My Soul to Lose (9 page)

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My best friend Emma danced her way down the hall

and into the main room, hands in the air, hips swaying

with the pulse of the song. I followed her, keyed up by

the energy of the Saturday-night crowd from the

moment I saw the first cluster of bodies in motion.

We worked our way into the throng and were

swallowed by it, assimilated by the beat, the heat, and

the casual partners pulling us close. We danced

through several songs, together, alone, and in random

pairs, until I was breathing hard and damp with sweat.

I signaled Emma that I was going for a drink, and she

nodded, already moving again as I worked my way

toward the edge of the crowd.

Behind the bar, Emma’s sister Traci worked alongside

another bartender, a large, dark man in a snug black

tee, both oddly lit by a strip of blue neon overhead. I

claimed the first abandoned bar stool, and the man in

black propped both broad palms on the bar in front of

me.

“I got this one,” Traci said, one hand on his arm. He

nodded and moved on to the next customer. “What’ll it

be?” Traci smoothed back a stray strand of pale, bluetinted hair.

I grinned, leaning with both elbows on the bar. “Jack

and Coke?”

She laughed. “I’ll give you the Coke.” She shot soda

into a glass of ice and slid it toward me. I pushed a five

across the bar and swiveled on my stool to watch the

dance floor, scanning the multitude for Emma. She

was sandwiched between two guys in matching UT

Dallas fraternity tees and neon, legal-to-drink

bracelets, all three grinding in unison.

Emma drew attention like wool draws static.

Still smiling, I drained my soda and set my glass on

the bar.

“Kaylee Cavanaugh.”

I jumped at the sound of my own name and whirled

toward the stool to my left. My gaze settled on the

most hypnotic set of hazel eyes I’d ever seen, and for

several seconds I could only stare, lost in the most

amazing swirls of deep brown and vivid green, which

seemed to churn in time with my own heartbeat—

though surely they were just reflecting the lights

flashing overhead. My focus only returned when I had

to blink, and the momentary loss of contact brought

me back to myself.

That’s when I realized who I was staring at.

Nash Hudson. Holy crap. I almost looked down to see

if ice had anchored my feet to the floor, since hell had

surely frozen over. Somehow I’d stepped off the dance

floor and into some weird warp zone where irises

swam with color and Nash Hudson smiled at me, and

me alone.

I picked up my glass, hoping for one last drop to rewet

my suddenly dry throat—and wondered fleetingly if

Traci had spiked my Coke—but discovered it every bit

as empty as I’d expected.

“Need a refill?” Nash asked, and that time I made my

mouth open. After all, if I was dreaming—or in the

Twilight Zone—I had nothing to lose by speaking.

Right?

“I’m good. Thanks.” I ventured a hesitant smile, and

my heart nearly exploded when I saw my grin

reflected on his upturned, perfectly formed lips.

“How’d you get in here?” He arched one brow, more

in amusement than in real curiosity. “Crawl through

the window?”

“Back door,” I whispered, feeling my face flush. Of

course he knew I was a junior—too young even for an

eighteen-and-over club, like Taboo.

“What?” He grinned and leaned closer to hear me

above the music. His breath brushed my neck, and my

pulse pounded so hard I felt light-headed. He smelled

sooo good.

“Back door,” I repeated into his ear. “Emma’s sister

works here.”

“Emma’s here?”

I pointed her out on the dance floor—now swaying

with three guys at once—and assumed that would be

the last I saw of Nash Hudson. But to my near-fatal

shock, he dismissed Em at a glance and turned back to

me with a mischievous gleam in those amazing eyes.

“Aren’t you gonna dance?”

My hand was suddenly sweaty around my empty glass.

Did that mean he wanted to dance with me? Or that he

wanted the bar stool for his girlfriend?

No, wait. He’d dumped his latest girlfriend the week

before, and the sharks were already circling the fresh

meat. Though they’re not circling him now… I saw no

one from Nash’s usual crowd, either clustered around

him or on the dance floor.

“Yeah, I’m gonna dance,” I said, and again, his eyes

were swirling green melting into brown and back,

flashing blue occasionally in the neon glow. I could

have stared at his eyes for hours. But he probably

would have thought that was weird.

“Let’s go!” He took my hand and stood as I slid off the

bar stool, and I followed him onto the dance floor. A

fresh smile bloomed on my face, and my chest seemed

to tighten around my heart in anticipation. I’d known

him for a while—Emma had gone out with a few of

his friends—but had never been the sole object of his

attention. Had never even considered the possibility.

If Eastlake High School were the universe, I would be

one of the moons circling Planet Emma, constantly

hidden by her shadow, and glad to be there. Nash

Hudson would be one of the stars: too bright to look at,

too hot to touch, and at the center of his own solar

system.

But on the dance floor, I forgot all that. His light was

shining directly on me, and it was sooo warm.

We wound up only feet from Emma, but with Nash’s

hands on me, his body pressed into mine, I barely

noticed. That first song ended, and we were moving to

the next one before I even fully realized the beat had

changed.

Several minutes later, I glimpsed Emma over Nash’s

shoulder. She stood at the bar with one of the guys

she’d been grinding with, and as I watched, Traci set a

drink in front of each of them. When her sister turned

around, Emma grabbed her partner’s drink—

something dark with a wedge of lime on the rim—and

drained it in three gulps. Frat boy smiled, then pulled

her back into the crowd.

I made a mental note not to let Emma drive my car—

ever—then let my eyes wander back to Nash, where

they wanted to be in the first place. But on the way,

my gaze was snagged by an unfamiliar sheet of

strawberry-blond hair, crowning the head of the only

girl in the building to rival Emma in beauty. This girl,

too, had her choice of dance partners, and though she

couldn’t have been more than eighteen, she’d

obviously had much more to drink than Emma.

But despite how pretty and obviously charismatic she

was, watching her dance twisted something deep

inside my gut and made my chest tighten, as if I

couldn’t quite get enough air. Something was wrong

with her. I wasn’t sure how I knew, but I was

absolutely certain that something was not right with

that girl.

“You okay?” Nash shouted, laying one hand on my

shoulder, and suddenly I realized I’d gone still, while

everyone around me was still writhing to the beat.

“Yeah!” I shook off my discomfort and was relieved to

find that looking into Nash’s eyes chased away that

feeling of wrongness, leaving in its place a new calm,

eerie in its depth and reach. We danced for several

more songs, growing more comfortable with each

other with every moment that passed. By the time we

stopped for a drink, sweat was gathering on the back

of my neck and my arms were damp.

I lifted the bulk of my hair to cool myself and waved

to Emma with my free hand as I turned to follow Nash

off the dance floor—and nearly collided with that

same strawberry blonde. Not that she noticed. But the

minute my eyes found her, that feeling was back in

spades—that strong discomfort, like a bad taste in my

mouth, only all over my body. And this time it was

accompanied by an odd sadness. A general melancholy

that felt specifically connected to this one person.

Whom I’d never met.

“Kaylee?” Nash yelled over the music. He stood at the

bar, holding two tall glasses of soda, slick with

condensation. I closed the space between us and took

the glass he offered, a little frightened to notice that

this time, even staring straight into his eyes couldn’t

completely relax me. Couldn’t quite loosen my throat,

which threatened to close against the cold drink I so

desperately craved.

“What’s wrong?” We stood inches apart, thanks to the

throng pressing ever closer to the bar, but he still had

to lean into me to be heard.

“I don’t know. Something about that girl, that redhead

over there—” I nodded toward the dancer in question

“—bothers me.” Well, crap. I hadn’t meant to admit

that. It sounded so pathetic aloud.

But Nash only glanced at the girl, then back at me.

“Seems okay to me. Assuming she has a ride home…”

“Yeah, I guess.” But then the current song ended, and

the girl stumbled—looking somehow graceful, even

when obviously intoxicated—off the dance floor and

toward the bar. Headed right for us.

My heart beat harder with every step she took. My

hand curled around my glass until my knuckles went

white. And that familiar sense of melancholy swelled

into an overwhelming feeling of grief. Of dark

foreboding.

I gasped, startled by a sudden, gruesome certainty.

Not again. Not with Nash Hudson there to watch me

completely freak out. My breakdown would be all over

the school on Monday, and I could kiss goodbye what

little social standing I’d gained.

Nash set his glass down and peered into my face.

“Kaylee? You okay?” But I could only shake my head,

incapable of answering. I was far from okay, but

couldn’t articulate the problem in any way resembling

coherence. And suddenly the potentially devastating

rumors looked like minor blips on my disaster meter

compared to the panic growing inside me.

Each breath came faster than the last, and a scream

built deep within my chest. I clamped my mouth shut

to hold it back, grinding my teeth painfully. The

strawberry blonde stepped up to the bar on my left,

and only a single stool and its occupant stood between

us. The male bartender took her order and she turned

sideways to wait for her drink. Her eyes met mine. She

smiled briefly, then stared out onto the dance floor.

Horror washed over me in a devastating wave of

intuition. My throat closed. I choked on a scream of

terror. My glass slipped from my hand and shattered

on the floor. The redheaded dancer squealed and

jumped back as ice-cold soda splattered her, me, Nash,

and the man on the stool to my left. But I barely

noticed the frigid liquid, or the people staring at me.

I saw only the girl, and the dark, translucent shadow

that had enveloped her.

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A native of the dust bowl, Rachel Vincent is the oldest

of five siblings, and arguably the most outspoken of

the bunch. She loves cats, devours chocolate and lives

on flavored coffee. Rachel’s older than she looks—

seriously—and younger than she feels, but remains

convinced that for every day she spends writing, one

more day will be added to her lifespan.

She maintains a Web site at rachelvincent.net and an

active blog at urbanfantasy.blogspot.com.

ISBN: 978-1-4268-3867-5

My Soul to Lose

Copyright © 2009 by Rachel Vincent

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