Dial Em for Murder (21 page)

My head jerked up and I studied Sebastian's eyes, searching for any sign, no matter how slight, that he might be secretly amused. That he might be responsible for some of it. All I saw was a simmering anger that looked to be gaining in intensity.

The Slate vibrated again, but this time I didn't spare it a glance. I was a too busy making another deal with the devil.

“Do you know what's going on?” The residual fear in my system made my voice sound thready and weak even to my own ears.

“I have my suspicions.”

That was more than I had. I quickly pasted a grin on my face.

“Oh Christ, you look constipated.” Sebastian paused right by the doors leading out of the sports complex and onto the lawn. “Pretend I'm somebody else, okay? I don't give a shit who you imagine, but you're dying to get your hands all over him.” The gruffness was back and I tried not to shiver at the huskiness in his tone.

Ben. I had to pretend he was Ben.

“Got it?”

I nodded, but didn't say a word.

“Good. Hold that thought and follow my lead.” Sebastian pushed open the door before his fingers took possession of my hand. The move felt oddly out of character. If Sebastian had tried to cop a feel, well, that would've made a certain amount of sense. From everything I'd heard, the guy was a player.

But this was almost sweet.

I instantly wanted to banish the word from my vocabulary. There wasn't anything sweet about Sebastian. He was fake and manipulative, and I kept my eyes glued on the cobblestone pathways as I missed Ben with an intensity that scared me. I tried to pretend it was Ben's hand clasping mine. The two of us had our fingers interlocked. His eyes glowing with affection as he gave my hand a proprietary squeeze that went far beyond friendship. It was Ben whose breath teased my ear as he whispered, “Perfect. Almost there.”

The daydream was so comforting that I eagerly embraced it. Ben murmured that he loved me, that he had
always
loved me, but that he had kept silent for years because he wasn't sure I felt the same way.
You've always been special to me, Em. Never doubt it.

I melted inside.

Why don't we make up for lost time, Ben?

Yeah, that's what I would say.

And then I would kiss
him
.

I grinned, imagining the way heat would simmer in Ben's eyes. The death ray glares aimed at me from Peyton and her posse didn't exist. Nothing they said could hurt me. Ben loved me. Madly. Completely. Transcendently.

Sebastian pulled out his swipe card and tugged me inside the boys' dormitory without pausing to ask for my permission. Maybe I should have fought to claim a home court advantage, but the entire school belonged to Sebastian. Insisting we return to the sparkly prison I shared with Kayla would only prolong our time together. And, okay, I wanted to see for myself how somebody as obscenely wealthy as Sebastian St. James would decorate a dorm room. I doubted there would be any neon pink.

That alone would be a vast improvement.

I wasn't left speculating for long. One short, thankfully silent, elevator ride to the top floor and I was being hustled down the hallway to the last door on the left. Sebastian blocked my view so I couldn't watch him unlock the door before he shoved it open wide enough for me to enter behind him. The whole place looked like something out of a 1940s film noir with the caramel latte–colored walls and heavy oak paneling that looked dignified. Restrained.

Pretentious.

I half-expected to see a fedora perched on the head of the Maltese Falcon.

Sebastian didn't waste any time with social niceties. Instead, he flopped into a wide leather chair and raised an eyebrow.

“Why don't you shut the door and stay awhile.”

It wasn't a question or a request, but a command that rankled at me even as I slid the deadbolt into place. Now that I was alone with Sebastian,
really
alone with him, it was hard to act casual.

Still, I gave it my best shot.

“So this is the lair, huh?” I skeptically eyed the enormous seascape painting that dominated one of the walls. “It was cooler in my head. There should be gargoyles, at the very least. Maybe a butler who takes your coat and says ‘as master wishes' a lot.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

I edged closer toward the other vacant chair, because the alternative was perching on the end of an enormous bed that never would have fit inside the room I shared with Kayla. Not that Sebastian had to worry about making room for unexpected visitors. I doubted the idea had ever crossed his mind. He'd simply toss his money around until it was someone else's problem.

Which was probably for the best. He didn't exactly play well with others.

I fidgeted uncomfortably before I forced myself to sit in the stuffed leather chair. “So about that kiss—”

“Is
that
really what you want to clear up first?” Sebastian interrupted, something grim lurking beneath his even tone. I crossed my arms to ward off the sudden chill, determined to get the awkwardness out in the open so we could both move on.

“Yeah, I do. It was kind of a big deal, don't you think?”

He raised one brow. “Not particularly.”

Ouch.

I'm not sure what I was expecting.
Yes, Emmy. Holding you in my arms was the closest I'll ever come to heaven. I want you. I crave you. Kiss me again, darling.

Not in this lifetime.

Which was fine with me, better than fine, it was fan-freaking-tastic. It saved me the trouble of explaining that I was interested in someone else. Sebastian's disinterest came as a
relief
. Neither of us were in danger of imagining that the kiss was anything more than an accidental distraction. An aberration. One stupid kiss couldn't ruin anything if the entire dynamic was built on mutual distrust and disdain. No friendship would ever be at risk with Sebastian.

Except the ease with which he dismissed the kiss stung my pride. “If it was so forgettable then why did you do it?”

“You've got to be kidding me,” Sebastian said in disbelief. “You were seconds away from hyperventilating yourself into a blackout.”

God, I sounded pathetic. Hyperventilating happened to wimpy, overemotional girls. I was supposed to be strong enough to take all of this in stride. I was supposed to flash a quick grin and toss out a sarcastic comeback and keep everything else locked away. It was how I'd gotten through all of my mom's disastrous relationships. Laugh through the pain and fear and hurt.

I couldn't find a wisecrack anywhere inside of me, so I settled for denial.

“I wasn't going to faint.”

His low chuckle had me gritting my teeth.

“I
wasn't
,” I insisted.

“Sure. You were just practicing your impression of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. That makes total sense.”

“About as much sense as your plan to stick your tongue down my throat.” I crossed my arms, aiming for indifference. As if his kiss hadn't affected me in the slightest.

Sebastian shrugged. “It got your breathing to even out.”

He had a point, but I refused to admit that his kiss had helped defuse the situation in any way. Sebastian was obnoxious enough without that ammunition being added to his stockpile.

“Then we both agree it meant nothing.”

“No argument here.”

“And it won't happen again,” I continued firmly.

“In the future, if I see you hyperventilating, I will sit back and enjoy the show.”

Instead of pointing out, at length, the total jackassery in
that
comment, I snapped my mouth shut.

Time to change the topic of conversation.

“So you said that you might have a theory about what's going on.” I rubbed at a splotch on the inside right cuff of my sweatshirt to avoid looking overeager.

He nodded. “Of course. And I'll share it right after you explain what you're doing with my grandpa's Slate.”

Not for the first time I wished Frederick St. James had been a wee bit more specific about his Don't Trust List. How hard would it have been to say, “Except Sebastian. Oh, and Gilcrest isn't a bad sort either,” before kicking the bucket?

Too hard, apparently.

If Peyton was to be believed, Frederick St. James hadn't trusted me either.

Except Peyton was the
last
person I could trust to tell me the truth.

“I didn't steal it from him, if that's what you're getting at.”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow at my obvious defensiveness. I squirmed uncomfortably in the chair, my body tightening until even Ms. Helsenberg would've agreed to banish her Noodle nickname. There was something about Sebastian that brought out my worst impulses. One of his cold assessing appraisals and I was scrambling for an insult sharp enough to draw blood. I no longer simply disliked Sebastian; I hated who I became around him. I didn't trust him to look past his own self-interest. And there was a little voice in my head that insisted I was going to regret sharing
anything
with this boy. That he would toss me aside at the first opportunity. Except he was still my best lead for tracking down the mysterious Morgan. And my father. Preferably both.

I could play his game as long as the Slate stayed in my sticky backpack.

I inhaled deeply, hoping that would help me regain control. “Your grandpa gave the Slate to me right before he died.”

“Before he was declared dead,” Sebastian corrected. I didn't see much of a difference between the two but I didn't want another
is he dead or not
debate with Sebastian.

“Right. Exactly.”

“Was this before or after he called you ‘Gracie'?” Sebastian demanded.

It felt like a lifetime had passed since that day in the coffee shop. The edges of the memory already becoming worn and faded, like a page in a library book that had been handled too roughly for too many years. I tried to visualize the chain of events with Frederick St. James, saying them aloud in case Sebastian caught something I'd missed.

“First he said that someone was after him. Then he said they were after me. I think that's the right order, but I might be mixing it up. He told me to warn my dad. I nearly told him, ‘y'know, sorry, but my dad isn't really in the picture—'”

“Why not?”

Sharing one meaningless kiss didn't obligate me to get all personal with the jerk, but I needed to keep the conversation on track. Sebastian didn't strike me as the kind of guy who would easily continue past an unanswered question.

“He ran out on my mom in the early days of her pregnancy. Never to be seen or heard from again.”

Sebastian nodded. “What did my grandpa say next?”

“Just that Morgan would know what to do, which makes zero sense, by the way, since my dad's name was
Daniel
. Then he said some other stuff. Trust nobody. They're trying to kill me.
Again.
You know, normal small talk material.”

The corners of his mouth tilted up, and for a second I thought I'd nearly made him laugh with that one. Then his aristocratic features smoothed into a stony mask that revealed nothing.

“What happened next?”

A wave of anxiety swelled inside of me that I tried to tamp down with a dismissive shrug.

“Oh, a handful of cryptic warnings, a quick case of mistaken identity, and then he was tackling me to the ground and dying on top of me.”

“Allegedly.”

I did my best not to roll my eyes. “Right. Allegedly. So what's your theory, Sherlock St. James? Is the butler in on it? I'm sure you have one hiding around here somewhere.”

“I don't have a butler.”

A genuine smile tugged at my lips at the ridiculousness of his indignation. “I thought all rich people were required to hire 'em. You should probably double-check that there isn't a butler clause attached to your trust fund. Maybe you've got one on payroll and don't even know it.”

“I have no idea where you are getting this stuff, but I don't have a secret butler.”

“Uh-huh,” I muttered darkly. “That's what they all say.”

“Please tell me you don't make a habit of questioning people about their employees.” Instead of responding, I burrowed deeper into the sofa chair. My silence made Sebastian's eyes widen in disbelief. “You haven't
actually
been asking people if they have secret butlers, have you?”

“Nooo . . .”

Although now that he mentioned it, that did sound entertaining. My head slumped against the armrest as I half-heartedly covered a yawn with my hand and tried to remember why I had followed Sebastian inside. There had been a perfectly logical reason behind it, but for some reason my whole thought process evaded me now.

My brain felt like it was slowly converting to fuzz. My eyelids drooped to half-mast but struggling to stay awake was too much work. Something wasn't right. I just couldn't be sure anymore if that something was me.

“So what's your thing?” I asked, my hand flopping in a vague gesture.

“My thing?” Sebastian looked amused.

“Yeah. The thing you were going to tell me. It was very . . . thingie.”

It was a true testament to my level of sleep-deprivation that the words sounded perfectly straightforward to me. “What's the thing with the thingie” said it all. There was no need for me to muddy everything up by tacking on any pesky adjectives. Or nouns. Or verbs, for that matter.

Sebastian grinned. “You want to know who I think is behind the text messages?”

I nodded sleepily.

“I am.”

“
What?!
” I nearly toppled out of the sofa chair. “You can't. That's not funny, Sebastian.”

His smiled turned tight lipped. “I'm not kidding.”

“You were with me. In the locker room. I'm pretty sure I would've noticed you texting, even if I was a little out of breath.”