The Misfit (Oakmount Elite #5)

2. Lee

TWO

lee

I need … I don’t even know what I need. Someone to talk to. Someone to touch. Someone I can transfer this untenable … feeling … inside me to. It’s like this every time.

I take another swig of vodka and snake through the mass of bodies, letting the feel of them run past me and fade into the background. The need for an outlet, something, anything at all pumps through me … until it’s almost a fever pitch in my mind. The touch of other people, the smell of alcohol and sweat, the lights, and the music …

It overwhelms my senses.

Fuck, I need to get out of here.

I turn toward the stairs to make an early exit, but a huge knot of people clogs the passage, and there’s no way to get past them without making a scene. Fuck. I spin and try to find—an exit, a fucking hole to fall into—anything.

On the other side of the kitchen, hidden at the back of the room, is the pantry.

Yes . Like a crazed lunatic, I push across the mass of bodies filling the space toward the doors. Anyone who sees me coming scurries out of the way, everyone except the damn guy carrying the punch bowl. A growl of frustration rips from my throat. I barely stop in time, saving myself from a fruit punch bath, but I inadvertently dip a hand into the sticky substance as I try to help balance the bowl.

“What the fuck, dude?” the guy growls in irritation.

I tug my hands away, wanting to clock the idiot in the face. “Seriously? You ran into me, asshole.”

With the pantry so close, I restrain the whisper of violence in my blood and lunge for the door. Once open, I throw myself into the empty dark and pull it closed. The space is no bigger than a powder room, but with the door shut and darkness surrounding me, music threading the silence, it’s the most amazing place in the world.

A sigh escapes me as I press my forehead against the cool wood of the door, and the tightness in my muscles eases as the sensory overload slowly melts from my bones. Alone at last… until a tiny sound, like a mouse squeaking, reaches my ears.

What the hell?

Spinning around, I come face-to-face with a girl. Scratch that. Not a girl. A woman. I don’t understand what the fuck is happening right now—maybe the little bit of liquor I’ve drank has gone to my head.

What the hell is she doing in here?

I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but before I can stop myself, I reach for her. My fingers ghost over her cheek. She squeaks again, and the blue nitrile gloves covering her hands swat me away.

“Why are your hands wet?” Her screech startles me. Shit.

In a panic, I clamp my non-wet hand over her mouth before I look back and check the door to ensure no one’s going to burst through it like the Kool-Aid man.

I’m aware I’m acting irrationally. It doesn’t take a degree to see that, but I have to find a way to calm down. My heart races, anxiety bubbling in my veins like a pot of boiling water. I wait for the inevitable to happen. For my secret to be exposed, for everyone to find out golden boy Lee Sterling is nothing more than an anxiety-filled prick. But the seconds tick by, and nothing happens. The door remains blissfully closed. I damn near sigh in relief before I turn my attention back to the tiny woman.

“Shhh … if someone hears you, they might come looking for me, and I really need a fucking minute or five here.”

Her forehead wrinkles with confusion, and I drag my gaze over her face, or at least the features I can make out in the dim light that filters in from under the door. There’s something wholesome and almost striking about her.

I can’t look away even though I should. I’m held in a trance, unable to do anything else but stare at her.

What is wrong with me?

I’ve seen plenty of beautiful women in my life, but something about this mysterious girl makes me pause, something deeper than beauty. I give in to temptation and let my gaze roam over her delicate features, analyzing each one. She has high, sharp cheekbones and large, bright eyes framed by perfectly shaped eyebrows. Her small nose is slightly turned up. She blinks up at me, a hint of annoyance mixed in the warmth of her gaze. I can’t tell if her hair is black or brown, but it’s beautiful and long around her shoulders.

The sweet scent of vanilla fills my nostrils. I almost lean in to get a better whiff but stop myself at the last second. She gulps, and I know this because I feel the movement under my hand. Shit. I still have my hand over her mouth.

Slowly, I pull my hand away. Do I apologize? It seems to be the obvious answer, but then again, I didn’t really do anything wrong. The girl takes a step back, pressing herself against the shelf of rice behind her. Not just a little bit of rice but a metric ton of it.

Why the fuck would anyone ever need that much rice?

“You can’t be here. This is my hiding spot.” Her voice bites against the darkness, diverting my attention away from the rice and back to her. “Also, why are your hands wet?” The last bit comes out in almost a whine.

“Unfortunately, sweetheart, none of this is yours. It’s owned by The Mill, which I’m a member of, so if anything, you can’t be here.”

“I have every right to be here. I was invited.”

“Right …” I self-consciously wipe my sticky hand against my jeans. “Everyone was invited. And my hand was wet because I had to stop some idiot from bathing me with the punch bowl.”

Her beautiful features pinch with disgust. “That’s terrible.”

I pause, knowing this interaction is different, and this girl, whoever she is, is unique. Something is real and raw about her, a stark change to most of the women I encounter. The longer I look at her, the more I want to peel back her layers and see what’s hiding beneath. Which is insane because I’ve never felt that way about anyone, male or female.

“I think we started off on the wrong foot,” I say.

“It’s fine.” Her dismissal is jarring.

“Did I miss something? Is this the new hangout spot? Why’re you in here?”

She sighs. “Just like you, I guess I needed a minute.”

I nod. “Well, it looks like there’s enough room for both of us.”

She shrugs, and I watch as she carefully wraps her arms around herself. “It’s really okay. I planned on leaving as soon as I got the courage to walk back out there. I thought I was ready for this, but I don’t think I am.”

Ready for this? What does that mean? Her lips move subtly, and it looks like she’s counting under her breath. It’s strange but kind of comforting at the same time.

“Are you okay?”

She lets out a huff. “Am I okay?”

The way she repeats my question makes me think probably not , but I push for clarity, anyway.

“Yeah, are you okay?” I ask again.

She shakes her head and looks at me, and I mean looks at me in a way no one else ever has, like she’s reaching into the depths of my soul and unearthing all my secrets.

“I guess I’m fine. I don’t know why I came, why I’m even trying. This is supposed to be my fresh start. I’m finally finishing my degree, even if it means taking summer classes.”

I blink at her a few times. “Who attends classes in the summer?”

She clears her throat and tucks her chin against her chest, and for some reason, I hate it, so I reach out to tip it back up.

She ducks out of range, avoiding my touch. I don’t like that, not at all. “Lots of people, but mostly the ones who have missed classes and want to catch up as fast as they can.”

“Sounds like a waste of a summer to me.” I scoff. “Is it really worth it?”

The tiniest flicker of a smile tugs at her lips, then disappears. “Depends on the price you’re willing to pay. For me, it’s worth it. I want to get back on track. I want to … be normal , whatever that looks like in this day and age.”

“Normal is overrated.”

“Says the guy with all the friends, who isn’t wearing gloves or being stared at like he has two heads every time he enters a room.”

“ Touché .” I smile, but it dawns on me that she’s talking about herself. Who is this girl? What’s her name? Why is she wearing gloves? I want to know all the fucking things so I can… can what? We don’t know each other, and I doubt she’ll tell me the answer to any of those questions.

“Exactly, but that doesn’t tell me why you’re hiding. I recognize your voice. Weren’t you yelling about shots to the crowd a minute ago?”

I’m thankful she can’t see the hot embarrassment creep into my cheeks. “Sure was. Goes to show that even the most put-together people on the outside can be crumbling beneath the surface. Fake it until you can’t, right?”

I know I shouldn’t, but I step a little closer, wanting a better look at her in the low light.

She doesn’t retreat this time, and our gazes collide, her warm brown eyes bleeding into mine. Damn. Just one look, one tiny glimpse into her eyes, and her sadness and empathy make it hard for me to breathe. She understands. She knows what it’s like. I want to keep looking at her and try to figure her out.

“Until you can’t,” she echoes. Her breath brushes my chin, and the scent of cherry alcohol and lime tickles my nostrils. “I know all about can’t .”

I reach out with the nonsticky hand and gently trail a fingertip over her full bottom lip. I’m consumed with the need to touch her, to trace her features so I never forget what she looks like. A part of me wonders if I’m already drunk off my ass and this is a dream.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

She tucks her lip in slightly, and when it looks like she’s going to pull away, I frown. “You don’t want to be touched?”

She shakes her head, and strands of hair fly into her face. “It’s not that. I just … I don’t know when you washed your hands last, and I have this problem with germs, and dirt, and well, people in general.”

“Problem?”

She nods. “Yes, it’s called OCD.”

OCD? Obsessive-compulsive disorder?

“Oh shit. I’m sorry.” I step back, giving her space even though my brain and body want the opposite. Besides her gloves, nothing makes her stand out compared to other girls.

My steps back don’t really give her space, not when she follows my movement and we get closer, our chests brushing against each other. The noise inside my head quiets. The heat of her skin and energy ground me in a way I’ve never experienced before.

“I know what you’re thinking, so just save it. I’m not defective or anything. I’m working on it. Exposing myself to the things I fear most in hopes that I come out stronger on the other side.” Her tone is defensive, but I can make out the anxiety bubbling underneath her words in the way her voice trembles and her gaze darts away.

Who made her think she was defective? And why does she feel the need to defend herself?

Anger zips down my spine because I want to do everything I can to prove nothing is wrong with her. That it’s everyone else. Reaching for her hands, I gently grasp them and bring them up to the light. The slick gloves smell sweet and powdery.

“I don’t …”

Without warning, the door behind me opens, and the light from the kitchen spills into the pantry.

Fucking fuck.

My anxiety returns with a vengeance, but it’s diluted with the desire to protect her. I spin around and block her body from view. The need to defend her lessens when I find Drew standing there, resting his forearm against the doorframe and not some random asshole.

“You’re definitely weird, but not this weird. What the fuck are you doing in the closet?”

Closet? I snatch the first thing my fingers touch off the shelf—a bag of chips—thank fuck. “It’s not a closet, dummy. It’s a pantry, and I’m hungry. Jail does that to a man.”

He laughs, and I shove him out the door, keeping my new friend out of sight. As I step out of the pantry and reach to pull the door closed, I pause. My gaze finds hers again, and I hold it. Those brown orbs of hers glitter with curiosity. Fuck me.

I don’t have the heart to tell her she shouldn’t be interested in a guy like me. I should, because that’s the right thing to do, but I don’t. I’m sure she already knows all there is to know about me. Playboy. Trust fund brat. Misfit.

If she doesn’t, all she has to do is ask around. Hopefully, she doesn’t. Hopefully, she will forget about me and this entire conversation.

No. That’s not what I want. What I want is to stay and get to know her. Tell her how normal she is and that it’s everyone else who’s fucked up, but if I did that … I would be tarnishing my perfectly disreputable reputation.

So even if I want to stay, I’ll go. Lee Sterling doesn’t hide in pantries while the party rages on around him.

He is the party. The heart of it.

As I pull the door closed, I realize it’s her—she’s the fascinating one. She’s the mystery I think I might be compelled to solve before it’s all said and done.