Connor ignores my question and leads me through clusters of people. He walks as if he knows exactly where he’s going, and he doesn’t seem to notice the many curious stares directed our way as we pass. I feel each one, though, like dozens of tiny pinpricks on my skin. I’m sure they’re wondering who I am, which is fine. I’m wondering who they are, too. Specifically, I’m wondering which one of them put my sister in the hospital.
Only after we slip into a quiet room that looks like a library (what’s with rich British people and their over-the-top collections of books?) does Connor finally speak.
“Sorry. Couldn’t think in that crowd.” He scratches the back of his head. “I, uh, wanted to apologize to you.”
“Again? For what?” What did he do now?
“For last night.”
“You already did,” I remind him.
“Right. I did. But an apology over text is hardly an apology at all.” He takes a step closer, and I can smell his intoxicating cologne. His body heat radiates toward me, and I want to lean in. Press my body against his. “In person is more … genuine.”
I blink hard to snap myself out of his spell, but it doesn’t seem to work.
“You don’t need to apologize again. I accepted it the first time.” I smile, though it wilts when he takes another step toward me.
“Funny thing is, my memories from last night are still a little fuzzy. But I do recall telling you that I felt a … connection between us.” He touches me. A barely-there graze of his fingers across the top of my hand, but I feel it everywhere, leaving tingles all over my body.
“Yes.” I nod. Clear my throat. “You may have mentioned that. But you also said—”
“That I don’t trust it.” He scratches the back of his head again, and I wonder if it’s a nervous tic. “Let’s just say I haven’t had many reasons to trust people lately. But I want to trust you. And I think, probably, the best way to figure out if I should …”
He crowds me against the wall, his body pressed against mine. Blocking me from escaping, not that I want to leave. The air between us crackles with tension, and he dips his head the slightest bit, aligning our mouths so we share breath. He leans in closer, pausing just shy of pressing his lips to mine. “Yes?”
“Yes.” My lips brush against his when I whisper my reply. I can feel his breath ghost across my skin right before his mouth meets mine. Once. Twice.
And then he’s kissing me.Reallykissing me. His lips are warm and smooth and undoubtably persuasive. One big hand curves around my cheek, holding me in place. I tip my head back and return the kiss, my lips parting, his tongue teasing. Circling mine over and over.
With a sigh, I give in, sliding my hands up the firm wall of his chest until I’m gripping his broad shoulders. His hands land on my waist, and his fingers press into my flesh, keeping me pinned against the wall. He shifts closer, our bodies pressed so tight a piece of paper couldn’t be slipped between us. I can feel him all over me, and I revel in it.
Want more of it.
Everything becomes a blur. His persuasive lips, the rhythmic slide of his tongue against mine. His fingers tease the hem of my sweater before slipping to the bare skin beneath. I gasp into his mouth, and he pulls away slightly. I open my eyes to find he’s watching me, concern in his gray gaze. I offer the tiniest nod.
The dimples appear briefly before he ducks his head, his mouth finding my neck. I tilt my head back to give him better access while I stare up at the ceiling. All of my thoughts and worries disappear the moment his mouth is on my skin, licking and nibbling, and I close my eyes, desperate to escape my life for even a few minutes and lose myself in this.
I hear voices in the corridor, but I ignore them, which is a bad move on my part, since the door cracks open mere seconds later, letting in a sliver of light.
Connor rears back, the panic on his face obvious. I decide not to think too hard about why he’d panic if we were caught making out and instead grab his hand to drag him down behindthe nearby couch. Whoever’s coming into the room won’t spot us unless they purposefully walk behind the furniture. I rest my finger against my lips, and he nods, both of us remaining silent when someone begins to speak.
“Why did you drag me into this musty old room, anyway? God, it smells like the library in here.”
Great. It’s Abigail. I’d recognize her bitchy tone anywhere.
“It smells like the library because there are a ton of books in here. Are you dense, Abby?” Priya’s snarky tone shocks me. She so very rarely talks back to her bulldog bestie.
“Are we in here so you can finally tell me what’s crawled up your ass? You’ve been a complete bitch since we arrived.” Abigail sounds totally put out. I’m sure she’s not used to Priya flipping her attitude.
“I’m sick of how mean you are when you use the generic Ativan. You turn into an asshole and treat me like shit when you’re on it. It’s exhausting,” Priya huffs.
Connor and I share a look, though he doesn’t appear too surprised by this revelation. Iknewthey were on something when they were studying in our room that one night. This is the confirmation I needed, not that I know how it helps me at all when it comes to Isla and Emily. Priya seems too uptight for drugs, so I guess what this information actually reveals is that my stuck-up, academically obsessed roommate isn’t exactly the good girl she seems to be. I’ve been operating under a number of assumptions about Priya, but has that kept me from seeing how she might be involved with what happened to the girls? Emily was Priya’s roommate. Was Priya dealing to her? Could Emily’s death be drug-related?
“Fine. I’ll get the good stuff next time.” Abigail sniffs.“You usually don’t complain.”
“It’s been long enough that I can tell the difference.” Priya’s tone is sulky.
“If that’s what you want, I’ll get it next time. But don’t come crying to me when there’s not enough Ritalin to get us through term.” There’s a pause in conversation, and Abigail’s tone switches to a more supplicating, almost whiny tone. “Come on, P. Don’t be mad at me.”
