I grab a comment card off the plexi stand on the front desk and scrawl Carter’s phone number on it. “You’ll text me if you see someone like that,” I say, shoving the card at Erik. Though if Devon does show and tells him to keep quiet—with a wink and a smile, of course—Erik won’t have a choice.
But I don’t think that’ll happen. I’m off somehow. Missing something.Shit.
Erik nods rapidly. “Yes. Absolutely. Of course.”
I back away from the desk, keeping my gaze on Erik until I reach the door. More to make my point than from fear of some type of retribution.
“He’s scared of you,” Carter says as soon as we’re outside, making no attempt to hide the condemnation in his voice. “What did you do to him?”
“He should be,” I mutter, ignoring the second question. I need to rethink my approach on finding Devon.Where are you?
“That kid is obviously ill, Jocasta,” Carter continues. “Paranoid or suffering from some form of anxiety. And you used that against him.” He pauses, disapproval hanging thick in the momentary silence. “That’s not who I thought you were.”
Stung, I stop.Oh to be fully human and so blithely confident in how the world works from a sheer lack of knowledge.
I spin to face Carter. “Your buddy back there? He was renting rooms to high school students who wanted to party.”
That gives him pause, but after a second he shrugs tightly. “It’s normal at that age to rebel against authority by drinking and experimenting sexually—”
“I took adolescent psych, too,” I snap. “Tell me what part of that involves Erik selling that information to guys in town and on campus who like their ‘dates’ too young and too vulnerable.”
Fury flashes across Carter’s face, transforming him briefly into someone almost unrecognizable. All angles, cold eyes, and hardness. But then that familiar, carefully blank expression returns. “I see.” But his fists are clenched at his sides.
“Yeah.” I point at him. “Exactly. Chessa volunteers at Beecher High School, some kind of mentoring program. One of her mentees told her about it. After… after.” I swallow hard againstthe lump of outrage and despair in my throat. “Thesemenwould wait in the parking lot and offer these fifteen-year-old girls a ride home.”
In my mind, I can still see Chessa pacing back and forth in our room on her phone, pleading with her mentee. “Names, descriptions, anything. Or if you don’t want to tell me, then we can go directly to the police. I’ll be with you the whole time.”
Her voice was steady while she was talking with the girl, but when she looked at me, her eyes huge and tear-filled, magnified behind her glasses, my heart ached on her behalf. And on behalf of those girls who just wanted to have a good time and instead got a lesson on how the world treats the vulnerable.
I pull open the passenger door and climb in, careful of my ankle this time. Carter gets in on the other side, moving stiffly as if his anger has settled into his joints.
“The girls wouldn’t report it,” I say, yanking my seat belt into place.
“Because they were drinking,” Carter says grimly, starting the car. “They were afraid they’d get in trouble. Or that no one would believe them.”
I tap my nose. “Got it in one. So I went to the source and shut it down. By whatever means necessary.” And maybe I lost my grip a little. That’s why I try very hard to stay out of anything magic related. It’s too unpredictable.I’mtoo unpredictable.
“I’m sorry,” Carter says after a moment. He turns toward me in his seat. “I should have known…” He shakes his head with a grimace. “Idoknow you better than that.”
He shouldn’t apologize; I did exactly what he accused me of. Worse, even, because he has no idea what I’m capable of. Because he doesn’t really know me. And he never can.
The realization all over again throbs like a fresh wound. The pain in my chest feels like mourning a lost relationship rather than simply the potential of one. Chessa’s right. I need to stop doing this to myself.
Carter’s gaze catches on mine, and he reaches out to take my hand where it rests, balled in a fist, on my leg. “Hey. I’m serious. I’m sorry.” He’s picking up on my sadness, even if he doesn’t understand the real reason for it.
His fingers interlace with mine and squeeze gently. His palm is warm and rough against mine, and my breath catches.
As always, that spark between us heats with little effort.Why, why is it like this? And only with him?
Biting my lower lip, I reach out and smooth his rumpled hair with my other hand. The strands are soft and thick against my fingertips, and his eyes half close in pleasure.
Then his focus drops to my mouth, and he releases my hand to touch my chin lightly, tugging my lower lip free from my teeth. “Don’t.” His voice is raspy and low. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
I wanthimto hurt me, in that fine line between pleasure and pain. To take me and overwhelm me and hold nothing back. I want to be wrapped up in him and lose myself. I grasp the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer to me. An inch away, his breath caresses my mouth and Iwant. To devour him, to be devoured in return. “Can we just—”
His lips brush over mine, soft but not tentative. More teasing, elusive. A taste rather than a full-on feast.
Yes.The bones in my spine melt, leaving me sagging forward in pleasure and relief. His tongue dips into my mouth, caressing the teardrop of my upper lip, sending heat in lightning strokes between my legs. But he retreats before I can respond.
