Wrath - 4 (22 page)

This was pure. This was passion.

And, most impossible of al —

This was real.

Would everyone in the audience hate her, Harper wondered, gripping the sides of the podium. Would al those hundreds of faces watching her be hoping for her to fail, or maybe just wondering what the hel she was doing up there in the first place?

She’d tried to stay true to her resolution to be a better person. She’d even been nice to Beth, much as it had twisted her stomach. It hadn’t done much good. Beth didn’t want her to change, that was obvious; Beth wanted her to be the unredeemable bitch, someone she could blame al her problems on, so she wouldn’t have to take a closer look at herself.

Harper knew the feeling.

But Harper couldn’t avoid looking at herself now. She looked out at the sea of empty chairs and grew certain that tomorrow’s audience would see right through her surface, down to her rotten core. And what was her reward for al this self-examination? Clammy hands, sweaty brow, pounding heart, lockjaw. She didn’t need
Web
MD to diagnose herself. It was a textbook case: stage fright.

Harper fixed her eyes on the top line of the speech. She opened her mouth.

Out popped a squeak, and nothing more.

Her lips were dry, and her tongue suddenly felt too large for her mouth. She needed water. She needed air—in bigger and bigger gulps.

She needed to get away.

“Ms. Grace?” the principal asked, probably suffering from her own case of déjà vu. “Everything al right?”
Yes,
she tried to say. It’s fine.

But nothing came out.

And Harper Grace didn’t do speechless.

There isn’t even anyone watching,
she told herself angrily. But it didn’t seem to matter. It was al those empty seats, al that space, al the pressure—

“I have to get out of here,” she mumbled, final y able to speak now that she’d given up the fight. She left the copy of the speech on the podium, waved weakly at the principal, and ran off stage, feeling sick.

She’d always been proud to be Harper Grace, with the distinguished name and the impeccable rep—everyone wanted her life.

They could have it.

Is this what it feels like?
Kaia asked herself dimly in the smal , faraway place she’d retreated to in her mind. She pushed Powel away, twisted, turned—but wasn’t it al a bit half-hearted? Wasn’t there a piece of her wondering,
Is this really happening?
She couldn’t believe, couldn’t force herself back down into her body, where it would be real. It seemed like something she was watching on TV, like one of those interchangeable Lifetime movies where the damsel always finds herself in distress. As if the scene would play out the same way no matter what she did.

Kaia had always thought that, in a real emergency, life would be clearer, the picture sharper. You wouldn’t cool y wonder whether those self-defense classes had been a waste of money, you wouldn’t be as cold and calculating as you were in everyday life. You would recognize the need to act. Instinct would take over.

You wouldn’t wonder,
Should I scream? Will that seem foolish? Am I overreacting?
You wouldn’t wonder, coldly, curiously,
What’s wrong with me? Why don’t I scream?

And then she heard the low purr of the zipper, felt it scrape against her skin, and then she did scream. She stopped thinking and wondering because it
was
real—he was on top of her, heavy, unmovable, and she screamed and spit and bit and tore at him, and stil his hand clenched both her wrists and forced her arms down though her muscles screamed in pain, and when she slammed her forehead up into his, he barely moved, barely noticed, so intent was he on holding her down, shifting into position, wriggling out of his khakis with one hand while gripping her wrists with the other—

Her knee came up, hard. And connected. He dropped her wrists, grabbed his groin, doubled over with a soft sigh, and she sat up and punched him in the Adam’s apple. Twice, for good measure. Grabbed her purse—not her shirt, though, because he was on top of it, half sitting, half lying on the futon, grunting with pain. But before she could escape, he pul ed himself up and lunged toward her. She darted away, but not fast enough, and he slammed her against the wal , the edge of the futon digging painful y into her lower back. He grabbed her hair, tugged her head back, his laughter hot against her skin.

One hand pinned between their bodies, her other flailed behind her, waving wildly through the air, then fumbling across the coffee table until she felt the head of his tacky marble copy of Rodin’s
The Thinker
. It was solid and heavy in her grasp, and in a smooth arc she hoisted it into the air and slammed it into the back of his head.

There was a surprisingly quiet thud, and he fel limp against her, the smal statue slipping out of her trembling fingers and crashing into the floor. A splash of blood lit up the stone face.

Kaia pushed Powel ’s inert body away, and it toppled to the floor, facefirst. She didn’t check to see whether he was breathing, or wipe the blood off the statue or her fingerprints off the doorknob. She didn’t cry, didn’t scream, didn’t hesitate.

She just left, fumbling with the lock, slipping out the door and stumbling on her way to the car. She pul ed out of the driveway fast, without looking, and sped down the road into the darkness, away from town, away from people, turning up the radio and rol ing down the windows to drown the night in cold air and loud music.

She blew through three red lights and hit open highway before realizing: She had nowhere to go.

“Hel o?”

At first there was no sound on the other end of the line, then a harsh, rasping breath. And another. “I’m hanging up now,” Reed warned, and was about to, when—

“Wait. Reed, please …”

“Kaia?”

It was her, unmistakably. And yet somehow, not her—not cool, contained, a voice dripping icicles.

Reed was stoned, and had been zoned out for hours lying on his bed, strumming along to an old Phish album. But through the haze, he began to feel the beast creeping toward him. Trouble. But was she in it, or looking to cause it?

“Kaia, what is it?”

“I shouldn’t have … I didn’t mean—”

“What’s going on? What do you want?”
She’s just mocking you,
he told himself. Nothing between them had been real, why should this be anything but a cruel joke?

But she didn’t sound cruel. She sounded … broken.

“It’s al my fault.”

“What is?”

No answer.

“Kaia?”

“Kaia?”

Dial tone.

Another mistake. Kaia threw down the phone, cursing herself. She couldn’t do anything right.

Great idea. Call Reed for help. Throw yourself on his mercy
. It was almost as bril iant as going to Powel ’s house in the first place.

She was shivering.

So she pul ed off onto the side of the road. No longer afraid of jackals or coyotes, or whatever lost and angry souls might be wandering the desert at night. What was left to fear?

She had no shirt. It was cold, a cloudless winter night, and she was curled up in the front seat of the Beamer, her cheek pressed against the smooth leather, wearing only her jeans and a black bra.

She wasn’t crying. She must have been, at some point—her face was wet, sticky against the leather seat. But she couldn’t remember. Could barely remember how she’d gotten there. The night was fading, the details blurring. She remembered only shards of moments: his hands on her wrists. The sound of the zipper. His body, limp and stil . The blood.

Driving faster and faster, the top down and the frigid air burning her face, roaring in her ears. Reed’s voice as she hung up the phone.

I have nowhere to go.

I have no one.

The road was dark, the only traffic an occasional truck thundering by.

She could get out of the car, stick out her thumb. Someone would pick her up, take her as far away as she wanted to go, leave everything behind. And, after al , there was nothing to leave.

Or she could turn the key in the ignition, drive back to her father’s house, slip inside and tear off her clothes, immerse herself in a scalding shower, cleanse herself of it al . Wash away his touch from her skin.

But instead she got out of the car, walked over to the highway emergency phone. She couldn’t use her cel , not for this cal . She leaned against the cool steel, fingers hesitating over the receiver.

He didn’t deserve her help.

And maybe it was already too late.

But she lifted the receiver and, in a dul monotone, gave out the necessary information. No names, no circumstances, nothing that would connect her to the sordid mess. Just an address. Just, “Hurry.”

And when the ambulance arrived? They’d find her al over the apartment, wouldn’t they? Her shirt, her fingerprints, her hairs … his blood. If he woke up, who knew what he’d say.

And if he never did …

She crawled back into the car and wrapped her arms around herself for warmth. She was so tired. Cold. Finished. Later there’d be decisions to make, consequences to bear.

But for now, she couldn’t. Couldn’t go home, couldn’t go to the cops, couldn’t disappear on the open road. She was tired of fighting, of moving. She just wanted it al to stop. Just for a while, just long enough that she could get her bearings.

Long enough that she could stop trembling.

She was frozen, unable to do anything but curl up in a bal in the front seat, hug her knees to her chest, close her eyes against the darkness surrounding her.

She was spent.

She was tearless.

And she was on her own.

Miranda was grounded for two weeks.

And she’d never been happier.

When she’d strol ed—more like floated—in the door at half past ten, her mother was waiting. Miranda had forgotten to pick her sister up after dance class, had skipped dinner,

had disappeared without a word, had apparently worried everyone half to death.

She’d just smiled through her mother’s tirade, and her father’s gloomy silence. She’d ignored her sister’s pestering questions, waiting impatiently for the moment she could flee upstairs, shut herself in her bedroom, and relive the day, minute by minute.

She climbed into bed without changing out of her clothes, at first not wanting to admit that the day had official y ended. But then, thinking better of it, she wriggled out of her shirt and jeans and kicked them onto the floor, relishing the feel of the comforter against her bare skin. It reminded her of Kane’s hands.

She could stil remember everywhere he had touched her. When she closed her eyes, she imagined the pressure of his fingers on her hip and the light, tickling touch of his nail tracing its way up her back, down her col arbone. She lay in bed replaying it, lightly touching her own lips, as if to evoke a shadow of how it had felt.

She imagined what it might be like to have Kane lying in the bed with her, his strong arms wrapped around her and his chest pressed against her naked back. Would she lie on top of his arm, she wondered. Or would that cut off his circulation? Would he instead tuck one arm under the pil ow beneath her head, use the other one to pul her close, and twine his fingers through hers as they both drifted off to sleep?

Miranda had never shared a bed with anyone, unless you counted family vacations when she and her sister squeezed together on the lumpy cot next to their parents’ bed. So she was unsure of the logistics.

But now, final y, she could at least be sure of what it felt like to have her body come alive at someone else’s touch.

They had left the casino and wandered away on foot into the desert, where they had explored each other. After years of worship from afar, Miranda had been certain she’d known every inch of Kane, but she’d been wrong.

They had done little more than kiss before Miranda had gotten nervous and pul ed away. She was fearful that would be the end of it, but not fearful enough to push forward in spite of herself. Kane had only smiled, nodded, stopped what he was doing, or about to do, and went back to the kissing—it seemed to go on for hours.