I shrug, moving past Miles’s intentionally coy and cryptic warning and on to my real mission. Closing my eyes just long enough to do what it takes to prove to a certain someone just who’s the real boss around here. Seeing the red Aston Martin banished to a faraway corner, as I punch the gas and quickly claim the newly vacated space.
Prompting Miles to gasp, turning to me when he says, “Wow. I think I forgot how much I like carpooling with you.” He shakes his head and laughs. “In fact, I actually really missed it. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m eager for the car to get out of the shop so I can get my freedom back and all that, but still, there’s nothing like the way you manipulate the traffic light patterns to go green when you need them to and red when you don’t, the way you convince all the other drivers to get out of your way and merge into another lane so you can take their place, and how you just take whatever parking space you set your sights on, whether it’s occupied or not. Like now, for instance.” He shakes his head and sighs. “I gotta tell ya, Ever, that sort of thing never really happens when I’m out on my own.”
But even though he meant it as a joke, something about it really shakes me. Everything he just mentioned, all of those tricky maneuvers, were taught to me by the stealth-driving master himself—Damen. And I can’t help but wonder where he stands in all this.
“Miles—” I pause, my voice sounding much smaller than I intended. Dropping my hands from the wheel and clasping them in my lap as I say, “Exactly where is Damen these days?” I turn, noting the concern that quickly clouds his gaze. “I mean, why is he allowing Haven to do this—to park here and whatever else she’s up to? Why isn’t he fighting back in some way?”
Miles looks away, taking a moment to compose himself, his words, before he faces me again. His hand on my arm, squeezing gently when he says, “Trust me, he is fighting back. In his own concerned-citizen, good karma kind of way. That’s sort of what I meant when I said you shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Not everything is as black and white as it first seems…”
I stare at him, waiting for more, but
he just clamps his lips shut and runs an imaginary zipper across them. And I can’t believe he’s going to leave it like that, leave me hanging like that.
“That’s it?” I look at him and shake my head. “That’s how you’re gonna leave it? All vague and noncommittal, and up to me to figure out on my own, without a heads-up?”
“That was your heads-up,” he says, clearly committed to leaving it there.
I sigh and close my eyes, but I don’t get upset, don’t read his mind, don’t press any further. He’s got my best interests at heart, convinced he’s trying to spare me from something. So I decide to let it go. Aware of something he’s not—that whatever it is, I can face it.
Nothing can break me anymore.
He flips down the mirrored visor and squints at his reflection, combing his fingers through his longish, glossy, brown hair—the cool new look I’m still getting used to—and checking his teeth, his nostrils, his profile (both sides), before deeming himself ready for the public and slapping the visor back up again.
“Are we ready?” I reach for my bag as I open my door, his nod prompting me to add, “But just so we’re clear, whose side are you on?”
He tosses his backpack onto his shoulder and shoots me a look. The glint in his gaze a perfect match for his smile when he says, “Mine. I’m on my side.”
Well, he certainly wasn’t kidding. Nor was he exaggerating. On the one hand, everything is totally and completely different—a radical shift has clearly taken place. While on the other, to the less observant among us (aka the teachers and administrators), everything appears exactly the same.
The “senior tables” are still populated by seniors—only now it’s the ones who were never allowed to even walk past, much less sit there before.
And instead of a bitchy, blond fashionista holding court—a bitchy, brunette fascist has taken her place.
A bitchy, brunette fascist whose gaze targets me the second Miles and I step past the gate.
Glancing away from her adoring group of fans just long enough to narrow her eyes and clench her jaw as she quickly takes us in. The look lasting for only a second before she’s turned back to them, but it’s still enough to give Miles pause.
“Great,” he mumbles, shaking his head. “It looks like I’ve just unofficially chosen sides.” He winces. “Or at least that’s what she clearly thinks.”
“No worries,” I whisper, gaze scanning the area, searching for Damen even though I try to pretend I’m merely refamiliarizing myself with the school grounds. “I promise I won’t—”
I see him.
Damen.
“—I promise I won’t let her—”
I swallow hard and drink him right in.
Lounging on a bench, long legs splayed out before him, resting back on his hands as he tilts his gorgeous face toward the sun…
“—I promise I won’t let her hurt—”
I struggle to finish, but it’s no use. I know the instant I see it that this is what Miles was so covertly trying to warn me about.
Not wanting to state it bluntly, correctly assuming I’d freak—pretty much just like I am—but not wanting me to just stumble upon it either and feel sucker-punched in the very worst way.
Miles did what he could—I’ll give him that. He did his best to spare me this brand of pain. But still, no matter how much he tried to prepare me, there’s just no denying a sight like this.