Chapter Six #2
the terrifying, plaguing suspicion that she intends to get behind
the wheel and the girl can barely walk straight right
now.
It takes me an
interminable moment to spot it, parked against the back fence, just
about as far from the school building as she could possibly have
parked. And it pisses me off further. Has the girl learned
fucking nothing?
Getting behind the wheel when she can barely keep her eyes open,
and parking so far away when she knows she'll be leaving school
late after our tutoring session. Even if she knows I'll walk her to
her car, it's still an unnecessary risk, and she should fucking
know better.
I jog to her jeep in
record time, ignoring curious looks. The only relief I have is the
absence of her brake lights, telling me that at least she's not
pulling out. But she doesn't appear to be retrieving anything from
it either. In fact, she doesn't appear to be outside her car at
all.
I peer through the back
window, but can't see if she's in the driver's seat, she keeps the
headrest too high and she's too small. I make my way around to the
driver's side and feel a simultaneous surge of anger and relief.
Because her small frame is slumped in the seat, her head laid back
and mouth slightly open in sleep. I don't doubt that she had every
intention of driving out of this parking lot, but I thank God that
she didn't even get to start the engine before she closed her eyes
and passed the fuck out.
I take a deep breath,
exhaling my frustration with the whole situation. I run hand after
hand through my hair, before I decide what I need to do.
Rory needs a fucking nap.
And I'm going to make sure she gets it. And not in a goddamn
car.
I pull the handle, further
conflicted over my relief that she didn't lock it, and my anger
that she didn't fucking lock it.
She doesn't even flinch at the sound.
She looks like an angel
when she sleeps. Her thick fans of lashes hide the soft gray
circles of exhaustion that I know lie just under her tired eyes.
The faint flush of sleep stains her pale cheeks, which still have
the slightest spattering of sun freckles from Miami—physical proof
that our time as something more than friends was real.
A thick curtain of her
long, auburn hair has fallen over half her face, and it blows
faintly with each puff of air exhaled from her perfect pink lips.
She's so beautiful it takes my breath away like some fucking
cliché. I shake my head, silently chastening myself. I didn't come
here to stare at her while she sleeps. Well… not in her fucking
car, anyway.
I slide one arm around her
back, and the other under her knees, and gently pull her to me. She
startles in her sleep, and I watch her brows pinch together in
confusion and perhaps a smidge of fear. I'm almost positive she
relaxes before I even whisper my affirmations of her safety, of
comfort. I let myself believe what I'm almost sure I saw--that it
was her deep inhale, the recognition of the familiar scent of my
aftershave that comforted her.
"It's just me, baby girl,"
I whisper to her soothingly, calling her what I usually only call
her in my head now. "I've got you. We're going to take a
nap."
I'm not expecting a
response, and her faint murmured "m’kay", practically melts my
heart into a puddle right there inside my goddamn chest.
I carry her around the
front of her jeep, squeezing us through the small space between it
and the fence to avoid as many eyes as possible since the next
lunch period just began and the lot is filled with
classmates.
I prop my foot on the side
bumper and shift Rory's weight to my knee so I can get the
passenger door open, then carefully place her on the seat and reach
over and buckle her seat belt.
She murmurs something I
can't make out, so I whisper more assurances and press a soft kiss
to her forehead. I'm about to shut her door when I hear her breathe
my name. I'm sure of it. But she says nothing more, and I give it
another couple of seconds to make sure she's still asleep before I
head back around to the driver's seat. I slide my phone from my
pocket, text Tuck that Rory wasn't feeling well and I was driving
her home, and for him to tell Carl. I'll get Tuck to pick me up
after school to get my car back later.
I drive to Rory's house in
silence, just listening to the sound of her deep, even, peaceful
breathing. It is music to my fucking ears.
I park her jeep in the
driveway, pocket her keys, and make my way around to carry her
inside. There's another small startle when I slide my arms under
her, but she relaxes into me immediately, and whimpers softly in
her sleep.
I lift her effortlessly,
she really is a slight little thing—not short for a girl, but not
tall either, and naturally slim. Though her recent lack of appetite
has cost her weight she couldn't afford to lose.
Rory's arms come up and
clasp around my neck, taking me by surprise.
"Sam," I hear her murmur
again.
"That's right, baby, it's
me." I sigh, both in the pleasure of having her in my arms, and the
resignation that I know it isn't real. "I've got you, Pine," I
assure her.
She's either talking and
moving in her sleep, or exhausted to the point of delirium.
Probably a little of both, and I'm pissed again that she almost
tried to drive herself home like this.
As if she can sense my
tension even in her current state, she burrows her face into the
side of my neck to soothe me. And it works, of course—the tension
instantly drains out of me, but resurges lower, in one particular
area that can't help but be affected by the sensation of her lips
against my skin.
"That's not helpful right
now, baby girl," I whisper to her as I reposition her weight to
grab her keys from my pocket.
She hums against my neck,
the vibrations flowing through my entire body, only making it
harder for me. Figuratively, and literally.
Her house key is the only
other key on the chain, and I open it expeditiously, and carry her
upstairs to her bedroom. I know her mother will be home late today.
Rory mentioned it would be after dinner, and I want her to sleep as
long as she possibly can. She needs it. And I'll stay here all
fucking day if I have to.
I yank open her comforter
and lay her down on the sheet, slipping off her sneakers and
setting them next to the bed. She's in black leggings and a gray
tee shirt today, so she should be comfortable. She started wearing
leggings or sweatpants every Tuesday and Thursday so she wouldn't
have to change for phys-ed, and the recollection elicits a surge of
renewed resentment toward Chelsea, whom I'm supposed to have
forgiven.
Though it's only the
reason she wears them that I resent. Because I'll be honest, I'm
definitely not complaining about those tight stretchy pants. I want
to send a fucking thank-you note to whoever it was that invented
them.
Rory rolls to her side and
burrows into her pillow before she settles into stillness. I fight
to force my eyes away from the perfectly outlined curve of her
ass.
I watch her for a few
minutes, wondering what I should do now. I don't want her
nightmares to return, not today. I know if I hold her there's a
better shot of keeping them away, but she's not mine, and that's
not my right anymore. If she were awake I would ask her permission.
I would fucking beg if I had to. But she's not, so I don't know
what to do.
The thought of just
climbing into bed with her is tempting as hell. But it would be
beyond presumptuous at best, and probably a violation for any girl.
But for a girl with Rory's history? It could be disastrous. So
instead, I drag her desk chair to the foot of her bed, sit down,
kick my feet up onto the mattress, and watch her sleep. I tell
myself I'm not a creepy stalker. And I hope to hell I'm not lying
to myself.
The buzz of my cell phone
has never sounded louder. I jump up out of my chair, fumbling for
the damn thing before it can wake Rory. I'm about to decline the
call, but I check the caller ID first just in case. The 212 number
is one I've recognized since I was little.
I accept the call before
it can buzz again, and slip out of Rory's room, keeping the door
ajar so the click of the jam doesn't wake her.
"Hello?" I answer, though
I know who's on the other end.
"Sammy." My father's voice
rings loud and clear over the line. "I figured you'd be in school.
I was just going to leave a message for you to call me when you got
out."
"Well I'm here, so what do
you need to tell me?" God I hope he gets to the fucking
point.
"Why aren't you in class?"
he asks. He hasn't given two shits what I've done for the past five
years straight, so why he thinks he has a right to question me now,
I can't fucking imagine. But I still need him to help Rory, so I
don't call him out on it.
"It's my lunch hour," I
lie, not that he would have known what time I took lunch even
before he left us.
"Can you talk now? I mean
with privacy? Or-"
"Yes, Mitch. I'm alone,
just talk," I urge.
I hear my father's deep
exhale, and nerves creep up my spine, intimating that I'm going to
like this conversation even less than I thought.
"How well do you know this
Aurora girl?" he asks.
"Rory," I correct him for
no goddamn reason at all.
"How much do you know
about her?" he presses.
"Everything," I
practically growl through my clenched jaw.
"Look, I spoke to a couple
of people down in her hometown. I should get the files I asked for
by the end of the week, so I don't have anything solid, just
talk—"
"What kind of fucking
talk?" I'm already fuming. I know what he's going to say. But I
need to hear him say it. And then I need to tell him to go fuck
himself. I can feel myself getting heated, so I pull the door shut
and lean back against it, knowing now that the click of the lock
won't be louder than this conversation.
"Calm down,
Sammy—"
"Don't fucking call
me Sammy. I'm not