Girl Lost (22 page)

“Lane, this isn’t really about Peter. It’s about me,” I say quickly, cutting him off. “You expect me to be something that I can’t be.”

“What do you think I expect?” he challenges, those dull brown eyes coming to life as he argues with me. For me.

Who knew Lane could be so passionate, about anything.

“You want me to be Gwen Barrie, the daughter of Piers and the heir to the company. I’m not that girl.” I shake my head. “I haven’t been since I inherited it. I’m a fucking mess—I’m two bad days away from being jerked back home, and even here, I’m under constant supervision. Have you ever wondered why I went to school with my baby brother?”

He doesn’t say anything, but I can see the questions in his eyes, and I smile. “It’s because they wouldn’t let me leave any other way. Micah going to Northern was the only way I’d be allowed to leave the City. They don’t trust me alone—don’t trust that I won’t spiral out of control, and I can’t even blame them.”

“Who are they?”

“The Board of directors. My aunt. Grayson.”

“Your family friend?” he interrupts, confused.

“No. Grayson is my psychiatrist, Lane. He’s been treating me since I was fourteen.”

He stops, startled, and I nod, smiling. “You understand now? I’m not the girl you can take home to your perfect family. And even if I were that kind of girl—I don’t want that.”

“But Gwen,” he says, desperation leaking into his voice. He moves, and I feel him gripping my arm.

Fear. Wrong. Get away, why is he touching us, we aren’t his.
Wrong!

“Don’t,” I say, my voice shaking. I swallow hard, and pull myself out of his grip, taking a step back. He stays where he is, and I have a heartbeat of relief.

“We could be great together,” he says, a smile ticking his lips up. “If you give me a chance, I can show you that.”

“I think Gwendy gave you her answer,” a silky voice says from the side of the building. I shiver, my nerves coming to life as Peter prowls out of the shadows. His eyes gleam. Most people would think it was just the reflection of the café lights—but I know better, and this isn’t mood lighting. This is madness, gleaming bright and too steady for comfort.

Peter is furious.

And Peter is not the most sane person—which means anger can push him into violence. I take a step, putting myself between the two men. Peter gives me a smirk—he knows exactly what I’m doing. And for the moment, I think he’s going to let me.

“Lane, we aren’t going to be good together.”

“You aren’t going to
be
together,” Peter drawls.

“Shut up. I can talk for myself,” I snap, and he laughs, a soft noise that strokes across my nerves and soothes them.

“Just—we can be friends. I can’t do more than that. But I’ll understand if you can’t do that.”

His face is pinched, angry color high in his cheeks. “What is it about him, Gwen?” Lane demands. “Is it that you get off on the freaky factor? Because you both drink from the same crazy cup?”

I flush, my mouth falling open. And Peter explodes behind me, sidestepping me neatly and slamming Lane into the wall of the café. Lane grunts, but doesn’t do anything else. Maybe because Peter is in his face, over six feet of coiled anger holding him by the throat.

“You don’t get to speak to her. Do you understand? She’s so far above you, it’s fucking ridiculous that you think you could be with her. Gwen gave you her answer. Be a man and fucking accept it.”

“She isn’t yours,” Lane snaps.

It’s the wrong thing to say. Peter was backing away, letting him go. But Lane’s words—I shout, too late, “
Peter!”

He punches him, hard. I hear the crack of Lane’s nose, the pop of cartilage as blood explodes, and the dull, meaty thump of his skull hitting the wall.

Lane crumples without a sound, and I jerk on Peter’s arm,, yanking him away from the prone body as he winds up to kick him. “Stop,” I hiss. “You gotta get the fuck outta here. Now.”

Peter blinks at me, his eyes barely concerned, but he nods and grabs my hand, wheeling around and pulling me away from the coffee shop.

“What are you even doing here?”

“You told me you needed to talk.”

“I meant come to my dorm room. Or tell me when was a good time for you. I didn’t mean you should show up at the café and assault a guy for talking to me.”

He whips me around me, catching me in his arms. I shove at him, trying to break loose, but he doesn’t budge—he’s like a mountain, completely unperturbed by my struggles. “He wants you. He tells you that you don’t belong with me. What in the hell do you think I’m going to do with that shit? Have you not picked up on the fact that I’m a possessive bastard?”

I huff a laugh. “Yeah, babe. I did get that. You’re worse than a two-year-old when it comes to sharing.”

He laughs, and nods. “I love you, Gwendy, and I’ll give you anything I possibly can. But don’t ever ask me to share you.”

I’m standing still, and he’s still moving, so he ends up jerking on my hand. I can’t move, though. Can’t process what he’s just said.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, moving back to stand next to me. The anger is gone, replaced with concern that takes my breath away.

“You love me,” I whisper.

A smile. Laughing eyes. “Of course, you little idiot. What did you think this was?”

“A crazy dream?”

His hands come up, delving into my hair and holding me steady as his lips come down, hard, on mine. I gasp into the kiss, and his mouth moves over mine, nipping at my lower lip. He sucks on my lip lightly, before he abandons it to stroke into my mouth, firm strokes that light me up like fireworks. My knees go boneless, and I lean into him as I go limp. Peter’s arm wraps around my waist, holding me up as he kisses me, until the world is spinning and I can’t breathe, until the idea of breathing seems very distant and unnecessary. Until there is nothing except this—this moment with him, and me, and the scent of the ocean and a warm summer breeze wrapping around me.

Wait. I jerk away from him, my eyes wide, and I look around frantically. Nothing has changed. We’re still standing on the sidewalk between the café and my dorm hall, the snow spiraling down from a cloud covered sky. There are no island trees, no exotic fruits. There is only snow and the icy wind, and a sky empty of stars.

“Peter,” I whisper. “I’m scared.”

“Of what, pixie?” he murmurs, pulling me close, tucking me under his chin.

“I’m afraid if I tell you the truth, you’ll run. I’m not sure what we’re doing here, but the idea of you running because of the truth—that terrifies me.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Sweetheart. I’ve been chasing you for longer than you can even know. Nothing you say can chase me away.”

I step away from him and lean back, searching the sky again.

Why are your stars different?

“Good,” I say quietly. James is waiting by the dorm hall, stamping his feet impatiently to ward off the cold. “Come on. Let’s get it over with.”

“I don’t want to watch the parade.”

Grayson glances at me, and I ignore him. Like I’ve been ignoring so much in the past few days.

“We always watch the parade, darling.”

“Maybe it’s time to let go of some traditions,” I answer. Grayson’s eyebrows shoot up, and I roll to my feet, grabbing my eReader and retreating.

The penthouse feels too full, too closed in, today. I want open spaces—idly, I wonder if I could sneak to the Park. I can’t. Aunt J is being militant about family time.

She’s missed us—Micah—and is desperate to regain a little of that normal.

I drop onto my bed, letting the door swing shut behind me. It muffles the sound of the parade and the antics from the kitchen. Here, I am alone with my thoughts, and that might actually be a bad idea.

“You were in an institution?”

“You saw them killed?”

“Where did you go?”

“But it’s not real.”

Peter, sitting cross-legged on my bed, his beanie pulled low, his hair obscuring his gaze. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking, and he hadn’t moved. Not in the entire time I spoke, or the ensuing questions. He doesn’t move now, as I say, weakly. “It wasn’t real. That’s the important thing. None of it—the island, the Boy, the time I was gone. It wasn’t real.”

He looks up at that, his gaze inscrutable. I stare at him, my gaze pleading, and his lips twitch in amusement. Without a word, he uncurls from where he’s sitting on the bed and rises. Stretches to his full height.

He brushes a kiss over my cheek as he leaves.

I flinch away from the memory, the cool dismissal in Peter, the pity in James, Orchid’s startled eyes. None of it gone the way I thought it would.

I hadn’t thought he would walk away without any hesitation.

I blink, pushing back my tears. Peter hasn’t called, hasn’t texted. It’s been four days—even James has reached out, to tell me he and Orchid are together at some ski resort. Fucking like bunnies had been his words.

And not to worry, because they already knew I was batshit crazy.

It helped, some. But it wasn’t Peter, and if I’m being honest with anyone—myself—I had hoped he wouldn’t run.

It’s easy, to say you love someone, that you’ve waited for them. But words don’t mean anything in the face of actions.

I hear someone moving outside my door, and then Micah’s low voice. “Leave her.”

“What happened?”

“She told Peter the truth and he bolted.”

There’s a moment of quiet, and then Grayson sighs. “Fuck.”

I smile into my pillow. He doesn’t have a professional bone in his body.

“Yeah. That pretty much sums it up,” Micah says.

I listen to them retreat and watch the sleet cover my window while I wait for them to tell me it’s time to play happy family.

Someone raps hard on my door, jerking me from my restless sleep. I yawn and glance at my phone. “Come in.”

The door swings open, and I glance over my shoulder.

Peter stands there, awkwardly. “Your aunt wants to shoot me.”

“She’s probably not the only one,” I say faintly, licking my dry lips. His eyes dart away, and then back. It hits me that he’s nervous.

Peter is nervous
. I’ve seen him many things—wild and dangerous and gentle and childlike, and skittish—but I have never seen him wear nerves like an old coat, the weight hanging naturally on his shoulders.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, sitting up. His gaze flicks down to my bare legs, and I tug my skirt down with a huff.

“I need to know—what if you were wrong?”

I blink, and then frown. “What do you mean?”

“What if you weren’t crazy?” he says, his voice a breath of hesitance dancing over the space between us. The hope and fear in his eyes are a tangible, living thing.

"What are you talking about?" I demand, my voice shaking. "Are you saying it was real? Because it can't be—it wasn't real, Peter, and I—" I cut off sharply, aware my voice is rising. I'm going to get Aunt J in here if I'm not careful.

"I'm not saying it was, pixie. I'm just asking. What if they're wrong—what if it's hard to understand, but you were right, all these years."

"I wasn't," I say automatically. "The onboard ship navigation system doesn't say anything about drifting into an island. There was no time that wasn't accounted for. I was on the Second Star the entire three weeks."

"But—"

"Why are you doing this?" I demand, cutting him off. "Why does it even matter?"

His eyes go wide, and he shakes his head "Gwen. It's the only thing that matters. They've lied to you!"

"No one lied," I snap. "Except my own brain, which is ten shades of fucked the hell up. I wasn't on an island. There wasn’t' a Boy."

He goes quiet, and I do too, realizing that I'm yelling. I can't yell.

"You look like him," I say, and Peter's gaze snaps up. "What I pictured, anyway. The freckles and the funny nose, and the red hair. The eyes—all of it. That's why you terrified me—you were the Boy all grown up." I smile.

"Does that scare you?"

I nod. "You shook all my carefully built walls. I knew what was true and what was real, and you fucked with that. My very own delusion come to life. And you refused to take no for an answer. You're like a child, you know that?"

A sick expression crosses his face. "I think I've heard that before," he mutters.

"Is Peter staying for dinner?" Micah says from the doorway. I wonder how much he's heard and how angry he is. Because my brother will not take well to Peter coming in and talking as if my delusions are real. There's a tightness to Micah's eyes that tells me he heard more than I really wanted him to.

"Do you want to stay?" I ask, tilting my head to look at Peter. "The food is surprisingly good, for homemade."

He takes two steps across the room to crowd me, but I don't give ground, stepping into him until we're pressed against each other from toe to hip to shoulder. His eyes flare with heat, and he nods, "I won't go anywhere until you send me away."

Peter is as good as his word. We sit through an hour of dinner and light interrogation as we pick at turkey and dry stuffing and a sweet potato casserole that Grayson always contributes. Not for the first time, I wonder why he isn't with his own family.