Shade Me (4 page)

“Your color is looking better,” he said, and at first I was confused, thinking maybe he had synesthesia, too, and what
were the odds. But then I realized he was talking about the color of my face. My hairline was ringed with cold sweat, but the burning in my cheeks had stopped.

“Great,” I said. “So I'll be going now.” I started to get up again, but he still didn't move.

“Just curious, what had you so rattled in the first place? You looked like you'd seen a ghost.”

I squared my shoulders and tried to look confident, unfazed by how close his assessment was. “I just didn't expect to see her looking like that, I guess. I didn't know how bad she was.”

His eyebrows went up. “Her?” He motioned toward Bay 19. “You know her?”

I nodded. “It's Peyton Hollis. Everyone knows her.”

“Hollis?” he repeated. He seemed to be searching for the name. “As in Bill Hollis?”

I nodded. “The producer. That's her dad. Like I said, everyone knows her. I have no idea why I'm here.”

He arched one eyebrow. “You're part of everyone, aren't you?”

I cocked my head to the side. “Not to Peyton Hollis. I'm no one.”

He gave me a long look, then flagged down a nurse and whispered to her. The nurse nodded, pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket, jotted Peyton's name on it, and hurried away.

I set the cup on the counter behind me and finally stood, forcing him to shuffle back a step. “What happened to her?” I asked.

“I was hoping you could tell me that,” he said.

I glanced at the curtain again. I had left it open a crack when I'd backed out of it, and I could see crimson glowing out, could see one of Peyton's closed, swollen eyes. I swallowed.
Confidence, Nik. Cold confidence. That's not your mother in there. It's not.
“I have no idea.”

“You're not friends at school?”

“No. Not at all. I mean, I knew her.
Know
her,” I corrected, realizing I had just spoken about her in the past tense. “I actually haven't seen her at school in a couple of weeks.”

Now that I thought about it, the last time I saw her at school was the day she showed up with her perfect, shiny blond hair chopped into uneven, dry-looking hunks and dyed mousy brown. Everyone was talking about it, and saying she'd also gotten a tattoo on the side of her neck. On someone like me these changes would have looked “gross” and “skanky” and everyone would have assumed I was suddenly on drugs or had joined a gang or something. But on Peyton Hollis they were cool rebellion, and soon everyone would be cutting their hair that way and begging their parents for neck tattoos.

The next day, she was nowhere to be found. Some
people said she quit school, but nobody really believed it. Royalty like Peyton Hollis didn't quit school. Crowds were their lifeblood.

“You never hung out?” Detective Martinez asked.

I shook my head.

“Ever meet her family?”

I shook again.

“Know of any enemies Peyton might have had? Anyone who might want to hurt her?”

I thought it over. Did Peyton Hollis have enemies? Yes, and no. Everyone envied Peyton. She was so popular, everyone wanted to be her friend. Hell, everyone wanted to
be
her
. But her popularity also made everyone hate her in their own way. Wasn't that how it always worked? People killed themselves to put you up on a pedestal, just so they could watch you lose your balance and fall, and even pull you down when you weren't falling fast enough. When the whole world idolized you, did that mean the whole world was your enemy, too?

But the phone call I'd gotten before the hospital had called. The one that had said my name and hung up. I didn't have the first clue why, but I was now sure that call was Peyton. And, if it was, there had been a male voice in the background. Was that person an enemy?

How on earth would I know? And why would I want to? Why help this cop, when cops had never done anything to
help me? Hadn't I asked as many questions about my mom's death ten years before? Hadn't I gotten big old shoulder shrugs from everyone? Whoever was in the background of that phone call was presumably still out there. It seemed safer to just stay out of it.

I shrugged. “Not that I know of. Like I said, I wasn't . . .
am
not
. . . part of her group or anything. Um, shouldn't someone contact her family?”

“We're working on that. Having someone identify her definitely helps.”

Detective Martinez stared off toward the curtain, chewing one side of his lip. I wondered if he knew something he wasn't telling.

“Any idea why you're the only number in her phone?” he finally asked.

“No,” I answered. “No idea at all.”

“Mind if I leave you my card? In case you come up with information we should know about.”

Yes, in fact, I did mind. I didn't want to be part of this at all. But I would be lying if I said I wasn't a little curious about what had happened to her, too. “I doubt I will. Like I said, I don't know anything about Peyton Hollis's private life at all.”

“Can't hurt to think on it some, though, right?” he said. He fished around in his pocket and pulled out a business card, then fished again and cursed. “Forever losing my pen.
Here, you mind?” He gestured toward the double doors and I followed him to the front desk, where he borrowed a pen from the nurse he'd spoken to earlier, who was just hanging up the phone when we got there.

“I've contacted the family,” she said, and the detective nodded. “Someone's on the way now.”

He wrote something on the back of his business card, and handed it to me. I turned it over. His cell phone number had been written there, the digits every bit as yellow as the ones on his badge. “You have a number where I can reach you? In case I need to ask some questions?”

I gave him my information, and he wrote it on the back of a different business card, which he tucked into his shirt pocket.

“Thanks for your help, Miss Kill,” he said. He gestured to the card still in my hand. “You think of anything, just give me a call. You never know which details are important details.”

I nodded and watched him stride through the automatic double doors and get into his police car, which was parked in the tow-away zone at the curb.

I stood there for a long while after he left, listening to the cars pull in and out of the parking lot, letting the night air calm me down and clear my mind. Being outside the hospital, away from the crimson, was far less frightening than being by Peyton's bedside, but something was keeping me
from just walking to my car and leaving. There was something so curious about the whole situation, and somehow I felt obligated to stay, even though I knew this was so not my problem and that Peyton wouldn't stay there for me, and even though I'd heard the nurse say the Hollises were coming to be with her, so I knew she wouldn't be alone.

An ambulance pulled up to the curb, lights flashing, and I took a few steps back, my mind trying to eel its way back to all that crimson, back to my mom. I was in the way here. I wasn't needed. More importantly, it wasn't good for me to dredge up all those horrible memories.

I stuck Detective Martinez's card, which I hadn't realized I was still holding, into my jacket pocket, then had a panic moment. My phone was missing. Frantically, I patted all my pockets until I remembered it rattling on the floor and skidding under Peyton's bed.

Damn it. I was going to have to go back and get it. I wasn't sure if I could make myself do it. I didn't want another scene like before. But I needed my phone. Even if I spent most of the time dodging Jones on it.

Slowly, my stomach clenching with the very thought of it, I turned and went back to Bay 19.

A
NURSE PLOWED
through the curtain and nearly bowled me over as I approached Peyton's bay.

“Sorry,” she said. “We're getting ready to move her upstairs. You want to see her real quick before we go?”

Not really.
But I nodded and pushed through the curtain, steeling myself for what I would find on the other side.
The worst color. There will be the worst color, Nik, a whole lot of it. But you can handle it. You handled it before. You can get a grip and deal with whatever it is you see. It's not your mother in there. It's Peyton Hollis. You know this. You are prepared this time.

But I was wrong. I wasn't prepared at all for what I found on the other side of the curtain.

Peyton was no longer alone. A boy was sitting next to her bed, clutching her hand. He turned to look at me when I stepped through the curtain, and I felt my face flush.

Dru Hollis. Peyton's brother. He was a year older than me—had graduated last year—and was something of a legend at our school, mostly for his aloof and mysterious, live-on-the-edge lifestyle. While Peyton disappeared from the tabloids, they seemed to eat him up, always catching him on a volcano scuba trip, or in a Vegas hotel gripping the hands of barely dressed, beautiful women twice his age, or zipping along the Marrakech loop on a motorcycle. With his looks and connections, a lot of people had him pegged to be the next big star of one of his father's movies. But he didn't seem to have the temperament for it. Where Bill Hollis was the sexy, powerful, charming face of Hollywood, his son, Dru, had a reputation for being ruthless, not as likely to smile for the camera so much as break it, and your nose with it. Instead of going away to college, Dru just went away, moving into his own apartment, constantly traveling, picking up a half-dozen bit parts in movies, where he looked bored and slightly bitter to be there, everything else he did with his time the subject of a great many awe-filled rumors. But mostly Dru Hollis was known for being unknowable. He kept his public life and his private life very separate.

And I could see why girls would line up to be with him. His expensive sport coat and khakis were so perfectly fitted,
they wrapped around his tan skin like butter. Styled to look careless, he practically reeked of influence and adventure, as if he was ready to climb a mountain or negotiate a business deal or lay down a royal flush any second of the day. I had noticed him at school—everyone noticed him at school—but had never been this close to him before. He was flawless, perfection. I had to remind myself to breathe and do my best to ignore the violet thoughts that wanted to push into my brain. I liked to think of myself as immune to obvious guys like Dru Hollis, but nobody could truly ignore who he was.

After a beat of surprise, he let go of Peyton's hand and stood, the khakis sliding along the lines of his muscles.

“Sorry,” he said, wiping tears from beneath his eyes with his fingers. He gazed at Peyton. “It's just . . . she looks so bad.”

I didn't say anything. I was too struck by him to open my mouth. I'd never been alone in the same room with Dru Hollis before, and I was suddenly thirteen again. It was seriously starting to piss me off.

He held his hand out. “Dru,” he said. “I'm Peyton's brother. They just called me. Thank God I was close by.”

I took his hand, feeling a jolt run through me as I met his eyes. Despite looking tired and red-rimmed, they were searching, as if he was accustomed to always being allowed entrance into souls, just because of who he was. Something about the way he gazed into me made me feel naked. The
violet I was ignoring pulsed brighter. I let go of his grip, tried to compose myself by staring at his hand. His knuckles looked red and swollen around the tan line of a ring, a scuff of raw skin skidding across the back of his hand. That was probably what most girls loved about Dru Hollis—he was rich but rugged. Privileged without being pampered.

“I'm Nikki,” I said. “They called me here, too.”

I saw a flicker of something strange pass over Dru's face. Confusion, maybe? Irritation? He went back to her bedside and sat, grabbed the same hand he'd been holding before, and pressed it to his cheek. “Who would've done something like this?” he asked. “Why? Why would someone hurt Peyton? If she dies . . .”

He trailed off, but I could have just about finished the sentence for him. I knew what he was thinking.
If she dies, I'll die, too. If she dies, someone will pay. If she dies, will I ever be fixable?
There were a boatload of ways to finish
If she dies
, and I knew every last one of them, because my mom did die, and I lived through that same loop of horrible thoughts. I spent more sleepless nights with
why
than I could count. I felt another squeeze in my chest, but this one was different from the one before. It was pity for Dru. I knew how his heart was breaking, because mine had broken just like it ten years ago. And as far as I could tell, I was anything but fixable.

“She won't,” I said, moving a step toward him. “She's strong.” I said this like I knew her, and then I realized that, in
a way, I did know at least that much about her. I'd seen how she'd worked the school, students and teachers alike. I'd seen the way she'd organized everything from parties to protests. Let nobody get in her way. Peyton Hollis was strong as hell. A force to be reckoned with. “She's a fighter. She'll fight.”

But somebody out there was stronger, a bigger force. Somebody out there had beaten the fight right out of her. She didn't look like a fighter right now. Pale and lifeless, with all those tubes and wires wrapping her up, she reminded me more of a fly in a spider's web.

Who was your spider, Peyton?

“Yeah,” Dru said. “She definitely knows how to survive. She's a Hollis, after all.” He was quiet for a moment, and then seemed to shake off a thought. “I haven't ever seen you around. You two hang out much?”

I shook my head. “No. You?”

He gave a breathy chuckle. “She's my sister.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “I wasn't thinking. Sorry.”

The curtain rustled open again, and the nurse who'd nearly knocked me down before came in. Dru backed up to make room for her. “Okay, guys, we're going to move her upstairs,” the nurse said. “I can get some blankets and pillows for you.”

“No,” I said. The thought of spending a whole night bathed in Peyton's crimson lights and Dru's dark, electric stare terrified and nauseated me. I needed air. I needed
space. I needed time to think, to process. “I'll just grab my phone and go.”

I bent to retrieve my phone, and that was when I saw the rumors were true—Peyton actually had gotten a neck tattoo. It was small and had the sharp lines of new ink, all in black and gray, which seemed an odd choice for what it was—a rainbow, surrounded by clouds. The words
Live in Color
were scripted beneath the curve of the bottom stripe. To me, it was beautiful, the words jumping out in vibrant gem tones, especially against the gray of the rainbow. I wanted to reach out and touch it, as I so often did when words took on a particularly stunning hue. But Dru stepped toward me, and I resisted.

I tore my eyes away from the tattoo and bent all the way down to the floor, lowering myself to my hands and knees so I could find my phone.

When I stood up again, Dru had gone back to Peyton's bedside. It seemed like the perfect time to leave. “I'm really sorry about your sister.”

I didn't wait for him to respond but ducked back through the curtain and practically raced out of the emergency ward and through the double doors into the waiting room. Only then did I slow down a little to collect myself.

But just as the sliding doors swished open in front of me, I heard a voice calling from behind.

“Nikki!” I turned. Dru was rushing through the doors
after me. I waited. “Hey,” he said when he reached me. “Did you drive here?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Let me walk you to your car.” He gestured toward where we'd just come from. “This has got me a little on guard, you know?”

He wasn't the only one. In general, I wasn't easily shaken, but I would admit that seeing Peyton's injuries had me eyeing the parking lot a little closer than I normally would. I felt like eight-year-old Nikki again—afraid that the bad guys who'd killed my mom might jump out at me and take me out, too. Not that I had any reason to trust Dru Hollis, but another warm body was better than nothing.

“Consider it a thank-you,” he said. “For coming.”

“Sure,” I said. “Of course.”

We walked to my car, awkward silence stretching between us. Away from the heavy hospital smell, I was able to catch his scent. The night air commingled with his cologne and drifted through me, practically carried me. He smelled rich, rugged, sexy, and like he didn't know it, which only made him even sexier. I was conscious of everything—the way I walked, the wrinkles in my shirt, the catches in my hair from being windblown on the window ledge earlier. I wondered if I smelled like smoke.

Once we got to my car, I finally spoke. “This . . . didn't happen at your house, did it?”

Hollis Mansion was huge, and the setting of a museum of epic parties. If someone came to school laughing about having lost anything from shoes to car keys to their virginity, chances were high that it happened during a party at Peyton's. The mansion was like Pleasure Island—the place where fun happens and nobody has to answer to anything. It was weird to think of the boy standing beside me being part of that scene. Even despite the rumors about him. It was even weirder to think an intruder might have gotten in there and tried to kill one of them.

“No,” he said. “The nurse told me someone found her in a parking lot, called it in, and split.” He wrung his hands together. “I don't know who it was. I'm just glad she got some help.”

We fell into silence again, and I wasn't sure if I was supposed to get into my car now, or if he had more to say.

“What happened?” I asked, to break the tension. I pointed at his hand.

He glanced at it, splaying his fingers out, and then covered it with his other hand and let them both drop in front of him. “Basketball game,” he said. “Got a little rough. Also took an elbow.” He rubbed his cheek, right below his eye, and I noticed for the first time that it was bruised and swollen as well.

“Damn, tough game.”

He stared back toward the hospital. “Better than being
on one of my father's job interviews, which was where I was supposed to be,” he said.

“Job interview?”

“Nothing,” he said. “My parents think I need some
direction
.” He said the last with a heavy tinge of sarcasm.

“So you burn off energy by beating up basketballs?”

He turned to me, and I got the patented Dru Hollis guarded stare full-on for the first time.

My cheeks burned. “Sorry. It's been a weird night.”

“Yeah,” he said. “It has. I don't understand it. Why would someone want to hurt Peyton?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “And they said I was the only contact in her phone. Why? Why not you? Or your parents?”

“I don't know,” he said, looking surprised. “My dad's going to be shattered. They're really close. I couldn't get ahold of him. He has no clue. None of this makes any sense.”

“Maybe it was an accident?” I said hopefully.

“Maybe,” he echoed, but he sounded doubtful. “Listen, I really appreciate you coming.” He reached around me for the door handle. Instinctively, I tensed, fixing my eyes on the point on his throat that I would punch if he did something fishy. But then he smiled at me and I relaxed a little. That smile. It was so disarming. Alarmingly disarming.

“No problem.”

He pulled open my door and stepped back so I could get in. He licked his lips—
God, they looked so soft!
—and we
locked eyes again, a gaze that swept through me, made me breathless.

“No, I mean thank you for everything. For being there with Peyton. For reminding me what she's made of. You made me feel a lot better. I can maybe have a little hope.”

“I've sort of been there,” I said. “I get it.”

His eyes narrowed, as if he were studying me. “You really do, don't you?”

I couldn't answer. I could see the letters on his key fob, a leather souvenir from the Dominican Republic, which hung out of his front pocket, begin to glow lavender, then purple, and then violet so bright I could feel it in my throat.

I wasn't the only one feeling that current between us.

Or was I? That violet could have been all me.

I swallowed again, tearing my eyes away from the fob, trying to put Cool and Controlled Nikki back in place. “I should go. My dad doesn't know I'm gone.”

“It is pretty late,” he said.

I squeezed past him and got into my car. “See you.”

“Yeah. It was nice meeting you, Nikki,” he said. “And thanks for”—he shot me a look that was part grateful, part wary—“everything.” He pushed my door shut with a thud.

I started the car, put it into gear, and took off, glad to be free of the unnerving Hollis pull.