Thursday is an oddly warm day—almost as hot as it would be in Los Angeles. All day people complain about the heat, while I wallow, like a cat, searching out the sun at every break. I love the heat, though it's more humid here in Oregon than back home.
The problem is, sitting in the sun, smelling hot cement, it all reminds me of that time. That life. An ache hums in my gut, demanding pills. It makes me twitch.
Then in fourth period art, while I try to draw how my body feels because I can't find the right words to describe the sensation of wanting to flee my own skin, Aiden, surrounded by three smug girls, makes a show of complaining about how hot it is. One of the girls tells him he's lucky he can take off his shirt. Then she touches his chest.
I roll my eyes as he leans forward, slowly putting his arm up to grasp the back collar of his shirt and pulling it over his head. But when it's off and he's grinning at the girls, I swallow hard.
Aiden's got the wiry, defined build of a track athlete—just enough muscle to make his shoulders broad. His stomach is a washboard. His tattoos—a mix of flying creatures and flowers that look darkly beautiful, twisting into tribal designs—crawl up his right arm and shoulder. But it's the tattoo on his chest that drops my mouth open.
Across his pecs the wings of stunning angel arc—far enough under his collarbones to be hidden by a shirt, but large enough to frame his torso. The stunning figure aims a sword at his throat, while its body stretches gracefully below, toes pointing to his navel. There's a number of twisting symbols covering his right shoulder and a cuff around his bicep.
He's a work of art—made of marble, carved by a master.
I've never seen a high school guy with so much ink. And in such great taste--all black and white, but so detailed. He has clearly been painted by a master. Do his parents own a parlor?
"Aiden, put that shirt back on," Ms. Guerin snaps. I want to plead with her to make an exception.
When the bell rings, I heave a sigh of relief and shove my stuff in my bag. I can feel Aiden's eyes on me like a touch. I don't want his attention. It only makes my cravings worse knowing he could probably offer some relief.
I'm never doing drugs again. I want nothing to do with that guy.
Except I do. So I mess around with my bag under the desk until he wanders out, two girls on his heels.
Ms. Guerin smiles at me when I get to my feet. Ignoring her, I weave through the students wandering in.
In the hall ahead of me Aiden saunters, one hand in his pocket, the other loose at his side. Even from a distance, it's easy to see everyone loves him, or hates him. Some passing girls light up, reach out, smile with a promise in their eyes. Others duck their heads and give him a wide berth.
Most guys of the Future Ivy League variety glare. But the ones in torn jeans or heavy coats tip their chins or bump fists as they pass.
I find, to my own frustration, that I enjoy being cast in his shade. I'm fascinated. I want to get closer—which is the opposite of where I need to be.
Forcing myself to turn down a corridor that will take me the long way to my next class, I shake my head. Clearly sobriety doesn't agree with me. Aiden isn't a curiosity. He's dangerous.
I weave between people headed in the opposite direction, breathing deep and slow to relax my body. I'm still mentally pep-talking myself a couple minutes later, when I turn a corner and, impossibly, Aiden's leaned against a bank of lockers, a sly grin on his face.
I pull up short, look over my shoulder. "How did you—"
He winks. "I can't give up all my secrets. Yet."
I gape at him, heart thumping. Then I plow on.
It doesn't matter this means nothing I am strong I don't need him or what he's got it's all fine—
The crowds open as Aiden falls in step with me, watching me, a lazy smile on his face. My tension ratchets up a notch.
"So, California," he says half a hallway later. "What brings you to the lovely town of La Vista?"
"Herpes."
Aiden barks a laugh. "Nice."
I keep walking, scanning the numbers above the doors we pass. The warning bell is about the ring. The hallways are slowly emptying, the space between bodies expanding, less noise to think over.
At the next intersection of halls, Aiden plucks my sleeve, tips his head to the right.
"No, I'm on my way to—"
"You've got Creative Writing next. It's down here," he says.
Uneasiness raises the little hairs on the back of my neck. I stop, yank my sleeve out of his hand. "How did you know that?"
Aiden stopped when I did, one eyebrow hoisted. But he grins at me the way I grinned the first time Amy told me she was big enough to walk without holding my hand.
I want to slap the smirk off his face.
"I asked the office for your schedule."
"Stalker much?"
"Not really." He shrugs. "Most girls don't have the balls to slap me." He leans closer, eyes piercing. The air around him thickens until I can't breathe right. The buzzing in my ears eases when I step back.
"What are you doing?!" Shaking, I step away.
"Hey, don't run. You need to meet my friends. They're going to love you. And trust me, I don't say that every day."
And then I say the words that change my life. As a joke. Because I'm trying to be cool.
"What, you think I'm a Shade?" I sneer, hoping the ridiculous rumors would shake him.
His step falters.
"What?" I ask, following his gaze as he looks over his shoulder like he's afraid someone might have heard.
"Somebody's a gossip," he murmurs, so low I shouldn't have been able to hear him in the busy hallway. But I can.
"And you're a stalker. Leave me alone."
"Kate—" His voice is softer, but I ignore it, turn on my heel and stalk down the hall. He doesn't take the hint, of course. The number above the door coming up on our left says 69. I'm looking for 71, so it's probably next.
"Kate, please. Just wait a second."
"I swear if you touch me I will castrate you." My skin crawls, the cravings making my forearms itch.
"But—"
I whirl on him. He comes up short, that smug smile gone, replaced with concern in his ice-blue eyes. It's so unexpected I lose my thought. He takes advantage of the silence.
"I get it, okay?" he says softly, looking up and down the near-empty hallway.
I frown. "Clearly you don't get anything. I told you to leave me alone."
"But I can help," he says calmly. The air's buzzing again.
"Help with what, Aiden? I don't even know you!" Can't think straight.
"It's hard to explain," he says. "Can I just . . ." he points at my arm which I'm scratching frantically, the sensation of skittering on my skin increasing with every rushed breath.
"Can you what?"
"Can I touch your arm?"
"Why?"
He runs a hand through his hair and scans the hallway. "I was an addict too. The cravings?" He points at my arm again, that eyebrow up. "I can help. Can I just show you something?"
I'm so stunned I don't protest when he gently takes my arm in his black-polished fingers and pushes up my sleeve.
"What . . . " The words die in my throat. As soon as his skin touches mine a gorgeous, soothing warmth inches under my skin, muscle, into my veins and spreads. The itching is gone immediately, and the tension that's made my muscles rigid eases. "What . . . what are you doing?"
Aiden lays his palm over my forearm. "My friends and I figured out how to soothe the cravings," he says simply. Then his eyes jump up to meet mine. "I could tell you were suffering."
The sensation spreading through my limbs and into my chest is like the floating ease of the pills I used to take. I bite my lip because it's everything I've wanted, needed for days now. A deep sigh shudders out of me and I have to resist the urge to let my head drop back. This can't be good. I mean, how—shit.
I yank my arm out of his grip and stumble back. "Are you shooting me up?"
Lines appear in his forehead. "Of course not. I'm trying to help you."
Overhead the warning bell shrills. I startle. Around us people still in the hallway speed up, their shoes squeaking on the linoleum.
*****
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