Ghost Town

“The two of us.”

“Yeah, the two of us, and whoever’s left who’s not bug-eyed crazy.” He kissed the back of her neck, very gently. “It’s going to be okay. Sleep.”

And she did, warm in his embrace, and dreamed of silver rain.

THIRTEEN

Claire woke with the sun in her eyes, again, and for a precious, sweet second she just savored the warmth of it on her body, and the fact that Shane was still curled up against her back, one heavy arm around her waist. Then, regretfully, she turned over to face him. “Hey,” she said. “Wake up, sleepyhead; we overslept.”

Shane mumbled something and tried to put a pillow over his head. She pulled it off. “Come on; get up; we’ve got things to do!”

“Go ’way, Lyss,” he moaned, and opened his eyes, blinked, and finally focused on her.

And then he completely, totally freaked out.

He actually flailed around, got caught in the covers, and, when he tried to get free, fell out of bed onto the floor. Claire laughed and leaned over the side, looking down at him. “Hey, are you . . . okay . . . ?”

The words died in her mouth, because he was still freaking. He writhed around in the covers, grabbed a blanket, and wrapped it around his body as he climbed to his bare feet, backing away from the bed.

And her.

He held out the hand that wasn’t holding up the blanket, palm out. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, think, Collins, think—yeah, okay, this is awkward, and I’m really sorry, because I’m sure you’re really—Oh, man. What the hell did I do? Was there drinking? There must have been drinking.”

“Shane?” Claire still had a sheet, and now she pulled it over herself, suddenly cold and feeling very exposed. “Shane—”

He was still backing away, looking panicked and deeply uncomfortable. “So, we’ve obviously been formally introduced at some point in my insane drinking binge. Uh, hi. Look, you’ve got to keep it down, okay? My parents will kill me if—” He stopped and looked around the room. “Oh, shit. This is not my room, is it? This is yours. As in, I never went home, all night. My dad is going to—” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Pants. I need pants. Where are my pants?”

Claire felt like her heart was breaking. Really, truly shattering into sharp, jagged, bloody pieces. She wanted to scream, and cry, and most of all, she wanted this not to be happening. She couldn’t bring herself to say anything, and he ignored her totally to look around. He found his pants and T-shirt, and awkwardly put on his pants under the cover of the blanket before dropping it. Before he got his shirt on, he turned back to look at her, and it hurt, it hurt so badly to have him see her like that and not know her at all.

Her utter, horrified misery must have shown in her face, because his expression softened a little bit. He took a couple of steps toward the bed and said, “Um, look—I know. . . . I’m sorry; I’m probably a complete douche bag for doing this to you, and I promise, this isn’t . . . I don’t really get drunk off my ass and hook up like this, and you seem . . . you don’t seem like the type. I mean, you’re pretty; I don’t mean you’re not—I’m sorry; I suck at this. But I have to get home, right now.” He pulled his shirt on and looked for shoes, which he slipped on without socks or even bending over to tie them. “Look, I’ll call you, okay? Uh . . . your name is . . .”

“Claire,” she whispered, and tears broke free and started streaming down her face. “My name is Claire. This is my fault.”

“Hey, don’t do that, don’t—I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. You seem”—he bent over and awkwardly kissed her, and it felt like he was a stranger—“nice. I promise I’ll talk to you later. We’ll figure this out. Oh, Jesus, did I have a . . . Did we take precautions or . . .” He shook his head. “Not now. I can’t think about this right now. I have to go. Later.”

“Wait!” she wailed, as he opened her bedroom door and ran out down the hall. “Shane, wait!” He didn’t. She grabbed up her jeans and shirt from the floor, threw them on, stepped into her shoes, and ran after him. “Shane, please don’t—”

He was standing in the living room, staring around, and when she came clattering breathlessly down the steps, he turned to look at her again. This time he didn’t seem as confused. But he didn’t seem to be back to himself, either. “This is Michael’s house,” he said. “What are we doing here?”

“Shane—Shane, please listen to me; we live here! With Michael! And Eve!”

“Keep your voice down!” He made frantic shushing motions at her, and lowered his voice even more. “Okay, you seemed nice, and now you seem a little bit whacked. We don’t live here. Maybe you live here—maybe you’re some cousin or something; I don’t know—but I live with my parents and my sister. Not here.”

“No! No, your parents—” Oh, God. What was she going to say? What could she say? Her mind went completely blank. He waited, then held up both hands and backed away.

“Whatever, crazy chick who maybe lives here and maybe also breaks into Michael’s house when they’re all gone. I’m out. Have a nice delusion.”

She couldn’t let him go; she just couldn’t. As he walked down the hall, she ran after him. “Shane, don’t. Don’t go home. You can’t!”

He didn’t even argue with her at that point; he just opened the front door and walked out into the morning sun. She hesitated in the doorway, wondering if she should go back and get her backpack, get something, call someone, but he was walking fast, and she had no idea where the old Collins house had once been. He’d never once told her, or pointed it out to her.

She locked the door and started following him.

Shane never looked back; maybe he knew she was there and was determined to ignore her—she wasn’t sure. She kept a good distance between them, careful not to look too creepy and stalkery, but it couldn’t be helped. If she let him out of sight . . .

He turned the corner up ahead, and when she hurried to catch up, she saw him sprinting, putting a lot of distance between them, fast. No, no, no! If she lost him now, she might never find him again. It was too terrifying, not only for her, but for him. He just didn’t know it yet.

She was passing an alley, sure he was still up ahead, when Shane grabbed her and slammed her hard up against the side of a building. She hadn’t realized in a long time just how big Shane was, or how strong. Or how he usually didn’t show it, unless he wanted to. Like now. There was a fire in his eyes, and an angry, stubborn set to his jaw. Shane in fighting mode.

He pinned her in place for a long moment, as if he were trying to decide what to do.

“Enough,” he said then, and let go. “Look, I don’t want to hurt you, but you need to stop following me. It’s creepy and weird. Walk away, or next time I’m not going to be so nice about it.”

“You wouldn’t hurt me,” Claire said. “I know you wouldn’t.”

“Yeah, well, don’t count on it. I don’t like hitting girls, but it doesn’t mean I won’t hit back if you start the fight. Ask Monica.” He frowned then, and she saw real anger in his eyes. “Monica. Did she set this up? What was it, some kind of roofie thing; she took pictures? She’s going to Facebook the hell out of it? Blackmail me?”

“No. I don’t have anything to do with Monica.”

“Bullshit,” Shane said bluntly. “Stop following me. I mean it. And quit crying; it’s not going to work.”

He walked out into the sunlight and kept going. She didn’t know what to do. She knew he meant it; she was acting weird and crazy and dangerous, and in Morganville, nobody could afford to ignore that. So he’d probably do something if she followed him. Maybe even get her arrested.

She didn’t care, but there had to be some other way. Something. She couldn’t just let him go.

A woman passed by on the street, looking confused and checking the addresses of buildings. Probably trying