Deceived (16 page)

“Uh-oh. You and your buddy on the outs?”

“Yeah.”

“You want to talk about it?” His voice held the hope I didn’t.

“No.”

“You up for watching some practice tonight?”

At a loss for words, and any reason under the sun I couldn’t make it, I caved. “Sure. Yeah, I can stay a while.”

“Excellent.”

After school, I climbed a set of metal bleachers and positioned myself in the sun. Fall had burst all over campus, lighting everything in shades from amber to crimson. Purple and gold mums lined cobblestone walkways, and pumpkins appeared with hay bales at an alarming rate.

I pulled out my journal at the first whistle and started writing. Between plays I waved at the guys and smiled, but my mind was miles away.

“Are you logging all the ways you want to kill me?”

The journal fell to my feet and nearly slipped between the bleachers to the ground below. Nicholas grabbed it and handed it to me like a peace offering. At the sound of the whistle, a cluster of players gaped upward at us. I waved a small nervous wave.

“Who are you watching?”

“Davis. I don’t know anyone else.”

Silence stretched between us until I turned on him. “Do you want something?”

I followed his silent gaze beyond the field, to a mass of trees on the outskirts of the general landscaping. At first I didn’t see anything, and then something moved. With no rush, a man turned and disappeared into the shadows. Blending with the trees, he was gone.

“Stay.”

Nicholas placed one palm on the railing beside me and hoisted himself over the edge. A second later a muffled thud preceded footfalls. Two seconds later, he ran across the field’s edge and into the trees. I stood on shaky legs to peer over the edge where he’d jumped. If it had been me, I’d still be lying there eight feet below.

Stay
. Jerk. I stuffed the journal into my backpack and marched with purpose down the loud metal stairs. I threw a wave and a smile in Davis’s direction and swung around the corner to the library.
Stay.
Who says that to a person?

Fueled by images of his beautiful face, I Googled. I tried local sports sections in D.C. papers and combed through Deans’ lists, looking through features on D.C. seniors. No Nicholas Austin.

“You okay?”

I looked up, less startled than usual. I was getting used to being snuck up on. Anger burned under my skin. The man looking down at me made me rethink my calm. He was always in the library. The last time I saw him, he didn’t speak. He stood at the end of a row of books, staring. His floppy black hair hung youthfully over one eyebrow. Maybe it was a side effect of spending so much time in a high school library. He looked closer to my dad’s age than mine.

“Fine.”

“You’re here quite a bit. Is there anything I can help with?”

“Do you work here?” I didn’t see a name tag or any sort of clue that he did.

“You could say that.” One cheek lifted his face into a half smile. The expression never met his eyes. The stale scent of cigarette smoke lingered on his sweater.

“I’m fine.”

“If you need anything … ” He looked over both his shoulders and pressed his palms onto the table. The sight of a pack of cigarettes stuffed into his shirt pocket sucked the air from my lungs.

I shook my head, unable to find words. People smoked. Davis smoked. I exhaled long and slow. A group of girls bustled in through the front door and set up at the next table over. He stood poker straight and walked away. No goodbye. Nothing. He walked out the way the girls had come in. Guess he wasn’t working there. Freak town.

My eyes burned from lack of sleep and all the hay bales on campus. I turned back to my laptop, thankful for the girls who had saved me from a creepy old man. This time I searched for
Nicholas Austin
without first choosing a paper. I rolled my achy eyes and prepared to start again. Minors never made headlines without a nice scholastic reason.

The possibility that he was as old as he looked hadn’t grown roots until then. I clicked on a link. A picture of my Nicholas lodged in the upper corner of my screen. Wearing a crisp white hat and uniform, a deluge of information washed over me. I read as fast as I could, hoping to pull the details directly into my brain like a download. I’d struck gold.

Nicholas Austin graduated from D.C. Military Academy before joining the U.S. Marine Corps. He completed a tour in Afghanistan before taking a position with the United States Marshals Service.

Holy crap. I dragged my gaze from the picture back to the article showcasing a handful of new Marshals at a fundraiser in D.C. According to the article, Nicholas had studied at the College of William and Mary in Virginia. No graduation notice. My mind reeled at the implication. Why would someone like that go back to high school? And how old was he?

Adrenaline had me shifting in my chair. I wanted to run somewhere. Nicholas had secrets bigger than a bogus name. He had an enormous flipping secret. I’d called Pixie’s boyfriend, Michael, a poser. Man, Nicholas had him beat hands down. A U.S. freaking Marshal posing as a student at Francine Frances. I rubbed my eyes and reread the article.

I leaned back against the hard wooden chair and marveled. It didn’t surprise me to discover he was something more than a high school student. In fact, all I’d read about him only flamed my barely hidden infatuation. This boy buying me coffee and wearing flip-flops was an all-American hero. He’d accomplished so much. Too much to be here.

A hundred searches later, I hadn’t found anything new. I replayed all the clues: his dog tags, the missing hair on his calves, his continual distraction, the way he had launched himself over the railing. Dad had mentioned increased campus security.

“Things I know.” I underlined it a few times. First, Nicholas took an assumed name and came here to “observe.” I assumed.
Observe
sounded less scary than the other night at The Pier when he said he was watching for a killer. I shivered. Second, he was a U.S. Marshal. I had no idea what that meant. I made another column and dragged my pen down the center of the paper. I needed a column for questions. Why would he use a fake name? Who knew his real name? Did the school know he wasn’t a student? That’s why there was no file. It took effort not to bounce my hand against my forehead. No wonder he was so bizarre. He had a lot to hide. Next question: What did Marshals do? Something was going on at this little school and Nicholas was the key. What if there was a serial killer? I swallowed long and hard, then took a careful look around. It wasn’t a huge jump after all the killer talk and knowing a Marshal guarded us. The number of unpleasant things that had happened since I arrived seemed to multiply when I gave them opportunity. Considering, however lightly, that I could be the target of a serial killer hurt. The realization was like someone punching a hole through my chest.

Voices filled the library and a pack of boys with wet hair and enormous gym bags sauntered over to my table. Most stayed wrapped in their conversations, paying me little attention. Davis leaned over the table, eyes bright.

“You ready?”

I didn’t fight the slow smile spreading over my face. I suddenly had a new appreciation for his straightforward personality. No games. His ready smile was real. No lies hid behind it. With Davis, what I saw was what I got. Plus, walking home with a pack of lacrosse players sounded worlds better than walking alone.

“Yeah. Where we going?” I released a cleansing breath and closed my laptop.

“Coffee?”

“Perfect.” I needed a bucketful. Sleep was most definitely off my night’s agenda.

Before I could push in my chair, Davis slung my backpack over his already-burdened shoulder. He winked. I took a step forward and he extended an elbow my way. A dozen eyes waited for my response under wet hair and a cloud of generic locker-room soap. Without another thought, I slipped my arm through his. A gesture of friendship older than the school.

The walk to the coffee shop passed quickly. Davis talked about practice and his little sister’s enthusiasm over visiting for the fall festival. He knew his dad would embarrass him, his mom would love me, and his sister would never want to leave. The chill in the air was unmistakable autumn. A brief shower had sprinkled everything with tiny crystalized droplets. Davis guided me around masses of damp leaves and puddles formed in sidewalk crevices. His teammates hooted and barked behind us about video games and public-school girls. Only a sliver of my mind wondered who had stood in the trees and what it meant. I hoped it was another Marshal, but I doubted that was true.

Davis was comfortable walking arm in arm with me, and it put me at ease. It reminded me of Pixie when she called me an anchor. My life had been a series of moves for so long, it felt good to have people tying me to this place. Anchoring me to them. I had people. A big smile split my face. Davis was the boy next door from every sitcom ever made. And he was my friend.

“Well, well, well.” Pixie and Michael stepped out of the coffee shop when Davis pulled the door open for me.

“What’s up?” Michael looked at Davis and the team behind us.

“Hi.” I looked at the ground before checking Davis’s expression for reassurance. The smile on his face suggested they’d won a big game instead of finished a regularly scheduled practice.

“So,” Pixie drew out the
o
. “What’s this?” She motioned to our joined arms and I slid mine free. The carefree feeling vanished. Self-consciousness shoved its way in.

“Davis and I are getting coffee. Can you stay?” My face burned from the spotlight I imagined was trained on it. My words seemed to relax Davis, who had stiffened a bit when I untangled our arms.

She mulled it over for a minute while Michael stood there looking like I felt. “Nah. See you later?”

“Sure.”

“Scoop me.”

I nodded and she flitted down the stairs, pulling Michael behind her. For the first time in my life, I had a real date. My mood soured at the thought of my fake date with Nicholas. It was easy to surmise that it had been a work-related obligation, reconnaissance maybe after I’d told him about the guy at the gas station. Not real. Not like the guy across from me who didn’t need me for some ulterior agenda. I shoved the bitterness aside. Brian was doing his job. He had never asked me to fall for him. That was on me. We sat at the shop until the owner turned the sign around and gave us a sympathetic look. I hated to leave. I had too many fake and ugly things to process when I got home. As long as I stayed in the booth smiling with Davis, I was safe. Snuggled in denial.

“Can I walk you home?” He retrieved our coats from where we’d tossed them on the bench beside him and passed mine to me over the table.

“I’d like that.” More truth. Telling him things came easy. Could a girl have two best friends? Pixie and I had a great thing going and I loved her, but the more time I spent with Davis, the more connected I felt to him, too. Neither of them felt like anchors as much as balloons pulling me up, opening up possibilities, giving me courage. Was this what having a family felt like?

In the past couple of hours I’d told him about my mom’s death and dad’s travel and our moves. I didn’t dig deep, but I opened up and laid the groundwork for him to know more. His lips set when I mentioned Mom’s death. He loved his family. I thought he wanted to reach for me across the table, but he pulled his hands into his lap instead, which I appreciated. I hated people feeling sorry for me. Nicholas didn’t even seem surprised when I told him my mother had died. Probably he didn’t care or wasn’t listening. It had nothing to do with the school.

We walked measurably slower from the shop to my building. At the base of the stairs, Davis softened his voice. In the dim, flickering streetlights, it seemed his cheeks darkened.

“Can I meet you for coffee in the morning?”

I pulled my lips in over my teeth. Meeting for coffee was the Francine Frances equivalent to a press conference. I doubted the lacrosse team thought twice about our coffee date, but the hoard of caffeinated girls in the morning would text the news schoolwide before the first bell.

“Okay.” I might as well face it sooner rather than later. I’d made a real friend. I refused to alienate him to avoid trivial gossip.

As if my acceptance had formed another invitation altogether, Davis leaned toward me. His hands moved to my shoulders and he took the final step between us. I had to make a fast decision. I couldn’t hurt his feelings. No one had ever opened up to me like he did. I wanted to keep him, but my heartstrings pulled tight against my arms, anchoring them to my sides. Like a rider steering a horse away from danger, my heart refused to accept his advance. I stepped away a baby step.

He didn’t seem to notice.

Betrayed again by my stupid heart. I had fallen for Nicholas before I knew he lied. My heart didn’t seem to care about the lies. Those heartstrings were irrevocably and irrationally tied to a liar. I had serious issues to deal with.

I jumped when a car revved to life nearby. A squealing belt sent me flying into Davis’s arms. I buried my head in his chest and he wrapped his arms around me.

“Was that the car?”

I nodded against his shirt, thankful to have confessed my irritation to him over coffee. I hadn’t even told Pixie yet.

“I’m going to go.” My eyes were blurred with tears of emotional overload.

Davis ran his hand down my shoulder to my hand and squeezed before I started up the steps to my door. I ran to the top and swallowed my heart. There was a still-glowing ember on our doormat. Had someone been there while I stood a few feet away with Davis? What if I’d come home alone?

I jumped inside, locked the door, and called Pixie.

“Elle!” she squealed. “Come hang?”

“Not tonight. Can you do me a favor? Have Michael walk you to the door?”

Of course he would. They normally spent thirty minutes saying goodbye. Satisfied, I hit the treadmill to think and burn off some nerves. For five miles, the only thing I thought of was how everything fit together. Only one person could answer my questions and I doubted he would. I showered and changed into my favorite jeans and a stretchy cotton tank top. Lots of girls had stopped wearing the ultra-low-rise style, but I’d worn one pair to perfection. The strip of exposed skin above them almost managed to look tan next to the stark white tank.