Dangerous Boy (10 page)

“This stupid parking lot is cursed,” I mutter. “Birds and now bloody handprints?”

Bick and I walk slowly up to his old Toyota pickup, staring at the crimson print on the window. Bick bends down, digging through his backpack. “Maybe I have a rag or something….”

I stop a foot shy of the door. The shade of red is familiar, somehow….

I lean forward, until my face is inches from the glass, and take in a deep breath.

And then I stand up abruptly. “It’s paint.”

“How do you know?”

“It smells just like the stuff I used this morning, on the Halloween Masquerade posters. It’s acrylic. Smells kinda like plastic.”

I turn to the students staring at the little Corolla parked next to Bick. “It’s just paint,” I call out, and then turn back to look at Bick’s truck again.

“But you know it was supposed to look like blood,” Bick says, furrowing his brow.

“I know,” I say, my throat dry. What the hell is going on in this town lately?

“What’s the point?” Bick asks, shaking his head. “What exactly is the payoff here?”

I stare at the red palm on his window, at the red paint dripping down, onto the blue pickup door. “I have no idea.”

“Let’s go check your car,” Bick says, leading me across the parking lot.

I follow him, the gravel crunching underneath my sneakers. Around me, students climb into their cars, driving away with the crimson handprints on their windows, like some kind of disturbing badge of honor.

When we get closer to my car, Bick stops, glancing between me and the window.

I stare at the handprint for a long moment. It’s a darker shade of red, sort of brownish, more like brick than a fire engine. I take a deep breath and lean in to smell it, jerking back upright a moment later.

“Is it…”

I nod. “It doesn’t smell like plastic.”

The others might have been paint, but mine’s different.

The handprint on my car is made of blood.

“C
ome on, I’ll help you clean it off. We just need some wet paper towels,” Bick says, motioning toward the school and its bathrooms.

I nod, feeling lost as we cross the lot again and push back into the hallways. They’re nearly empty now. Where slamming lockers and bubbling voices once filled the hall, now I can hear only my footsteps.

“Maybe we should report it,” Bick says, his eyes filled with concern.

I shrug. “I just want it off my car.”

“Fair enough,” he says, sighing. We stop at the door to the boys’ bathroom. “Be right back.”

Moments later he emerges, a handful of wet paper towels balled up in his fist. “Okay, come on. We’ll do your car first,” he announces, leading me back outside.

By the time we step outside, my battered old coupe and Bick’s truck are two of the few left in the parking lot. I don’t
know why everyone’s okay just driving off with such creepy brands on their window, but I want mine off. Now.

“Look, Mr. Richards is right there,” Bick says, pointing to our principal who’s currently standing on the sidewalk, talking to a few students, clipboard in hand. “Let’s just tell him about your car.”

I sigh. “Okay, fine. We’ll tell the principal.” I follow Bick across the lot, to where Mr. Richards is just stepping away from the students.

“Do you need to report your car vandalized as well?” He asks, slipping the pen behind his ear.

“Yes. But mine…” I swallow. “Mine isn’t paint. I think it’s actually blood.”

He narrows his eyes, like he thinks I’m being melodramatic about some silly, insignificant prank. But then the look melts into his usual neutral, slightly smirking mask, and he nods. “Then let’s go take a look.”

Bick whispers to me as we cross the lot and return to my car, “I really don’t think he likes teenagers.”

I giggle despite myself but as we get closer to my car, my expression shifts—it’s not the same. “What the heck?” I exclaim upon catching sight of the perfectly clean window. Then I turn to Mr. Richards. “I swear to you, there was a handprint on there. We just went inside to get some paper towels to clean it up.”

I point to Bick and he holds up the towels. “She’s right. I saw it.”

Mr. Richards shrugs. “I guess it’s your lucky day. The
cleaning fairy took care of it,” he says, rolling his eyes. “If you’ll excuse me.”

He leaves us there, crosses the lot, and takes the sidewalk back to the administrative office.

“You really did see it, right?” I ask, turning to him.

Bick nods.

“The other cars had paint. I know it was blood.” I swallow and look at the clean glass again.

“Yeah, I know. I saw it too.” Bick reaches out, like he’s going to touch my arm to make me feel better, then seems to think better of it and shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. “But you know, just because it wasn’t paint doesn’t mean it was real blood. It could have been the fake stuff they make at costume shops. It’s almost Halloween. That stuff is probably easy to get a hold of.”

I nod, not entirely convinced. If this is tied to the birds’ deaths, who’s to say the person couldn’t get a hold of some real blood? “Yeah, whatever. I better get home, I have a million chores to do.”

“Hey!” A voice calls out as I grab the handle of my car door. I turn to see Logan striding across the lot, his cheeks flushed.

“Can we catch up later?” I ask, looking up at Bick.

“Yeah. Sure. Later,” Bick says, taking the hint. He walks away just as Logan reaches me.

Logan doesn’t even take a breath before speaking. “Listen, I’ve been freaking out pretty much all day,” he says. “I had no idea you even went to my house on Friday. If
he
did anything to hurt you…”

I stare down at the rocks, and Logan gently grabs my elbow, turning me so that he can stare straight into my eyes. “What can I do to gain your trust back? Name it. Anything you want, and I’ll do it. Just give me another chance.”

I open my mouth, but I don’t know what to say, and I’m so swept up in the need to be close to him, in the need to just forget about dead birds and bloody handprints, that I step forward and let him slide his arms around me, let him pull me against his chest. Neither of us speaks for a long moment, and I close my eyes, remembering what it’s like to feel safe in his arms.

It takes everything I have to pull myself away. “Just promise me there are no more secrets.”

“I promise.” Logan steps closer and tips my chin up, giving me a kiss that makes me forget about the crimson shade of blood altogether as I stand here, the world turning gray around the edges. When he steps back, he smiles in a way that tells me he’s as swept away as I am. “Can we go somewhere? Dinner?”

“I can’t. I have to go home,” I say, frowning at the thought of the chores piling up. I’d way rather spend the evening with my boyfriend. “We can catch up tomorrow, though?”

“Oh. Okay,” he says, the disappointment evident. “Yeah. See you tomorrow.” I watch him walk away and then turn back, giving the glass one last look before climbing in.

I
know
it was blood on my window.

I just don’t know who put it there.

Or who cleaned it off.

W
hen Logan pulls into my driveway on Sunday, the autumn sun gleams on the red hood of his Jeep. The rain has finally rolled out of town, and while Logan wouldn’t tell me what we were doing today, he did tell me to dress for adventure. Whatever that means. So I’m wearing hiking boots, jeans, and a pale pink sweater, hoping it’s appropriate for whatever the day brings.

Logan climbs out of his car, walking around to the other side and opening the passenger door. “Your chariot awaits,” he says, sweeping his arm wide.

I laugh, feeling more than a little light and giddy. Whatever rough patch we hit when I found out about Daemon has smoothed itself out.

I pause next to the door and kiss him before ducking into the car. He pushes the door shut behind me, and I buckle in as he rounds the vehicle and climbs into the driver’s side.

I wait until we’re out of the driveway before pestering him.
“Okay, spill.”

He grins and looks over at me. “Number eight.”

I freeze. “Quads?”

“Yep. We’re going to Bick’s house. He has a few four-wheelers.”

“I know,” I say, my voice as level as I can make it. “Every time we’re at his house, Allie, Bick, and Adam ride, but I always just sit on the fence and watch.”

“What are you worried will happen?”

“Uh…I’ll crash.”

“You won’t,” Logan says, half-laughing, but not in a way that makes me embarrassed.

Butterflies swarm my stomach. “I can’t ride them, Logan.”

He looks over at me, realizing I’m truly scared. He places a hand on my knee. “You can ride double with me until you get used to it, and then you can ride on your own. You’ll be fine, I promise.”

I take in a deep breath through my nose and blow it out through my mouth. “I rode them when I was little,” I find myself saying. “With my mom.”

Logan glances over at me but says nothing.

“I don’t even remember it, but I’ve seen the pictures of us.”

Silence fills the cab. “Is everything on your list tied to her?”

I find myself, unexpectedly, fighting tears. “Yeah. Things she’s done, the person she is…was.” My voice breaks. “I don’t want to end up like her.”

“How did she die?”

I blink away the tears, taking in a deep, calming breath. “She was bouldering,” I say.

“Bouldering?”

I bite hard on my lip to keep it from trembling. “It’s rock-climbing. With no safety ropes.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. About as extreme—and as dangerous—as you can get.” I blink rapidly, until I can see through the shimmering again. “She fell.”

Logan squeezes my leg. “I’m sorry.”

I nod, avoiding his gaze by staring out the window. “I have this whole photo album of pictures. Things she did, you know?”

“And so you made a list? From the things you saw her doing?”

I turn back to Logan. “Yes. Every one of them, she’s done. The flying, the public speaking, the riding quads.”

Logan stops the Jeep, even though we’re nowhere near a stop sign. “You can’t keep running from this. You need to get over your fears so they don’t control you.”

“But I’m scared.” I glance behind us, relieved to see there are no cars.

“You’re going to be okay. I promise, you can totally handle this.”

I nod, but I’m not even remotely convinced. Visions of me flying over the handlebars swim into focus. “I’ll try it once, with you. And if I hate it, you can’t make me ride alone.”

“Deal,” he says, beaming.

I hope I don’t regret this.

•   •   •

I stand in front of Logan with my eyes closed as he slides a lime-colored helmet over my head. I take one deep breath after another. I don’t know if I can do this.

“You’ll be fine,” he whispers, brushing his fingertips against my chin as he buckles the strap.

I open my eyes and his reassuring smile is almost enough to calm my churning stomach. “What if I’m not? You think I can do this, but you’ve only known me for a month.”

He steps closer, so that the visors on our helmets are touching, and puts one hand on each of my arms. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Just trust me.”

I take in a deep breath and nod. “Okay.” He stares into my eyes for a second longer, searching them. “Really. I can handle this,” I say, more to myself than him.

When Logan steps out of my direct vision, I see Bick standing behind him, watching us. Waiting.

“I try for two years to get you to do this and Logan asks once and you cave,” Allie calls out. I look up to see her sitting on the iron railing of the fence that surrounds the property, grinning down at me. She shoots me a thumbs-up.

Beside her, Adam smirks. “Give my poor favorite cousin a break. She’s fragile.”

Behind them is Bick’s one-and-a-half story house, with its charming little shutters and cute little flowerbeds. I know without asking that his mom’s inside, making muffins or cookies or something from scratch, and she’ll show up before we’re done, insisting we’re all too skinny, forcing us to take a handful of treats.

I find it funny to think of Bick, in that house day after day, his mom doting all over him. He’s too tough to be a mama’s boy. He always rolls his eyes when she appears, but he’ll still totally eat whatever she brings out.

I try to remember if my mom ever made cookies from scratch.

I look back at Bick again, but he’s not meeting my gaze now. He’s silent as he digs a key out of his pocket and tosses it to Logan, and we walk over to the small barn at the edge of the pasture. Bick shoves the door open, and a moment later, he rolls the first quad into the sunlight.