he loved—God, even Simon practically worshipped Gabriel’s athletic ability. He was fighting with his twin brother, and they had to be close, the way they seamlessly switched places in front of teachers and other students.
And then he’d searched for her in the library. He’d wanted to talk to her in private. He’d apologized, and she’d known how much it cost him to do it. He’d seen right through her defenses, leaving that perfectly charming sentence in her notebook.
No, not charming. Honest.
Desperate?
It hadn’t been a game. He’d wanted her to call.
Gabriel ran a hand through his hair again. “Sorry,” he said, his blue eyes dark and full of emotion. “I’ll shut up. It’s been a shitty week.”
Layne took a deep breath.
Then she stepped forward to throw her arms around his neck and hug him.
CHAPTER 19
Gabriel stiffened when Layne’s arms went around his neck. With the way his life was going, he wouldn’t have been surprised to find her goal was to choke him.
But then she was just holding him, her slender arms full of strength, their height difference putting her head against his shoulder.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been held like this.
Yes, he could. That mother, after the fire. But hers had been a motion of gratitude and desperation. It hadn’t been about him.
He should be pushing Layne away. He could slice right through her offer of comfort and make her as miserable as he’d been last night. He’d made himself vulnerable once; he wouldn’t make that mistake again.
But the warmth of her body made it all the way through his sweatshirt, and the scent of her hair was in his nose, one of those fruity shampoos like raspberries or apricots. Beneath that, something natural and fresh and outdoorsy, like cut grass or—no, hay. Had to be hay, from the farm.
It felt nice.
Push her away.
He should. He would. The last thing he needed in his life was something else to screw up.
But right now, this second, when the thought of being at home or at school made him feel like a caged, rabid animal, standing in the middle of the woods being held wasn’t all that bad.
“Thanks,” he said, dropping his head to speak against her hair. Her cheek was right there, if she’d just lift her head. Her cheek, the slope of her jaw, the curve of her ear. He wondered what her skin would feel like, what her lips would taste like. He let his hands find her waist.
She stiffened.
Gabriel froze. Maybe he was reading this wrong. She hadn’t called last night. Maybe a hug-without-pretense just meant she felt pity for him.
Christ, even his thoughts wanted to screw with him.
There was a tree right here. He wanted to bang his head against it.
No, he wanted to push the hair back from her face and kiss her, to cut this cord of tension between them.
But maybe that cord was the only thing holding him together.
He slid his thumbs along the jacket, just below her ribs, barely a motion, half an inch, if that. But he heard her quick intake of breath, felt the minute shift of her body as she drew back.
Damn.
He couldn’t take another rejection. Especially from Layne. She wasn’t like other girls. She saw him. Every single weakness.
And that was the reason for the hug. She wasn’t interested. She felt sorry for him.
He let go of her waist. He kept his voice flat, uninterested, like her hanging off him was a random inconvenience. “Come on. I don’t have all morning to play escort.”
She yanked her hands free, stepping back to stare up at him.
Jesus, he sounded like such a dick.
“Don’t do that,” she said.
“Do what?” He pulled the iPod from his pocket and unwound the cord. He could see buildings through the trees from here, and he nodded down the trail. “You’ve got to be close, right?”
“Yeah, but—”
But he didn’t hear the rest of what she said. He plugged the headphones into his ears, turned his back, and ran.
Gabriel hoped Michael would be gone by the time he got home, but his brother’s red pickup truck was still sitting in the driveway when Gabriel stepped out of the woods behind the house.
He had half a mind to fall back into the trees.
He couldn’t stop thinking about Layne.
Gabriel hadn’t even recognized her at first. Her hair had been down, a spill of chestnut brown that fell almost all the way to her waist, with a few damp tendrils curling around her
face. No glasses. Skintight gray pants that left nothing to the imagination, with knee-high leather boots. Hell, if she wore that getup to school, she’d have half the male population trailing her in the halls. Even her maroon jacket had an athletic cut, fitting snugly along the curve of her waist. The black ribbed turtleneck had pretty much been the only familiar thing about her.
So what? She pities you.
He walked around to unlock the front door quietly, hoping Michael would be in the shower, or even better, still sleeping. At the very least, in the kitchen, hidden from view.
Nope. Michael was sitting on the staircase, a cup of coffee on the step beside him.
Gabriel couldn’t make himself shut the door. The sunshine was a welcome weight against his back.
“Don’t run,” said Michael. His voice was even.
Gabriel scowled—but he didn’t take his hand off the door. “I’m not running from you.”
“You look like you’re ready to bolt.”
“Yeah, well, you look like a—”
“All right, stop.” Michael held up a hand. “I didn’t wait here to pick a fight with you.”
“So what do you want?”
“That girl Hannah—the firefighter?”
“What about her?”
“Her father is the county fire marshal.”
He must have looked blank, because Michael added, “That means her ‘unofficial’ visit might have been pretty damn official.”
Gabriel waited, unsure what response would be safe. Really, saying anything could be a mistake. Michael had almost seen through him last night. He kept hearing his brother’s accusation on the porch. I want to know if you’re starting these fires?
Michael picked up the coffee mug and stood, gesturing toward the kitchen. “Come here. I want to show you something.”
Gabriel kept his hand on the doorknob, as if letting go would leave him trapped, a prisoner to half-accurate accusations. “Look, I’ve got school—”
“This will only take a second.”
Gabriel sighed, but followed.
Michael’s laptop was open on the kitchen table, and he slid his fingers across the trackpad to wake the screen. At first, Gabriel had no idea what he was supposed to be looking at. He recognized the local newspaper’s Web site; he’d been reading about the Ravens’ defensive line all week. The main story was something about a neighborhood dispute in Federal Hill. Big whoop.
Then he saw the headline just below it, in slightly smaller print.
ALLEGED ARSON SUSPECT IMPERSONATES FIREMAN
AT LAKE SHORE BLAZE
Shit.
Gabriel clicked on the link.
“That was last night,” said Michael.
“Thanks. I can read.” Gabriel’s eyes were locked on the article.
A fire broke out in the Lake Shore community last night, injuring three firefighters, one critically. Preliminary investigations have determined that this fire may have been started by the same arsonist who allegedly initiated fires at Magothy Beach Road and Kinder Farm Lane.
Blah, blah. Gabriel skimmed farther.
Firefighters on the scene report an unidentified man wearing protective gear that matched that of local volunteer fire companies. No description of the suspect is available. Fire Marshal Jack Faulkner would not comment on the investigation, but an anonymous caller who claims to have been on duty at the scene stated, “This guy’s got a hero complex, starting fires just to play fireman. We lost a guy this week. We’re going to catch him before he kills someone else.”
A hero complex. Were they fucking kidding?
Not only did his brothers think he was setting fires to kill people, but the firefighters did, too.
Michael was still standing there watching him. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”
Gabriel slapped the laptop shut and turned for the hallway.
“Hey,” said Michael. “Let’s talk about this.”
“What do you want me to say?” Gabriel called over his shoulder. His throat felt tight, and if he stopped, if Michael kept up this let’s-work-through-it-together crap any longer, he was going to seriously lose it. “Congratulations, Detective, you solved the case.”
“Goddamn it, Gabriel, this puts all of us at risk. Do you understand me?”
“So turn me in.”
“Keep acting like this, and I’ll be forced to.”
That made Gabriel stop short on the steps, but he didn’t turn. He could barely breathe through his anger. Michael wouldn’t. He couldn’t.
Gabriel didn’t even know who he’d turn him in to. The cops, the Guides?
Did it really matter which? He wasn’t starting the fires. If he and Hunter stopped, nothing would change.
Except more people might die.
“Please,” said Michael. “I don’t want to think you’re doing this, but—”
“But what? You can’t help it? I’m such a frigging screwup that it has to be—”
“Cut the crap. It’s obvious you’re involved somehow. Would you just tell me what’s going on?”
Gabriel started walking again. “Why bother? You sound like you’ve made up your mind already.”
“I can’t help you if you won’t—”
Gabriel slammed his bedroom door. Then leaned against it, hands in fists at his sides.
He could just shower at school. He didn’t even have to wait for his brothers; he could cut through the woods and be there in half an hour. Plenty of time. He grabbed a duffel bag from his closet and shoved some clothes inside.
Then he paused, his hand on a T-shirt. Maybe he should pack some extra clothes, in case there was a fire tonight.
Then he remembered the line from the article: We’re going to catch him before he kills someone else.
Michael could kiss his ass. But real firefighters—they’d be looking for him now. They knew he had the jacket, the helmet.
He needed to stop. He’d talk to Hunter. Seriously, they should stop.
But last night’s fire had been raging. Whoever started that fire wanted people to die. That fireman had come through the floor. He wouldn’t have survived.
Neither would that little girl.
Christ, his head hurt. Gabriel kept shoving clothes in the bag. Either way, maybe he could just crash at Hunter’s. Hell, he’d sleep in the woods.
Whatever, he didn’t have to come back here.
Where he wasn’t wanted.
CHAPTER 20
The locker rooms were deserted. No shocker there; school wasn’t supposed to start for another half hour, and first period was always saved for freshman health. Gabriel turned the water as hot as he could tolerate and just stood there, letting it blaze into his skin. He’d run far and hard this morning, and he’d hoped the pain would steal his focus and force his brain to think of something other than the fight with his brother.
No luck.
Keep acting like this, and I’ll be forced to.
Goddamn Michael.
A door slammed farther out toward the gym. One of the coaches maybe, or someone grabbing a quick half hour in the weight room.
It probably meant he should get moving. Gabriel slapped the faucet to kill the stream of water.
When he was rubbing his hair with the towel, he heard a locker open somewhere out of sight. Then voices, too far away to make out. Laughter. Gabriel pulled his cell phone out of his bag to check the time. Still early.
Whatever. He yanked jeans out of the bag to pull on.
Then he heard a shout, a scuffle, and the crash of metal on metal as something hit a locker.
Okay, WTF?
He dragged a shirt over his head and walked down the aisle of lockers barefoot.
Six guys, sophomores and juniors, stood in the open area at the back corner of the locker room. Gabriel only recognized them vaguely. JV guys, he thought.
They froze when he came around the corner. Exchanged nervous glances, like they weren’t sure whether they should be relieved he wasn’t a teacher. He
knew that look. He’d practically invented that look.
Gabriel gave half a smile. “Come on. What’s up?”
Then he heard the faint shifting sound inside the locker, and one of the guys hit the face of it with his fist. “Shut up, retard.”
One of the other ones laughed. “Stacey, you dumbass. Like he can hear you.”
Stacey. What an idiot name for a guy—and Gabriel hoped to god it was a last name. No wonder this prick was slamming people in lockers. He couldn’t even be original.
Then he realized what the other kid had said.
Like he can hear you.
“Oh yeah.” Stacey struck the locker again, harder. He laughed and raised his voice, until he was practically shouting into the locker vents. “Shut up, you fucking ret—”
Gabriel slammed a fist into his shoulder. The kid staggered back into the other lockers.
One of the other guys got in Gabriel’s face. “What the fuck, man. It’s just a joke.”
“Hilarious. Let him out.”
Stacey recovered and stepped up beside his friend. His hands were balled at his sides. “This isn’t your business.”
Gabriel shoved him again. “I’m making it my business.”
Stacey shoved back—and he wasn’t like those freshmen from the other day. He carried some solid mass, and he drove Gabriel back a step.
Another one shifted forward, a dark-haired thug who looked like he needed to spend more time in the gym and less at Taco Bell. He shoved Gabriel in the chest, too. “Get the hell out of here.”
“Open it,” said Gabriel. Electricity sizzled in the lights overhead, ready to ignite with his temper.
Stacey snorted. “What if we don’t want to?”
“I’ll make you want to.”
Another one stepped up beside them. “You and what army?”
“This one.”
A new voice. Gabriel turned his head. So did the jerks surrounding him.
Chris stood there at the edge of the line of lockers, a backpack slung over one shoulder, his arms folded across his chest.
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