Drinking Life (Keeper of the Water Book 1) (19 page)

“What is it? I’ll say
anything
you want,” he says, mesmerized by how close I am.

“I know there are things you aren’t telling me… a lot of things,” I say, eliciting a sheepish grin from him. At least he doesn’t try to deny it—that may be a start but still not good enough. “I know there’s something strange about you… and about me.”

John nods and backs away the slightest bit. I may have touched a nerve because he no longer appears so cocky.

“I need you to tell me something important,” I say. “A secret you never planned to tell me. I need a reason to trust you.”

“But there’s nothing that – ”

My raised eyebrow of suspicion stops him mid-lie. I keep a straight face—dead serious—the entire time. This seems to deflate his usual playfulness.

“And it better be good,” I warn. “I can’t keep doing this with you. If you can’t win my trust right now, you never will, regardless of how many amazing pictures you draw.”

I’m not so sure he appreciates my bluntness any longer. He takes another step back and nearly knocks over his motorcycle. I’ve never seen him so clumsy—or so torn about what to do. His eyes squint in concentration and take on a far older look than I’ve ever seen in them. There are a lot of years behind those eyes, regardless of us being the same age. Realizing this makes only one secret from him good enough to win back my trust, though I’m probably crazy for considering it possible.

His torn expression soon changes to one of anger. He starts to say something and stops a few different times. Frustration finally gets the better of him and he pulls his helmet back on while climbing aboard his motorcycle. Any power I just had over him is gone and he apparently thinks my threat is a bluff—or he simply doesn’t care. A part of me wants to stop him, to apologize for demanding something I might be making up in my mind. But I can’t do that—I
won’t
do that—even if it means pushing him away forever.

John revs the engine, the back tire spinning and kicking up dirt. But before he drives away, he lets go of the handlebars and flips up the black visor of his helmet.

“Do you remember the first time we met on the lacrosse field?” he asks.

“Of course, how could I forget?”

“That was not the first time I ever saw you,” he admits.

My stomach flutters wildly. “You saw me before that at school?”

John nods, staring into my eyes the entire time. “Yes, but it wasn’t at
this
school.”

With one sentence, any doubt I had about my sanity is washed away, even before he explains further. Somehow I’ve known the truth all along, even if it was deep in the back of my mind, suppressed because the idea is so insane. But now that I look at John’s handsome face, it’s not the
only
face I see.

“The old man at my field hockey game,” I say so quietly that I’m unsure he heard me. But the way he grimaces tells me not only did he hear me, but also that I’m right.

“Sometimes it might be better to keep secrets,” he says.

John shuts his visor and guns his engine. The back of his bike fishtails for a second before zipping out of the woods, the high-pitched
roar
of the motorcycle fading off down the highway.

Hearing him confirm the truth still leaves me shocked. At first, I hope he’s kidding, I hope that Cassie told him about the attack during the field hockey game and this was John’s way of joking. I never told anyone about seeing the old man but maybe Cassie
also
saw him, maybe she noticed me looking at him. I don’t put anything passed that girl since she seems to find any way possible to torture me.

But I
know
John told me the truth, though I still haven’t figured out how he could be that same old man. He certainly
looks
as young as me and I don’t think he
feels
much older than I am. Does that say something about me? Could that be a reason I’ve never gotten involved in the youthful drama constantly happening around me?

I can’t even begin to explain the number of questions now running through my mind, though I try to isolate the most important ones. Why did John Leon track me from my school in Colorado to this one in the Poconos? And how did he turn from an old man to a teenager? I have no idea about his unexplained youth but all I can think is that he came this far because he’s in love with me. I don’t know how old he
really
is and our feelings for each other might seem wrong because of age difference but for some reason it doesn’t—I can’t quite explain why.

I head back home in a daze, walking through miles of forest, taking my time as my mind tries to make sense of everything. Not surprisingly, I lose track of time. Hours pass until I approach our section of the forest, where I hear
rustling
up ahead. It’s probably just another deer but I still feel naked without my bow. In my rush to follow John, I hadn’t thought to bring it with me. But I’m not completely defenseless—so much energy courses through me that I’m sure I can outrun any dangerous animal.

I find something—or some
one
—that worries me even more than a bear. Bow in hand, Celeste stalks through the woods, her worried expression turning to one of anger when she spots me.

“Where were you? Chasing
deer
like the last time?” she asks suspiciously. Though she lowers the old bow, there’s still something threatening about her demeanor. My clarity continues as I see Celeste in a different light. I always thought she was so nice and peaceful but the way she now moves—the way her body is poised ready to strike at any moment—lets me know she’s far more dangerous than I ever gave her credit for.

“I just went out for a walk,” I say, not a
total
lie.

“For
hours
? After abandoning your new bow on the ground near the target?” she asks.

I shrug. If I say nothing at all, then she can’t accuse me of lying. Still, we both know that she knows something.

“If it was your mother who found the bow and waited for hours, she would’ve grown an ulcer from worrying,” Celeste adds. “Or your father for that matter.”

For some reason, that last part bothers me. “Don’t talk to me about my father.”

A part of me feels guilty for disrespecting my elder but it’s too late to turn back now. Instead, I stomp away, grabbing my bow along the way. I expect Celeste to avoid any further conversation. After all, she usually backs down when Cassie fights back, plus we’ve been avoiding each other for weeks. But she follows me into the garage.

“You’ve been acting different since your birthday,” Celeste says, though she doesn’t sound as accusing as moments before. In fact, she appears genuinely concerned. For a split second, I remember how much I used to trust her, how I once wanted to tell her everything about my vivid dreams. But since she’s made it so clear that Cassie is more important than me, I no longer feel such an urge, even as she continues being nice to me. “I know that growing up can be difficult. So if there’s anything you want to talk about, know that I’m here for you. Any changes in your life?”

I shake my head. Even if I
did
tell her everything about the ‘changes in my life,’ she would probably think I’m insane. Instead I stick with denial. Celeste sighs and removes a piece of paper from her pocket. Any doubt of whether she knows I’m lying is now confirmed.

“I believe this is yours,” she says, handing it over. “And I can only guess who the artist is. I
thought
the scene looked familiar.”

I clench my jaw and stare at the paper, unsure whether to take it. But then Celeste begins to shake the drawing so I snatch it out of her hand. She looks as annoyed as I feel, maybe even more when I don’t respond.

“You should stay away from that boy. He will bring you nothing but trouble.”

“You don’t even know him,” I say before storming out.

I’m most upset because I know she might be right. Though John’s given me one
big
answer, he’s raised so many more questions. I can’t wait any longer to hear those answers. I jump into the ‘Adventure Guides’ Jeep and drive to his house; luckily, his neighbor isn’t out driving. Unfortunately, she’s not the only one missing, as John’s motorcycle is also nowhere to be seen. However, the two black, heavily-tinted trucks
are
parked in the driveway.

Despite the hours I spent thinking of John since he told me the
secret
, this is the first time I’ve thought of his goonish uncles. I can only assume that they were the ones who attacked me during the night of the tour (that attack seems like much less of a dream now). But before I can wonder too much about
why
they came after me, my eyes drift toward John’s backyard and the reinforced shed. The sight of it fills me with tingles, occupies every thought in my mind. I still have no clue what can be inside but I’m surer than ever that it holds some sort of answers…

“Hey, you!” a deep booming voice yells.

I pull my eyes off the shed long enough to see the two mountainous men walking out of the garage. In a flash of memory—a rare one from
this
life—I imagine the two huge soldiers who attacked me during the field hockey match. If you traded the fancy business suits for ancient armor, took away the dental work and replaced their buzz cuts for long stringy hair, then these two are a perfect match. Driving away would be the smart move right now but I’m not about to shrink away in fear like I’m some sort of old lady. They’ve already tried
twice
to get me and failed after all.

“You don’t learn your lesson to stay away,” one of John’s ‘uncles’ growls. “You better leave before we make you regret showing up here again.”

I can’t bite my tongue any longer. “You don’t scare me. I know
everything
so you better just back off.”

I know right away that it was a mistake to say anything. The two goons look shocked but suddenly become nice, which might be more frightening than if they’d exploded in rage.

“You are right,” one of the goons says. He smiles. I guess he’s trying to convey friendliness but it comes off more as creepy. “We are sorry for the way we’ve treated you. Why don’t you come inside so we can talk about it?”

The other goon nods and smiles as well. These two are the worst actors ever. My skin crawls as they walk toward my Jeep and I’m glad I didn’t decide to get out.

“Maybe some other time, I have to go,” I say, putting me jeep in drive. “Tell John I’ll catch up with him some other time.”

I slam on the gas just as they run toward the Jeep. Luckily, I speed away before they reach me, though one of the goons smacks the back of my Jeep so hard that I fight to maintain control. At least I escape from them though when I check my rearview mirror, I see that I’m not yet safe. John’s ‘uncles’—I’m seriously starting to question their relation, by the way—sprint toward their respective trucks. I build up a small lead on them as I circle back to the highway. But no matter how far I push the pedal to metal, the Jeep will
never
be a high-performance vehicle.

My best chance is hiding among the dozens of unmarked turnoffs along the highway but I don’t even have the chance. I spot the two big black trucks in my rearview before I’m even on the highway for a minute. There are quite a few cars out and about today—with the weather being nicer, more tourists and vacation-home owners are around now—so I hope the goons won’t make a scene in front of so many people. No sooner do I think this when the second truck speeds next to the first one, crossing the double-yellow line and driving into oncoming traffic. My heart sinks at the sight of people going in the opposite direction now being forced off the road. These two mean serious business.

I’ve been heading toward home but that no longer seems a safe option. I don’t think there
is
a safe option at this point. Dad and Celeste would undoubtedly help me fight them but if the goons are willing to cause countless accidents on the highway, I’m sure they’d have no problem harming a middle-aged man and a beautiful tour guide. Besides, the thought of leading danger toward Cassie is unacceptable.

The trucks get closer and I consider turning off the highway when I reach a shopping area. It’s one of the busiest places around here, probably my only chance for blending in with a crowd. But I don’t want to endanger any more people than necessary, as if my driving isn’t doing that already. The black trucks make up so much ground so quickly that I can no longer follow the legal motor vehicles guidelines for the state of Pennsylvania. I weave in and out of traffic, barely missing dozens of cars that
honk
wildly at me.

I nearly cause several more head-on collisions so I pass the cars in front of me by driving on the grassy highway shoulder. As comfortable and skillful as I feel running or shooting or being in the wilderness, I feel equally
un
comfortable behind the wheel. I’m usually a good enough driver but there’s something about not having total control—of the vehicle
and
the other cars on the road—that normally makes me nervous. So as I drive around car after car, hit bump after bump, I realize how much I want
out
of the Jeep. The only way I’ll survive is if I get into my element—and
fast
.

With the black trucks just behind me, I jerk the wheel as I reach the entrance to one of many ski resorts in the area. The goons are so surprised by the sudden move that they turn too late without slowing down. One of the trucks smashes through the resort’s big wooden sign, reducing it to splinters. But the accident doesn’t slow them down. I’ve only bought myself a few seconds but at least the ski area is deserted. I slam on the brakes and skid to a stop, jumping out of the Jeep.

The trucks speed behind me, trying to run me down. But with a burst of adrenaline flowing through me, I run even faster than before and the goons make up little ground. Once I reach the first ski trail, they’re forced to abandon their rides. I glance back just long enough to see them climb out of the trucks and run after me. Unfortunately, they aren’t empty-handed. One of the goons has a big sword in hand; the other carries a bow. For the second time today, I regret rushing away from home without bringing my own weapon.

At least I’m confident that the two muscular men won’t be able to keep up with my speed. Without hesitating, I run down the ski slope, passing a sign along the way that shows a picture of two black diamonds. The grass is overgrown this time of the year and hides the many bumps and dips and boulders along the way. It takes all of my concentration to avoid tripping, especially as I pick up speed. Any normal person would have a hard time just
walking
down the hill.

The rushing wind from how quick I run fills my ears but I feel a tingle of warning and suddenly hear a second noise, a familiar
zipping
sound speeding toward me. Instinctively, I dive just as an arrow whizzes above my head. I roll uncontrollably down the hill, my body jarring painfully as I hit every bump and every rock. Somehow I manage to keep my focus during the painful fall and choose the perfect time to roll to my feet. But the fall has slowed me and when I glance back, I see the two goons running down the hill, moving with speed and grace unnatural for me their size. Escape isn’t going to be as easy as I hoped.

Afraid of taking another tumble—and of staying out in the open where I’m a much easier target—I turn left and run into the nearby forest. I immediately feel safer in my element. My attackers are close behind but I’m able to think clearer once I’m in the woods, even though the terrain is just as steep and difficult to handle. But when I feel a familiar tingle, a plan begins to form in my mind. I look around the forest, figuring out exactly where I need to go. I’d been running before just to get away; now I run with a purpose knowing what I have to do.

The goons have every intention of hurting me—or
worse
—but I slow down to let them catch up. Normally I can move through the forest like a ghost, leaving no trail in my wake. Now I make as much noise as I can, stomping on twigs to leave them broken, kicking over rocks to expose fresh dirt, doing anything possible to leave a trail that
anyone
could follow. It’s a dangerous game I’m playing as I hear the two goons rustling in the woods behind me. They’ve done better than I expected in the chase—I don’t have to slow down as much as I thought. It would only take the slightest slip up for them to catch me and there are
plenty
of things that could make me stumble.