cuddling close, but she straightened her spine and said, “I will,’” and marched to the door.
Two hard, fast chills swept over her. Michael, telling her a firm no.
“Bite me,’” she said, shot the brand-new locks that Shane had installed, and exited into the warm Texas morning sun.
English class was boring, and she’d already read through everything in the curriculum, so Claire spent her time writing out her thoughts in the back of her journal. A lot of them centered on Shane, and Shane’s lips, and Shane’s hands. And curses on the fact that she wasn’t eighteen yet, and that it was a stupid rule anyway.
She was still thinking about the injustice of all that after class, when she ran into trouble.
Literally.
Claire turned the corner, head down, and collided with a tall, firm body that instantly grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her, hard, backward. Claire nearly lost her balance, but skidded to a shaky and upright halt, bracing herself against the wall. “Hey!’” she yelled, more in shock than anger, and then her brain caught up with her eyes and she thought, Oh, crap.
It was Monica.
Monica Morrell looked polished and perfect, from her shining straight hair to her flawless makeup to the cute, trendy sheer top over baby doll T she was wearing. No backpack for Monica. She had a designer bag, and she looked Claire up and down, glossed lips twisting in disdain. Of course, she wasn’t alone. Monica never went anywhere without an entourage, and today it was her usual wing girls, Jennifer and Gina, as well as a hovering flock of hard-bodied boys, most of them athletes of some kind or other.
Everybody was taller than Claire.
“Watch it, freak!’” Monica said, and glared at her. And then started to smile. It didn’t lessen the menace in her pretty eyes. “Oh, it’s you. You ought to watch where you’re going.’” She half turned to her little gaggle of followers. “Poor Claire. She’s got a syndrome or something. Falls down stairs, hits her head, nearly burns down her house…’” She focused back on Claire as Jennifer and Gina giggled. “Isn’t that right? Didn’t your house burn?’”
“Little bit,’” Claire said. She was shaking, deep down, but she knew that if she backed down, she risked a lot worse. “But I heard it’s not the first time that’s happened when you stop by for a visit.’”
Monica’s clique made a low ooooooooooh sound, a no-she-didn’t murmur evenly split between appreciation and anticipation. Monica’s eyes turned cold. -Er.
“Don’t even go there, freak. Not my fault you live with a bunch of losers and jerks. Probably that Goth whore lighting candles all over the place. She’s a walking fire hazard, not to mention a fashion disaster.’”
Claire bit the inside of her lip and swallowed her reply, which would have had to do with who the real whore was in the conversation. She just raised her own eyebrows—well aware they weren’t plucked, or perfect, or anything—and smiled like she knew something Monica didn’t.
“She’s not the only one. Isn’t that top from Wal-Mart? The Trailer Park collection?’” She turned around to go as Monica’s friends ooooohed again, this time with an edge of laughter.
Monica grabbed her by the backpack, yanking her off-balance. “Tell Shane I said hi,’” she said, her breath hot against Claire’s ear. “Tell him I don’t care who’s put out the truce flag—I’m going to get him, and you, and he’s going to be sorry he ever screwed with me.’”
Claire pulled herself free from Monica’s highly polished manicured grip and said, “He wouldn’t screw you if you were the last girl on earth and it was survival of the species.’”
She thought that Monica was going to scratch her eyes out with those perfectly manicured talons, and backed off fast. Monica, strangely, let her go. She was even smiling, a little, but it was a weird kind of smile, and it made Claire’s stomach lurch when she looked back.
“Bye now,’” Monica said. “Freak.’”
Chem class was already under way when Claire breathlessly slid into an empty seat and unpacked her notebook and text. She kept an eye out for Monica, Gina, Jennifer, or any random chemicals being flung her way—it had happened before—but she didn’t run into Monica there, or on her way to her next class, or the next. By midafternoon she was aching from the tension, but her heart rate was pretty normal, and she’d gotten back into the groove of listening for comprehension. Not that she wasn’t way ahead in the classes—she had a habit of reading the whole book at the beginning of the semester—but it was always nice when professors dropped some tidbit that wasn’t in the book or the published notes. Even the classes she didn’t much like seemed relatively interesting. History had a quiz, which she finished in five minutes and handed in, then escaped with a silent thumbs-up from the professor.
It was late afternoon when she exited into the quadrangle outside of the science building; the crowds of students had thinned, since a lot of people tried to finish classes early and get on with the all-important party schedule. Texas Prairie University wasn’t exactly Harvard on the Plains; most of the students were here to plow through two years of required courses, then transfer out to a legitimate university. So it was “Party till you puke,’” mostly.
It was funny as she looked around now, knowing what she knew about Morganville. She’d never realized what an insulated little world college was; she’d be willing to bet that ninety percent of the kids attending had no idea what the real score was in town, or ever would. TPU was like a wildlife park, and the students were the wildlife.
And sometimes, the herd got culled.
Claire shivered, looked around for any signs of lurking Monicas, and took off for home. It wasn’t a long walk, but it took her over the nicely tended (though sun-seared) grounds and out into Morganville proper’s “business district’”—which really wasn’t. It was a sideshow for the students, all coffee shops (she wondered what poor fool Oliver had gotten to fill Eve’s empty barista apron) and bookstores and trendy clothing emporiums. Buildings sported school colors—green and white—and usually had STUDENT DISCOUNT signs fading in the windows.
There was a weedy-looking guy in black standing at the corner, watching her with burning dark eyes. He looked familiar, but she couldn’t think why…somebody from class, maybe? Scary, anyway. She wondered why he was staring at her. There were other girls on the street. Prettier ones.
Claire walked faster. When she looked back, he wasn’t there anymore. Was that better, or way creepier?
Walking even faster seemed like a great idea suddenly.
As Claire passed Common Grounds, the coffee shop, she glanced inside and saw someone she thought she recognized…but what the hell would Shane’s dad be doing here? In the middle of the day? He didn’t exactly blend in with the college crowd, and every cop in town was shaking the trees for him, right?
But there he was. Granted, she’d gotten only a quick look, but how many Frank Collins look-alikes could there be in Morganville?
I should get the hell out of here, she thought, but then she wondered. If she could find out what he was doing, maybe that would help Michael and Shane with planning what to do next. Besides, it was the middle of the day, broad daylight, and it wasn’t like Mr. Collins didn’t know where to find her if he wanted—he knew where she lived, after all.
So Claire opened the door and slipped inside, hiding behind a couple of big jocks with bulky laptop-laden backpacks who were having some earnest conversation about whether baseball stats were legitimate during the steroid years, or had to be thrown out. Yes, that was Shane’s dad, and he was sitting in the corner of the coffee bar, sipping from a cup. Plain as day.
What the hell…?
She caught her breath as Oliver slipped into the seat opposite him. Oliver was a lanky guy, tall and a bit stooped, with long curling hair that was sprinkled and shot through with gray. Not very threatening, Oliver, until you saw the fangs and the real personality lurking underneath what he put on for the public. Oliver was terrifying, and she had no desire at all to get into any position where she’d have to deal with him again.
Claire turned to go, and ran into a broad chest clad in a soft gray T-shirt. She looked up, and saw a guy she didn’t recognize—a little older than Shane, maybe, but not much. He had soft, short red hair, and he was fair- skinned and freckled. Big blue eyes, the kind of blue that made her think of clear skies or deep oceans. He was just…pretty. And kind of peaceful.
Big and solid, and wearing—of all things, in this Texas late-summer heat wave—an old, worn brown leather jacket. No backpack, but he looked like a student.
He smiled down at her. She expected him to step out of the way, but he didn’t; instead, he reached down,
