“Yep,” I agree, and even though he couldn’t possibly know the truth, Milo grins like he enjoys it when I lie.
I jam my car keys into the lock and lean the driver’s seat down so I can put the computer on the floorboards. Milo bumps one hip against my car, staring down at me.
“You sure you know what you’ve gotten into?” he asks.
I throw a jacket on top of the bag. “I think I have a pretty good idea.”
“You working with your dad again? Is that what this is?”
I don’t answer. The only thing worse than working for your career criminal father is being blackmailed into working for a career cop. Let Milo think what he wants.
He searches my face, eyes lingering again on my mouth. “It’s a terrible thing to have power. No one knows how to use it.”
“You say that like you’re the one person who does.”
“Hell no. I think you could.”
I don’t know what to say. Milo being earnest is far more distracting than Milo being . . . Milo. “I’ll check the hardware tonight. Thanks again for the work.”
“I want to help.”
I don’t answer. I open my messenger bag, digging around for a folder that should be there and . . . isn’t. Crap. I left my project folder in Mrs. Lowe’s classroom.
“I want to help,” Milo repeats.
“Why?” Wrong thing to say. Not “I don’t need help.” Not “I work alone.” Why? Because I’m an idiot.
“How about because it’s the closest I’ll ever get to being a superhero?” he says. It’s a joke and yet it comes across as serious . . . interested.
“Um, yeah, I’m good. Thanks.” I peel away, heading for the school, and this time, he doesn’t follow. But just as I think I’m in the clear, he calls:
“Then how about because I can get you into Dr. Norcut’s computer files?”
17
“Yeah, I thought that would get your attention.” Milo’s tennis shoes scrape against the pavement as he approaches me. “That sniffer works brilliantly, if I do say so myself, which I do.”
“You were checking the sniffer I bought from you?”
“Well, technically, you didn’t buy it. Why do you care?” Milo’s trying for defiant, but there’s an undercurrent of worry beneath his words. He’s expecting me to pull a hissy and I’m pretty freaking close.
I take a breath, blow it between my teeth until there’s nothing left in me. “In what universe did you think I would be happy about you screwing with my job?”
“The same universe that has cops outside your house and you digging into a judge’s personal life. Who’s this job for anyway?”
I stare at him, waiting for him to realize I’m never going to tell.
“I can help get you into her files,” Milo says, the words pickup-line smooth. “I did all her networking. It was a few years ago when I was still freelancing. I left back doors in case I should ever need them.”
Something cold coils in my stomach. Keeps his fingers in everyone’s business, doesn’t he? I grab my phone, check the time. “I have to go.”
Milo deflates a little. I’m not sure what he expected from me? Squealing? A kiss? I don’t appreciate his interference.
Then again, if I play this right, Milo could be helpful. I try not to think about what that would make me though. Something similar to Carson, I suspect, and the thought leaves me a little sick.
“If you really want to help,” I say, “I want to know if anyone’s been hired lately to do work against Barton and Moore. Can you ask some of your contacts?”
“Sure. Why?”
“I want to confirm a hunch. I’ll keep your other offer in mind, Milo. Thanks.” I take off before he can respond, focusing on my project, on my homework, on anything except for how I can feel Milo’s gaze—heavy, hot—between my shoulder blades.
I slide back inside the school, hit the stairs two at a time, and by the time I reach the second floor, I’m repeating how I’ve got this, I’m okay . . . and maybe that’s why I don’t hear the voices.
By the time I do, it’s too late.
Matthew Bradford, Sutton Davis, and Eric Williams have pinned Ian to the floor outside the bathroom, Ian’s polo shirt rucked up to expose a fish-white belly.
“Leave him alone.” I sound pissed and I am, but I have to stab both feet into the tile to keep from running.
All four boys stare at me. Matthew breaks first, nudging Sutton with his elbow. “Should we take out the trash?”
Both of them smile.
Sutton and Matthew move toward me in slow motion as, behind them, Eric wrenches Ian to his feet, the white showing all around Ian’s eyes. Sutton and Matthew split, approaching me on either side.
“Don’t touch me,” I say, and Matthew cocks his head, eyes narrowed.