Glimpse: Book One of the Glimpse Quartet, page 6
Instead of taking it, I stalk past him to the exit, brushing his shoulder on my way out. Hitting into him is like ramming a brick wall. His feet don’t move an inch, but I wait for the safety of the hall to rub my shoulder.
“Wow, sparks were flying in there.” Gia has to jog to keep up with me.
“He’s an asshat.”
She elbows me in the ribs, wiggling her eyebrows. “I don’t know . You might have met your match.”
Shoulder tension plagues me the rest of the day, settling deep into my muscles by the time I get home. I should have known . Anyone born that handsome was bound to be arrogant.
“How was your day?” My mother’s voice startles me, too lucid to be real. But when I turn from tonight’s dinner on the stove, she looks alert—even if her messy hair and yoga parents tell me she didn’t have any interviews today.
“Fine.” I return my attention to the stove, exhaustion creeping in as my adrenaline fades. At this rate, I would skip dinner just to get some sleep.
“That bad, huh?” She runs her fingers through my hair, twining its length around her hand on the way down.
“Pretty much.” At least she can only see half my face, which is not enough to know how soothing her touch is after the last few weeks.
Her hands move to my shoulders, squeezing them gently and relieving a tiny portion of the tension there. “I know you’ve been busy lately. I hope you know how proud I am of you.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I cannot say anymore without risking the integrity of my voice. I know better than to think she has reached a turning point after staying sober for five minutes, but some foolish part of me hopes it will last.
The louder, less naive part knows she’ll have fallen apart by the time I get home tomorrow.
Chapter Seven
Liam
She doesn’t appear to know what I am—not consciously, anyway. Though I’m sure her senses go haywire every time I’m near her. A whole class period seated next to her was quite the risk to gain so little.
It’s those damned eyes I can’t decipher, the too-bright green that pierces through me, discovering things she shouldn’t be able to see.
Wet sand gives way beneath my feet as I run along the beach before dawn. How can she not know? Not all Fallen fraternize with humans, but those that do aren’t quiet about it.
Is that why she hates me? My comment at the club earned me two solid weeks of being ignored. She never so much as looked at me in class, let alone tried to speak to me. But my own ignorance might prove my undoing.
It would be no less dangerous to befriend her. One loop around town confirmed that there are no Fallen in Ash Wood, apart from myself. But it’s only a matter of time before the war front comes calling.
Demons, I can handle. But if angels start showing up to recruit her, I’m in for the chase of a decade.
I need more information, that much is clear. Whether she knows what I am or not, her presence here is dangerous. Using darkness as my ally, I pick up the pace. This early in the year, I doubt anyone else will venture to the beach, anyway.
All day I wait for my chance, but her ire is powerful; she ignores me in every class. I could ask her to lunch, but it would arouse too much suspicion after the Biology assignment.
“You okay? You seem more angsty than usual.” Bradley’s had to repeat himself more than once today with my attention so fixed on her. But his latest observation gives me an idea.
“I don’t think Blair likes me.”
He laughs, raising his brow. “I don’t think she likes anyone—except for Gia.”
Tell me more . I need to get information out of him without seeming too interested. “We had to work together yesterday. Pretty sure I pissed her off.” I turn my attention to my food, which is edible at best.
He shrugs, paging through his notes in preparation for the test he fears next hour. “She was shy when she moved here.”
At last, something useful. “She didn’t grow up here?”
“No,” he shakes his head. “They moved here after her dad died. California, I think.”
A deceased father doesn’t help me, unless that was a cover story. Perhaps her open hostility is a product of her upbringing. If I’m wrong, and she does know what she is, there’s a good chance she thinks herself superior. “Sounds rough.”
He grunts in place of an answer, setting his notes aside with a sigh. “I should just accept the C and move on.”
The rest of the day progresses slowly, torn as I am over whether I should simply confront her. But if she doesn’t know, that could prove catastrophic for both of us.
On the bright side, my fixation on this latest problem keeps me entertained during the monotony of yet another eight-hour block of shit I already know.
“I hope everyone did their reading last night.” Ms. Yates launches into her lecture, more chipper than usual as the day winds down to a merciful end. Her examination of Hamlet’s soliloquy is met with a handful of misreads from her students, but she soldiers on with a level of patience I admire.
Halfway through the class, she turns her attention to Ophelia.
“Let’s talk about this exchange a little more in depth.” She rolls her chair to the front of the room and sits, adjusting her glasses before turning her attention to the class. “Who can summarize the scene?”
“Hamlet tells Ophelia to get lost, and she freaks out,” Alex speaks up behind me. “No wonder the dude is crazy.”
Across the room, Blair raises her hand, her face pained the way it has been most of the hour.
“Blair.” Ms. Yates gestures for her to speak, a trace of fondness in her eyes. Her apparent favoritism is hard to ignore, but harder still to resent. Of all her students, Blair is by far the most insightful.
“I think it reflects the patriarchy of his time. His descent into madness is because he’s indecisive, not because of Ophelia.” Her deep love for the play is evident in her vigorous attempt to correct him. Has she read it before? While I have virtually no experience with high school, I’ve yet to notice anyone else reading Shakespeare in their free time.
“He’s cruel to her in this scene,” she continues. “And she doesn’t deserve it.”
The opportunity is too good. If I make her angry enough, she might even talk to me after class. And after yesterday, I doubt I can get on her good side, anyway.
“I don’t think that’s fair.” Her eyes snap to mine, filled with every bit of the disdain I expected. I lean forward and fold my arms on the desk, challenging her.
“What do you mean, Liam?” Ms. Yates asks.
I brace myself, knowing the stakes are high. If all I manage to do is annoy her, she’ll cause trouble for me as long as I stay here. But if I can get her to talk to me, I don’t have the faintest clue what I’ll say. “He’s overwhelmed,” I begin at last, my plan forming on the spot. “The burden of everything he knows is what’s driving him mad. That, and his quest for revenge.”
“And your point is?” The muscle on the left side of her jaw throbs.
“I don’t think ‘cruel’ is the right word here. Of course he’s short with her. Their relationship is her biggest concern. She has no idea what it’s like to live with that kind of responsibility.”
Her fists clench on her desk. Now I’ve done it . “So he has the right to call her a lying whore?”
“He doesn’t say anything that harsh.” I shake my head. She’s so quick to judge, but I can’t be sure which side of her parentage is responsible for it; angels are no more evolved than humans in that respect.
“I’m sorry, how would you translate ‘breeder of sinners?’” The incredulous look on her face does little to mask the rage beneath it. Beneath the weight of her stare, my plan falters. Trying to hit the right note here is walking the razor’s edge; too far and she’ll never come around.
“I’m only pointing out that Hamlet is not entirely in control of himself. Their relationship falls in lower order compared to everything he has going on.”
The rest of the class, including Ms. Yates, listens with rapt attention. I doubt they’ve seen a debate like this all year. From the look on Blair’s face, I’m losing. She’s far too stubborn to be vulnerable after this. And yet, I find her passion endearing.
“That’s no reason for him to treat her like crap. It’s not like she’s a stranger. And even if she was, his behavior is inappropriate at best.” As soon as the words are out, her eyes shift. It’s clear to anyone paying attention that she’s no longer talking about Hamlet.
My eyes narrow. “I think you’ve misunderstood me.”
“Not at all. You’re saying Hamlet has a full plate so now he can do whatever he wants—including treating people like sh—dirt,” she corrects herself mid-word, her eyes flashing to Ms. Yates who, let’s be honest, would have let her get away with it.
“It’s a moment of weakness.” I’m almost out of my desk, lost in the depths of her accusing stare. “Motivated by unfathomable grief.”
“And we all know how well that works out.” She mirrors my posture, straining away from her seat and resting her weight on her elbows. The rest of the classroom fades until there is only her, pinning me to my seat. One thing’s for certain: she isn’t lying about her father’s death.
The bell rings, shrill and unwelcome, breaking our trance. All around me, students reach for their belongings, their gossip already begun. My body remains rigid in my seat, eyes fixed on hers. What does she see?
“Good discussion today. We’re rolling right into section two tomorrow,” Ms. Yates announces over the clatter of scraping chairs.
“Come on, tiger.” Gia places a hand on Blair’s shoulder, nodding toward the door. The moment she looks down, I disappear; I won’t be getting anywhere close to her today.
I keep my distance in the parking lot, walking slow to avoid attention.
“Aren’t you cold?” Blair looks her friend up and down, quirking her brow at the jacket slung over Gia’s shoulder.
“Not after you and Liam turned English into a sauna.” She fans her face, braids thrown casually over one shoulder. How does no one else notice how stunning these two are? It’s so obvious to me know I can hardly stop counting the differences between the Nephilim and the humans.
“Oh, please.” The contempt in Blair’s voice is unmistakable. She still hates me, and all I’ve done is muddle her reasoning. I’d hate me too, after today, attacking her like I did. But it’s better than silence.
Gia laughs good naturedly, shoving Blair by the shoulder. “Don’t even pretend. The whole room could feel it. Muy caliente.” She fans her face, and I hate myself for smirking a little.
“He’s a jerk.” Blair shoves her hands in her pockets and stares at the asphalt, her dark locks falling over her shoulder and obscuring her face. “I wanted to put him in his place.”
“I’d like to put him in his place.”
“Gia.” Blair swats her arm, earning another laugh. Their comraderie is admirable—so much so that it sends a fleeting sense of jealousy racing through me. The last time I saw Jason, I was on my way to hide in the sewers of France.
“Come on, B. You’re telling me that didn’t get you all hot and bothered?”
She shakes her head vehemently. “Absolutely not. He’s got two strikes. Three, if you count the club.”
In hindsight, the club was a mistake. Perhaps I should have swung the other way—lured her in and sussed all of this out immediately. Now I don’t have a prayer of finding out what she knows, unless I’m willing to stalk her. It’s what Vaughn would do. Which means I can’t do it.
“What happens after strike three?” Gia raises her eyebrows suggestively.
“I punch him in the face.”
Gia giggles, searching for her keys while Blair waits impatient by the car. “And then you two share a passionate kiss.”
The thought is not unwelcome, disagreeable as she may be. An image forms unbidden in my mind, her obscenely beautiful hair wrapped around my fingers…
“Ew.” Blair leans overtop of the car, disgust plain on her face. “I wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole. He’s a misogynist.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes at her simplistic view of the world. An asshole, surely, but not a misogynist.
They slide into the car before I can hear any more, screeching out of the parking lot in under a minute. My shoulders sink when I drop into my car, shaking my head at the magnificent bastard staring back at me in the rearview mirror.
Chapter Eight
Blair
“Thanks, G. See you tomorrow,” I call back through her window on my way to the trailer, smiling. Though it was far from ideal for the whole class to hear my spat with Liam, it still tastes like victory.
The odds of another sober night with my mother are low, but I’m feeling lucky after returning his serve. After throwing together her favorite marinade, I shove the chicken in the fridge and get to work on the vegetables.
The kitchen is a mess, littered with garbage and sticky spots on the floor. With a comparatively light homework load, and after finally getting some sleep last night, I turn on some music and tame my hair into a ponytail, setting to work on the biggest trouble spots first.
My fingers ache the longer I scrub, but watching the kitchen transform fills me with a calm I haven’t felt in days, as if cleansing this space will clear up the clutter in my head. Is Liam still playing our conversation in his head hours after it happened? Somehow I doubt it.
With dinner ready and no sign of my mother, I try to dive back into Hamlet . But no more than a few pages in, my thoughts drift back to Liam. He’s had it out for me since day one. And while his frequent lunch trips with Alicia and Becca do not bode well, I can’t imagine his reasoning.
By nine o’ clock, I give up on waiting. With heavy limbs, I put together a plate and pack the leftovers in the fridge.
“Cheers.” I hold my water glass to the empty room. I have all but perfected her recipe, and the chicken is delicious—not that she will be home anytime soon to taste it.
After a short, quiet meal, I write a note about the leftovers and leave it on the table. Silence is my constant companion, oppressive and omnipresent as I clear dishes and pack up books before meandering to my room.
I should know better than to wait up for her. But it takes another hour and a half before my eyes surrender, waiting in vain for the telltale strip of light to appear beneath my door.
Chapter Nine
Blair
The Portland Art Museum is an hour and a half away from Ash Wood by car. In my eight years living here, I’ve seen the museum six times. But, due to a limited exhibit of Greek and Roman history, Mr. Trudeau managed to convince the school to give him the funds for a kickstart to our new unit. And I’m hard pressed to complain about a day off.
If Gia had decided on Ancient History instead of Government, the only two college courses offered on campus, this day would be perfect. But since I’m riding solo, I wait with my hood up in front of the school hoping to remain invisible long enough to avoid any conversation.
My classmates stand in small clusters, talking and laughing while I focus on keeping my ears from shattering in the cold. The first bell is long gone by the time Mr. Trudeau walks toward us with his clipboard. With long salt and pepper hair and a thick goatee, he looks like a perpetual grad student, especially with the faded backpack he has hanging off his back.
“Gather round, children,” he says in a put-on Scottish accent, waving us forward until we are one big glob in front of him. Across the mob, Liam stands with his hands in his pockets and a disinterested expression.
I had almost forgotten he joined this class, too, landing him in three out of six of my classes. Classic Liam, showing up out of nowhere to annoy the shit out of me.
“I’m splitting you up between Greece and Rome, but I still want you to see both exhibits. Be thinking about good paper topics, because that will be your first assignment.”
“What if we don’t like Greece or Rome?”
“When is the paper due?”
A chorus of complaints sounds from the crowd, but I hang back and keep my arms folded, waiting to see which group I end up in.
“Aw, what if I’m your teacher and you have to do what I say?” Mr. Trudeau answers with a faux frown. I tune out while he outlines his expectations—nearly identical to the speech I’ve endured every time I have left campus on a field trip. Behind him, the bus pulls up to the curb and gives out with an ominous wheeze.
“Hold on, guys. I have to assign pairs before you get on the bus.”
“Pairs?” My head snaps up at the word, which sounds more like a curse than a question from my mouth.
“Yes, Blair. This is a paired assignment.” He nods. “Alex, you’re with Christina.”
The crowd dwindles as each pair collects their assignment and steps onto the bus. Son of a bitch. Pairs means I’ll have to talk to one of these clowns for a whole day. Already I am biting my lip and staring to the heavens because I know—I know —who I’ll end up with before it happens.
“Blair and Liam.” He holds the paper out for one of us to take, but I hold my ground and glare at the grey eyes across from me. Liam keeps his face even, reaching for the paper and leading the way to the bus.
Mr. Trudeau takes the front seat for himself, leaving only one unoccupied seat. Liam slides in first, staring out the window as if I do not exist.
“Of all the places in the world, you had to pick Oregon.” At least he left me a good portion of the seat, given that he’s as close to the window as he can be without exiting through it.
“Trust me, I’m not thrilled about it, either.”
Uncomfortable silence stalks us all the way to Portland, shrouded by the chatter of our classmates and complimented by severe strain in my left thigh from the effort it takes to keep from touching him. I keep my arms folded and he keeps one hand on his knee, his fist balling up every so often.
