Hexed

“You don’t have to come in,” I say.

 

Actually, it would be perfect if she didn’t. Hanging out with Paige at a party? Social suicide. Not to mention the fact that Bianca would kill me. Like, actual death would happen.

 

“So what you’re asking,” Paige says carefully, “is would I mind waiting in the car while you check up on your boyfriend?”

 

Yes!

 

“No! Of course not. You’re totally welcome to come in. And I’m not checking up on him.”

 

“Whatever.” Paige absently swipes her bangs from in front of her glasses. “We’ve already done this street.”

 

I look around and see that she’s right.

 

We’ve pretty much covered every drivable inch of the Fairfax district, and now we’re going over the same ground. I signal right and pull the car over onto the side of the road. “So what now? Where would a guy like him hang out?”

 

“What about bars? We could try Johnny’s or the Griffin.”

 

“Good, but it’s not like we can get in.”

 

“So what? We can hang around outside and wait for him to come out.”

 

“I guess, but what—”

 

Fingers tap on the window. Paige and I let out bloodcurdling screams.

 

“Need some help?” The guy—Leather Jacket Guy—bends in front of the driver’s-side window, a smirk playing on his lips.

 

“Lock the doors!” Paige yells.

 

I scramble to locate the button in the dark. And the whole time I’m panicking, dude’s just giving me the same infuriating smile.

 

“Drive, Ind! Get the hell out of here!” Paige shakes my arm.

 

But wasn’t I just looking for him? It seemed like such a great plan until only a quarter-inch of glass separated me from a potential psycho.

 

“What are you doing? Step on the gas before this weirdo busts out a gun or something.” Panic cracks Paige’s normally steady tone.

 

I guess now’s as good a time as any to roll the window down.

 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Paige clambers over me to try to halt my hand.

 

“It’s him, Paige,” I say, trying my best to keep anxiety from showing in my voice.

 

“Oh, I like the way you say that,” the guy says. “Makes me sound all mysterious.”

 

Paige obviously hasn’t heard me. “Are you on drugs or something? Get this window up, now!”

 

I push her back into the seat with alarming force. She cowers against the door.

 

“Sorry, it’s just you weren’t listening. I said it’s the guy”—I gesture to him—“the guy from the shop.”

 

Paige swallows. “Oh. Okay. Uh …”

 

I feel the same way. Now that I’ve found him—or did he find me?—I have no clue what to do next.

 

“Is there a problem?” he asks, playing innocent.

 

Hundreds of questions trip over each other to get out of me.

 

“Okay,” the guy says. “I’ll guess, then. Flat tire? Out of gas? Feminine issues? It’s feminine issues, isn’t it?”

 

Ugh. This guy is seriously disturbed. “Why are you following me? And my mom—how’d you know? Did you have something to do with it?”

 

“Do you think I had something to do with it?” He braces his hands on the roof of the car, and a slice of bare stomach shows from under his T-shirt’s hem. And great—he’s caught me looking, and now his stupid grin couldn’t be any wider.

 

I avert my eyes from his midsection and consider his question. “No,” I say finally, recalling the help he gave me.

 

He laughs. “And they say cheerleaders are brain-dead.”

 

I choose to ignore his jab. “Tell me how you knew, then, if you weren’t there.”

 

“I didn’t say I wasn’t there.” He rocks back on his heels, and a breeze flutters the edge of his T-shirt.

 

Don’t. Look. At his stomach. “Would you stop playing games?” I yell. And it’s decided: yelling at him feels pretty good. “What do you know about the book?”

 

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a cheerleader go so crazy over a book before.”

 

Not “What book?” And suddenly I know without a shadow of a doubt that he knows about the Bible. I clench my jaw, nostrils flaring. “You listen to me. I’m going to get that book back. Whatever it takes.”

 

“Maybe we should just calls the cops,” Paige says.

 

Like he’s going to stick around long enough for them to arrest him. And for what? I have no proof of anything. It’s my word against his.

 

I unlock the door.

 

“Indie. What are you—”

 

I step outside and slam the door behind me. “Look.” I take a page out of Bianca’s playbook and poke him in the chest. “I’m not going to ask—”

 

And holy crap, I forgot how tall he is. This plan seems much less sound now that I’m face to sternum with a giant. What did I think, that I was going to beat the truth out of him? Perform a citizen’s arrest?

 

“You were saying?” His dark eyebrows pull up as though with concern, but his deep-set eyes flash with amusement.

 

I swallow.