The Misfit (Oakmount Elite #5)

6. Lee

SIX

lee

Fuck. I’m both angry and disappointed in myself. Did I come on too strong? There’s no denying I triggered her. I could see the anxiety building with every word I spoke.

I should’ve eased into it. Dammit. Salem’s gloves mock me from the passenger seat of my Jeep, pristine in their Ziploc prison.

I’ve been sitting in Drew’s parking garage for twenty minutes, drumming my fingers against the steering wheel and trying to convince myself that following her isn’t insane. The lights flicker overhead, drawing my attention to everything at once—the echo of someone’s footsteps three rows over and the way my phone keeps lighting up with texts I’m ignoring. My mind races between possibilities faster than I can grab any single thought.

Follow her.

Don’t follow her.

Make sure she’s okay.

Give her space.

Go to her house.

(That’s definitely stalking, Sterling.)

But she needs her gloves.

And I need …

“Fuck,” I mutter, hitting my head against the headrest.

The memory of her face, the broken, despairing expression that reflected back at me, mixed with a dash of panic. Is she afraid of me? Afraid of getting too close?

Obviously, you idiot. You looked at her mental health records.

Then there’s Chen. He’s a problem in itself. Something that needs to be fixed, removed . I’ll deal with him, with all of them in due time.

My phone buzzes for the millionth time.

Drew: You good?

Drew: Should I be worried about the weird guy sitting in my parking garage?

Drew: Security called.

I snort and type back my response.

Me: Just plotting my next scandal. You know how it goes.

His reply is almost instant.

Drew: I know what you’re thinking, and I’m telling you now. Don’t do it. Leave her alone. She’s been through enough. Being your next conquest is not on her bingo card.

My fingers hover over the screen. I want to tell him the truth, that I’m not trying to add her to my list of conquests. For once in my life, I’m trying to be a good fucking human. But what’s the fucking point? Would any of them believe me anyway?

Probably not.

I don’t bother replying and instead start the Jeep. Decision made. The engine’s rumble grounds me, giving me something to focus on besides the chaos running laps in my mind.

If I were her, where would I go?

She changes her gloves often, and if I have her extras, which I’m assuming I do, then she’ll need more. Right? My money’s on the drugstore. Not the one near campus—too many students, too much exposure. Probably the twenty-four-hour one on Maple; the night pharmacist doesn’t give a shit who you are or wonder why you’re buying latex gloves at midnight. I bet that’s where she went. I slam my foot on the gas and drive out of the parking garage, squealing my tires. Minutes later, I’m parked outside the drug store, watching, waiting. There’s no Salem in sight, and I have to wonder if I guessed wrong. Then I spot him—a tall kid in a letterman jacket exiting the store.

He looks vaguely familiar, and a light bulb goes off in my head.

What was his name from her files? Noah? Yes, her brother. She was tagged in some pictures with him on social media, but he looked younger. I hadn’t ventured over to his socials yet.

As he walks down the street, I can barely see the outline of glove boxes and hand sanitizer in his bags. He didn’t drive? It takes me a second to remember he and Salem share a car. At least that seemed to be the case from the insurance records I pulled.

My foot bounces against the floorboard, mind racing with possibilities. I could go after him and introduce myself properly. Could explain about the gloves. Could?—

My phone lights up again.

Bel: Stop stalking her.

Bel: I mean it, Lee.

Me: I’m not stalking. I’m … strategically placing myself in her vicinity.

Bel: That’s literally the definition of stalking.

I ignore the next three texts, watching Noah walk down the street with his bags. He moves with the same careful precision as his sister, but something in his stance is protective like he’s ready to fight the whole world for her.

Join the club, kid.

Wait.

Where the fuck did that thought come from?

Focus, Sterling. Just follow the brother, return the gloves, and try not to scare her away more than you already have.

Noah leads me to a quiet neighborhood off Mountain View Drive. It’s a nice, safe area. All Craftsman-style homes with well-manicured lawns. Nothing like the fancy estates my family owns. These homes are the kind of places where people actually live instead of just existing for show. I park three houses down and watch him jog up the short porch steps of a sage-green two-story with white trim. The porch light flickers on, and there she is—Salem, silhouetted in the doorway with her arms wrapped around herself.

My grip on the steering wheel tightens. This is fucking creepy. I’m being fucking creepy.

Noah passes her the bag, and they enter the house together. I should just— A light turns on in an upstairs window, and I catch a glimpse of her pacing.

One, two, three steps.

Turn. Repeat. My ADHD brain latches onto the pattern, finding comfort in its predictability. I wonder if that’s how she feels when she counts things?

“What the fuck are you doing?” I mutter to myself, running a hand through my hair.

The gesture reminds me of the way she flinched when I almost touched her face, and suddenly, I’m drowning in memories of Promised Land, of people trying to touch me, fix me, change me, and make me into something I’m not.

My phone buzzes again. This time, it’s Emma.

Emma: Mother’s making calls.

Emma: Country club daughters.

Emma: Church girls.

Emma: You might want to figure something out fast.

I should message her back and tell her I’m already working on it, but I don’t. If I have any hope of fixing this with Salem, then I need to focus on the present.

She needs me. I need her.

We’re both just trying to survive in worlds that want to fix us.

If she’d agree, I know we could protect each other.

“Now you just sound like a Lifetime movie,” I speak to my empty Jeep.

But I’m already reaching for the Ziploc bag of gloves.

I’m halfway up her driveway when I realize how batshit crazy this is. It’s almost midnight. Like I need to end up in jail again. Jesus. I’m stalking—no, strategically approaching —a girl who literally ran away from me an hour ago when I shared a prospective idea that could benefit us both.

And my brilliant plan is what? “Hey, just swinging by to drop off your gloves. Also, please agree to fake date me so my family doesn’t disown me?”

Yup. Smooth. Real smooth.

I catch movement out of the corner of my eye and spot Salem at her window again. This time, she’s pressing her forehead against the glass. The streetlight catches her face just right, highlighting the exhaustion in her expression. The way her gloved hands press flat against the windowpane.

One, two, three times.

My attention fractures between a dozen details at once: the wind chimes tinkling on her porch, the way her dark hair falls across her face, and the welcome mat realigned exactly parallel with the doorframe.

Everything about this house screams careful control, except …

The basketball hoop hanging over the garage, crooked and well-used. The pair of muddy cleats kicked off by the steps. The overgrown garden that’s seen better days. It’s perfect and imperfect all at once. Just like her.

“You lost?”

I jolt and spin to find the voice, tearing my gaze away from Salem. Noah stands at the side of the house, a trash bag in his hand and an expression that clearly says he’s deciding whether to kick my ass or call the cops.

“I, uh …” I hold up the Ziploc bag like a peace offering. “She left these at the party.”

His eyes narrow with suspicion. “Lee Sterling, right?”

“My reputation precedes me?”

“Your reputation is exactly why you should get back in your Jeep and leave.”

Fair enough . I’d feel the same way if some fuck boy showed up on our doorstep trying to talk to my sister. Especially after everything Salem’s been through. He has every right to be wary. Good thing I know my intentions are pure, mostly . Noah doesn’t know that, though. His protective stance reminds me of all the times Emma stuck up for me, shielding me from our parents’ help.

“I’m not here to cause trouble.” I smirk. “I know, given my reputation, that seems odd, but I promise. I just wanted to make sure she was okay and return these.” I lift the Ziploc bag of gloves. “I know she needs them.”

Noah studies me for a long moment. “And you care, why?”

Because she’s my last hope, and I’m obsessively fascinated with her.

Probably not the best thing to say, so of course my brain conjures up the next terrible response.

“She gets me.” Nope. Too honest. “I mean—fuck, I don’t know what I mean.”

Noah’s stance shifts, curiosity warring with suspicion. I shift and risk catching another glimpse of Salem. She’s pacing again. One, two, three steps. Three is her number.

“Do you really expect me to believe that? That she gets you?” Noah snorts and rolls his eyes. He thinks I’m crazy, and he’s not wrong. I have to wonder if I’m losing my mind as well. “Even saying it out loud makes me cringe. The filthy rich playboy and my OCD sister. It sounds like a really bad joke.”

“I know how it appears, but you would be surprised by the things people hide behind.” I try to keep the bitterness out of my voice, but from Noah’s slight frown, I don’t quite manage it. “That doesn’t matter because maybe …” I’m distracted by movement inside.

Salem has disappeared from the window, and I check the other windows, waiting for a light to flick on in another part of the house. A moment later, it does downstairs. Shit. What if she comes out here looking for her brother and finds me?

“Maybe what?” Noah prompts, his tone different. Less hostile, more assessing.

My attention snaps back to him, but my thoughts scatter like marbles. “Maybe we’re both tired of being what everyone expects us to be. Her, the girl who needs fixing. Me, the … whatever the fuck people think or expect me to be.”

“The guy who got arrested last week for making out with some dude in a bar?”

I bark out a laugh. How does he know? “First, that wasn’t my fault. I don’t know why everyone thinks it was. And why the hell is that the only thing anyone is talking about? I’m so much more than that.”

“Salem mentioned it.” He shrugs, then adds, “Right before she said she met you in a dark pantry and that you were nice to her.”

Warmth blooms in my chest. She talked about me and thought I was nice . I can’t remember the last time someone complimented me in a way that wasn’t sexual or weird.

Focus.

“This is not what you think it is. I’m not …” I run a hand through my hair, struggling to organize my thoughts. “I’m not trying to hurt her. Or use her. I just?—”

“Followed her home in the middle of the night to return her gloves?” He finishes my sentence, and I suppose when he puts it like that …

“Well, technically, I followed you home in the middle of the night, but yeah, okay, this definitely sounds creepy as fuck.”

A hint of a smile tugs at his mouth. “At least you’re self-aware.”

The porch light behind him turns on. Shit.

“Noah?” Salem’s voice carries from the doorway, tight with anxiety. “Who are you talking to?”

I freeze, caught between the instinct to bolt and the sudden, overwhelming need to remain standing here so I can see her face.

“You …” She steps onto the porch but then stops, her gaze ping-ponging between me, the driveway, and her brother. I watch as she clenches her hands at her sides, the nitrile squeaking. “What are you doing here?”

What am I doing here?

How do I tell her I need her help, that I need her as much as she needs me, without sounding desperate? That I’m so interested in her.

“You counted as people moved around the couch earlier. It was soft, but I heard it.”

Her soft eyes fill with surprise. Noah looks back and forth between us like he’s watching a tennis match.

“I count things, too,” I continue, the words spilling out faster than I can filter them. “Not the same way you do, but … panels on the walls at home, seconds between traffic lights, and heartbeats when I’m trying not to lose my shit at family dinners. It helps sometimes. Quiets the noise in my head.”

“Oh, Lee.” Her voice is drenched in heartache.

No, that’s not what I need. She doesn’t realize it yet, but we have a lot more in common than she thinks, and just like her, I don’t want anyone’s pity.

“I brought your gloves.” I hold up the bag. “I saw how your hands trembled in the elevator, and I assumed you needed clean ones to drive.” I shake my head, thinking maybe sanity will return to my brain.

Good luck getting her to agree to be your fake girlfriend now.

“This is all coming out wrong …”

She takes another step forward. Then walks one, two, three steps down. She hovers over that last step. “You followed me home?”

“Technically, I followed your brother to the drugstore, then followed him home.”

“That’s not any better,” Noah mutters, amusement lacing his words.

Salem wraps her arms around herself, her gaze drifting away before coming back. She hasn’t run away yet. Hasn’t called the cops. Hasn’t looked at me like I’m crazy.

That’s something, right?

“Can we …?” I glance at Noah, then back at Salem. “Talk? Just for a minute?”

Salem shifts her weight, and I notice how one foot slides back toward the door. Retreat position. That’s expected, but I’m patient and can be very persuasive. The only issue is I don’t have a lot of time. I need Salem to agree to be my fake girlfriend ASAP to escape my mother’s meddling. My heart kicks against my ribs, and I feel the pinch of anxiety.

“It’s late,” she whispers. “And I need to change my gloves, and count the kitchen tiles, and probably have a panic attack about you knowing where I live.”

The honesty in her voice and the way she just puts it out there without shame hits like a punch to the gut. When was the last time I was that real with anyone? Everything I do is measured to ensure the least embarrassment so I don’t make a dumb decision or say something out of line.

“I have ADHD,” I blurt out. “And probably a bunch of other mental health problems my family pretends don’t exist. Sometimes I can’t sit still or shut up or stop myself from doing stupid things like following pretty girls home because they look at me and see beneath the variety of masks I wear to cover up the realness that’s beneath.”

Noah makes a choking sound. Salem’s lips part as if she has something to say.

“And sometimes,” I continue because apparently my filter is completely fucked, and what does it matter at this point, “I hide in pantries because everything gets too loud, and bright, and then I meet someone who understands me without explanation. Someone who is wearing latex gloves and counting her breaths, and well, she’s terrified of being different, yet she has no idea how special she is.”

Her expression softens, and I know she not only sees it but she also understands.

“You’re crazy,” she whispers, but it doesn’t sound like an accusation.

“Probably,” I agree. Most definitely. I don’t think she would take well to discovering just how crazy about her, about all of this, I am. “Want to be crazy together?”

Noah groans. “Oh my god.”

But Salem … Salem damn near smiles.

“Coffee,” I say suddenly like it’s the answer to everything. “Tomorrow? Let me explain myself properly without your brother plotting my murder in the background or any expectations.”

“I’m not plotting,” Noah protests. “Just considering it a potential option.”

Salem fidgets with her gloves, and I hold up the clean ones.

“Why don’t we meet at the coffee shop on Oak Street? They have individually sealed creamers, and those paper sleeve things for the cups.”

I know that coffee shop is her favorite. She’s checked in there on social media more times than anywhere else. Salem bites her lip, and I force myself to remain standing there, to let her process what I’ve said. One, two, three seconds of silence.

“Why?” she finally asks. It’s a simple question but one I don’t have an appropriate answer to. Because you might be my salvation. She has no idea how insane I can be, and she won’t have to find out so long as she agrees.

I push the thought away and take a careful step forward, close enough to hand her the gloves but not enough to spook her. “Give me the chance to explain myself and my idea. I’m not asking you to agree tonight.”

She takes the Ziploc bag, her fingers careful not to brush mine. “I don’t know.” I want to banish the wavering apprehension in her voice.

“Please? Just hear me out. Meet me for coffee. Nothing more. Tomorrow? At ten?”

Pausing, she chews on her bottom lip as if weighing her options. This is a big step for her, and I understand her fear, even if I don’t like it.

“Please?” I add for safe measure.

She sighs, no doubt her anxiety prickling. “Fine. Let’s meet at ten.”

“This is either really sweet or really serial killer-ish,” Noah comments.

“Totes not a serial killer.” I smile and wink.

“That’s to be determined.” Noah smirks back.

“I can’t promise you an answer,” she adds.

I back away, hands raised in surrender. “I don’t need an answer, Pantry Girl. I just need you to hear me out.”

As I walk back to my Jeep, all I can do is hope she agrees to help me and allows me to help her in return. It doesn’t matter that I could find another girl with little effort. None of them are Salem, and I won’t settle for anyone else.

Not when I’ve had my eye on her since the pantry, unable to help myself. I have to figure out what makes her so damn fascinating.

I slide behind the wheel, watching in my rearview mirror as she disappears inside, Noah following her protectively. My phone buzzes. It’s probably another text from Emma with more warnings about Mother’s matchmaking attempts. Or Drew telling me I’m an idiot. Or Bel threatening bodily harm if I hurt her friend.

None of the messages matter.

All my attention and thoughts are on tomorrow morning at ten.

Fourteen hours and twenty-seven minutes.

All I have to do is convince Salem Masters that fake dating the campus disaster is exactly what she needs.