“The Committee has ways of working things out.”
Does he mean that the Committee was responsible for his dad’s transfer, or that they were responsible for his being in Atlantic Beach?
“That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say? You tell me that you saw me last summer, that you searched until you found me, and I’m supposed to just nod and—” And what? I don’t even know what to say.
“Don’t ask. Not right now.” His voice is low, almost a whisper. “Just let me . . .” He leans in, the wonderful scent of him—citrus shaving cream and warm male skin—luring me closer. I freeze, every cell in my body straining toward him. My lips part. My pulse hammers. I want him to kiss me. I want Jackson Tate to put his strong arms around me and hold me close and put his lips on mine.
He strokes my hair back from my cheek. “Miki . . .”
His eyes fix on me, his pupils dark and dilated, surrounded by swirling silver irises. But something’s holding him back. Something is etching regret in his features and making him pull away.
Something he almost told me, and then didn’t.
“Jackson,” I whisper, not even knowing what I mean to say.
The moment is lost. Maybe I broke it when I spoke his name, or maybe it was gone before that.
He tucks the empty container in my bag, zips it up, and leans away. Then he settles his sunglasses down on the bridge of his nose, hiding his eyes once more. “Bell’s gonna go in a second. We’d better head back.”
“I can carry my bag,” I say as he takes it from me and stands.
“I know.” But he makes no move to let me do exactly that.
I clamber down the bleachers after him, and then double my speed to keep up with him as he strides across the field. Easy’s gone. Normal’s gone. He seems tense and distant, the way he is on a mission, not the way he was sitting beside me on the top level of the bleachers under the midday sun.
“You have a personality disorder,” I mutter as we reach the back doors.
He turns, his expression serious, and says, “You. Just being here with you. I need you to know that.”
I stare up at him, lost.
“You asked me what I like. I’m answering your question,” he clarifies, and the smile he offers is truly savage, dark and edgy and full of promise. “You, Miki. I like you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I STARE UP AT HIM, MY BREATH COMING TOO FAST, MY thoughts spinning like a tornado.
I think I like you, Miki Jones. Jackson said that to me before, when we were in the underground tunnels. But he didn’t mean it the same way he means it now. When he said it then, I laughed and said it back to him because it was light, casual, almost a joke, an exchange between two people who were running high on the rush of adrenaline and the giddy relief of having survived a Drau attack—at least, I was giddily relieved; hard to tell with Jackson.
This time is different. This time he means the words in a completely different way.
I want to take his hand and drag him off somewhere at least semiprivate so I can—
What? Say it back? Ask him to clarify exactly what he means?
I should just grab on to his words and hug them close and let them make me glow from the inside out. But it’s hard to bury the part of myself that wants to pepper him with a thousand questions because I need to control even this.
The decision’s taken from me when Carly storms over, erupting like a volcano. “You ditched me!”
I stare at her, completely lost.
“You ditched me”—she points at Jackson—“for him! I was supposed to study with Luka, but because I told you I’d meet you in the caf, I went to find you. And waited. And waited!”
“No.” I shake my head. “I was at the bleachers. I sent you a text.”
“That’s a lie!”
I shoot a glance at Jackson. He has his arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable. As I look back at Carly, I realize we have an audience. Dee’s there, and Kelley. Emily. Maylene. Luka and his friends Dequain and Aaron from the track team, and Aaron’s girlfriend, Shareese. A few other people wandering past stop to watch.
There’s nothing like a girl fight to grab an audience.
“I did text you.” I struggle to keep my tone even. I want to take her arm and lead her away from the growing crowd, but it’ll only make things worse if she refuses to budge. Jackson still has my backpack slung over his shoulder. I cross to him and tug at it, but he doesn’t let go. With a sigh, I give up that fight, fish out my phone, and turn it to show Carly the text. As I do, I realize I never hit Send. “Oh no. I never sent it!” I show her the message, still there on the phone. “Carly, it was an accident. I meant to send it. I got distracted. You’re right to be angry. I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t need you to tell me I have a right to be angry. And I know all about your distraction,” she says, completely ignoring my apology. If anything, she seems even more pissed than she was a minute ago. “I can’t believe you! You’re dropping all your friends for a guy?”
Could she have shouted that any louder? My cheeks burn with embarrassment and anger. “I’m not dropping anyone.” I clench my fists at my sides, frustrated beyond belief.
“Hey, Carly,” Jackson says, stepping in front of me. Carly and I were nose to nose, so him putting himself between us means we both have to take a step back. I want to hit him for pushing himself where he has no business being. I want to hug him for stepping in before I say something I will surely regret.
Does he mean that the Committee was responsible for his dad’s transfer, or that they were responsible for his being in Atlantic Beach?
“That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say? You tell me that you saw me last summer, that you searched until you found me, and I’m supposed to just nod and—” And what? I don’t even know what to say.
“Don’t ask. Not right now.” His voice is low, almost a whisper. “Just let me . . .” He leans in, the wonderful scent of him—citrus shaving cream and warm male skin—luring me closer. I freeze, every cell in my body straining toward him. My lips part. My pulse hammers. I want him to kiss me. I want Jackson Tate to put his strong arms around me and hold me close and put his lips on mine.
He strokes my hair back from my cheek. “Miki . . .”
His eyes fix on me, his pupils dark and dilated, surrounded by swirling silver irises. But something’s holding him back. Something is etching regret in his features and making him pull away.
Something he almost told me, and then didn’t.
“Jackson,” I whisper, not even knowing what I mean to say.
The moment is lost. Maybe I broke it when I spoke his name, or maybe it was gone before that.
He tucks the empty container in my bag, zips it up, and leans away. Then he settles his sunglasses down on the bridge of his nose, hiding his eyes once more. “Bell’s gonna go in a second. We’d better head back.”
“I can carry my bag,” I say as he takes it from me and stands.
“I know.” But he makes no move to let me do exactly that.
I clamber down the bleachers after him, and then double my speed to keep up with him as he strides across the field. Easy’s gone. Normal’s gone. He seems tense and distant, the way he is on a mission, not the way he was sitting beside me on the top level of the bleachers under the midday sun.
“You have a personality disorder,” I mutter as we reach the back doors.
He turns, his expression serious, and says, “You. Just being here with you. I need you to know that.”
I stare up at him, lost.
“You asked me what I like. I’m answering your question,” he clarifies, and the smile he offers is truly savage, dark and edgy and full of promise. “You, Miki. I like you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I STARE UP AT HIM, MY BREATH COMING TOO FAST, MY thoughts spinning like a tornado.
I think I like you, Miki Jones. Jackson said that to me before, when we were in the underground tunnels. But he didn’t mean it the same way he means it now. When he said it then, I laughed and said it back to him because it was light, casual, almost a joke, an exchange between two people who were running high on the rush of adrenaline and the giddy relief of having survived a Drau attack—at least, I was giddily relieved; hard to tell with Jackson.
This time is different. This time he means the words in a completely different way.
I want to take his hand and drag him off somewhere at least semiprivate so I can—
What? Say it back? Ask him to clarify exactly what he means?
I should just grab on to his words and hug them close and let them make me glow from the inside out. But it’s hard to bury the part of myself that wants to pepper him with a thousand questions because I need to control even this.
The decision’s taken from me when Carly storms over, erupting like a volcano. “You ditched me!”
I stare at her, completely lost.
“You ditched me”—she points at Jackson—“for him! I was supposed to study with Luka, but because I told you I’d meet you in the caf, I went to find you. And waited. And waited!”
“No.” I shake my head. “I was at the bleachers. I sent you a text.”
“That’s a lie!”
I shoot a glance at Jackson. He has his arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable. As I look back at Carly, I realize we have an audience. Dee’s there, and Kelley. Emily. Maylene. Luka and his friends Dequain and Aaron from the track team, and Aaron’s girlfriend, Shareese. A few other people wandering past stop to watch.
There’s nothing like a girl fight to grab an audience.
“I did text you.” I struggle to keep my tone even. I want to take her arm and lead her away from the growing crowd, but it’ll only make things worse if she refuses to budge. Jackson still has my backpack slung over his shoulder. I cross to him and tug at it, but he doesn’t let go. With a sigh, I give up that fight, fish out my phone, and turn it to show Carly the text. As I do, I realize I never hit Send. “Oh no. I never sent it!” I show her the message, still there on the phone. “Carly, it was an accident. I meant to send it. I got distracted. You’re right to be angry. I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t need you to tell me I have a right to be angry. And I know all about your distraction,” she says, completely ignoring my apology. If anything, she seems even more pissed than she was a minute ago. “I can’t believe you! You’re dropping all your friends for a guy?”
Could she have shouted that any louder? My cheeks burn with embarrassment and anger. “I’m not dropping anyone.” I clench my fists at my sides, frustrated beyond belief.
“Hey, Carly,” Jackson says, stepping in front of me. Carly and I were nose to nose, so him putting himself between us means we both have to take a step back. I want to hit him for pushing himself where he has no business being. I want to hug him for stepping in before I say something I will surely regret.
