Hexed (8 page)

Yes!

“No! Of course not. You’re totally welcome to come in. And I’m not checking up on him.”

“Whatever.” Paige absently swipes her bangs from in front of her glasses. “We’ve already done this street.”

I look around and see that she’s right.

We’ve pretty much covered every drivable inch of the Fairfax district, and now we’re going over the same ground. I signal right and pull the car over onto the side of the road. “So what now? Where would a guy like him hang out?”

“What about bars? We could try Johnny’s or the Griffin.”

“Good, but it’s not like we can get in.”

“So what? We can hang around outside and wait for him to come out.”

“I guess, but what—”

Fingers tap on the window. Paige and I let out bloodcurdling screams.

“Need some help?” The guy—Leather Jacket Guy—bends in front of the driver’s-side window, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Lock the doors!” Paige yells.

I scramble to locate the button in the dark. And the whole time I’m panicking, dude’s just giving me the same infuriating smile.

“Drive, Ind! Get the hell out of here!” Paige shakes my arm.

But wasn’t I just looking for him? It seemed like such a great plan until only a quarter-inch of glass separated me from a potential psycho.

“What are you doing? Step on the gas before this weirdo busts out a gun or something.” Panic cracks Paige’s normally steady tone.

I guess now’s as good a time as any to roll the window down.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Paige clambers over me to try to halt my hand.

“It’s him, Paige,” I say, trying my best to keep anxiety from showing in my voice.

“Oh, I like the way you say that,” the guy says. “Makes me sound all mysterious.”

Paige obviously hasn’t heard me. “Are you on drugs or something? Get this window up, now!”

I push her back into the seat with alarming force. She cowers against the door.

“Sorry, it’s just you weren’t listening. I said it’s the guy”—I gesture to him—“the guy from the shop.”

Paige swallows. “Oh. Okay. Uh …”

I feel the same way. Now that I’ve found him—or did he find me?—I have no clue what to do next.

“Is there a problem?” he asks, playing innocent.

Hundreds of questions trip over each other to get out of me.

“Okay,” the guy says. “I’ll guess, then. Flat tire? Out of gas? Feminine issues? It’s feminine issues, isn’t it?”

Ugh. This guy is seriously disturbed. “Why are you following me? And my mom—how’d you know? Did you have something to do with it?”

“Do
you
think I had something to do with it?” He braces his hands on the roof of the car, and a slice of bare stomach shows from under his T-shirt’s hem. And great—he’s caught me looking, and now his stupid grin couldn’t be any wider.

I avert my eyes from his midsection and consider his question. “No,” I say finally, recalling the help he gave me.

He laughs. “And they say cheerleaders are brain-dead.”

I choose to ignore his jab. “Tell me how you knew, then, if you weren’t there.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t there.” He rocks back on his heels, and a breeze flutters the edge of his T-shirt.

Don’t. Look. At his stomach. “Would you stop playing games?” I yell. And it’s decided: yelling at him feels pretty good. “What do you know about the book?”

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a cheerleader go so crazy over a book before.”

Not “What book?” And suddenly I know without a shadow of a doubt that he knows about the Bible. I clench my jaw, nostrils flaring. “You listen to me. I’m
going
to get that book back. Whatever it takes.”

“Maybe we should just calls the cops,” Paige says.

Like he’s going to stick around long enough for them to arrest him. And for what? I have no proof of anything. It’s my word against his.

I unlock the door.

“Indie. What are you—”

I step outside and slam the door behind me. “Look.” I take a page out of Bianca’s playbook and poke him in the chest. “I’m not going to ask—”

And holy crap, I forgot how tall he is. This plan seems much less sound now that I’m face to sternum with a giant. What did I think, that I was going to beat the truth out of him? Perform a citizen’s arrest?

“You were saying?” His dark eyebrows pull up as though with concern, but his deep-set eyes flash with amusement.

I swallow.

“Go on, I’m intrigued.” He waves a hand adorned with chipped black nail polish and a chunky silver ring, as if to say “Continue.”

“Who are you?” I ask, my tone considerably kinder than before. “I mean, what’s your name?” I give him a wide smile, but from the look in his eyes, it’s more alarming than alluring, so I pull it back a few notches. What the hell—I scrunch up my hair at the roots, throw in a tip of my head so my hair tumbles in front of my eyes, bite my lip. This has got to work—guys are so simple.

“You’re kidding me, right?” he says.

“What?” I ask innocently, but I can feel myself blushing.

“I’ll tell you my name, but not because of your little bimbo act. Maybe Quarterback Jack would fall for that sort of stuff, but not me.”

My mouth drops open.

“Oh, don’t be too offended. You’re cute and whatever. I just like a girl with a bit more going on up here.” He taps his temple.

“I’m plenty smart, jerkwad. I’ve got the third-highest GPA at my high school. And FYI, I would
never
be interested in a guy like—”

“Third-highest, huh? And I bet Blanca is first, right?”

“It’s
Bianca.
And— Ugh! Why am I arguing with you? I don’t even know you!”

He smiles, placing a hand on his chest. “It’s Bishop. Nice to meet you.”

“Bishop,” I repeat.

“That’s what I said.” He leans back against the side of the car.

“Okay.” I cross my arms over my chest. “So what’s your last name?”

“Haven’t got a last name,” he says.

“Who are you, Pink? Everyone has one.”

“Not me.”

I shield my face with my hand so he doesn’t see the tears of frustration welling in my eyes.

“Come on, Ind.” Paige tugs on my arm. “This is stupid. He’s not going to tell us anything.”

I give him my back, because great, I’m crying.

“Oh, come on, don’t do that,” he says.

“Do what?” Super. My stupid voice just cracked.

He sighs. “All right, then. I’ll tell you everything.”

I glance over to see the smirk on his face that’ll confirm he’s lying, but for once he’s stone-faced.

Maybe he isn’t such a jerk after all.

“Just don’t do
that
anymore,” he says, gesturing to my tear-tracked face. “It’s terribly unattractive, and I do hate to be seen with unattractive girls. Bad for the reputation, you know?”

My anger surges back full force. “Just tell me what you know, already.”

“Seriously, can you clean that up?” He circles a finger at my face.

“God, you’re a—”

“Jerk? I know. So listen, you have to take me somewhere private if I’m going to tell you anything.”

“Absolutely not.” Sorry, buddy, but I’ve seen that episode of
Oprah.
“Never let them take you to a second location” is, like, Rule #1 of foiling predators.

“Why not?” he says. “Too busy driving around looking for me?”

I huff. “Actually, we were just about to go to a party, thank you very much.”

“Awesome, except a party isn’t exactly private. Unless it’s a party for two.” He winks at me.

Ew.

I cross my arms. “As much as I love that mental image, can you please quit playing games and tell me what you know already?”

“Sure,” he says. “As soon as we go someplace private.”

“You’ve
got
to know that I'm smarter than that.”

He starts to walk away, and I panic. If he leaves now, I may never see him again. And then all hope of finding the Bible will be lost. It’d ruin Mom. Completely destroy her.

“Wait!” I call out.

He spins.

I heave a sigh. Sweet Jesus, I can’t believe I'm doing this. “Fine. I’ll go with you. But we have to stop somewhere first.”

For a few seconds, both Paige and Bishop stare at me like I’ve just sprouted a second head. But before I have time to think about the dangerous situation I’ve just gotten myself into, Bishop yells, “Shotgun!” and skids across the hood of the car to land in front of the passenger-side door.

Sorry, Oprah.

B
ishop is already adjusting the passenger seat to accommodate his long legs before I can even get into the car.

“No way.” I settle into the driver’s seat. “Paige rides up front.”

“She doesn’t care. Look, she’s already in the back.” He swivels in the seat to face Paige. “You don’t care, right?”

Paige snaps the buckle of her seat belt. “It’s fine.”

I purse my lips. But actually, it’s probably better not to have my back turned to him. And I have to say, he looks much less intimidating with his legs all smushed up like he’s riding in a clown car.

“So where’s this party at?” He rubs his hands together.

I start the car. “You’ll see when we get there.”

“Oh, like a surprise. How fun.”

I glance at Paige in the rearview mirror. She catches my eye and gives me a look that distinctly says “What the hell have you gotten me into?” I quickly turn my focus back to the road. I don’t know what to tell her. Sorry, I wasn’t really thinking straight? My apologies if he hacks out our innards with a rusty pocketknife?

I
could
drop her off at home, or even back at Jessie’s house, but the truth is I don’t want to be alone with this guy, even if the drive is less than ten minutes. Guess I’ve grown rather fond of my innards.

“Got any tunes?” Bishop reaches for the dial on the radio. He skips from station to station.

“Would you quit that?” I ask.

“Got Sirius? An iPod? A CD, even?” He opens the glove compartment and rummages inside.

I slap his hand away. “Do you mind?”

“What?”

“Don’t touch anything, okay? Just sit there and be quiet.”

He snorts, but miraculously, he obeys.

That’s when I notice how incredibly deserted Los Angeles has become. I mean, we do pass cars, but the traffic is about an eighth of what it usually is, and only the occasional upstairs light is on inside the houses lining North Highland. I glance at the clock on the dash and find that it’s after three in the morning. A thought strikes me: what if the party is over? It wouldn’t be uncommon for the cops to bust up one of Jarrod’s rockers.

But my fears are quickly dispelled when I take a right onto Lorraine Boulevard. Vehicles, parked end to end, line the narrow street, and even though Jarrod’s house is blocks away, the faint bass of club music pounds above the hum of the Sunfire’s engine.

“Windsor Square!” Bishop says. “You never told me this was a wine-and-appetizer party.”

I get lucky and find a spot only a block from Jarrod’s massive Tudor house. If I squint, I can even see the silhouettes of bodies moving in the backlit windows.

I cut the engine, and Bishop unfastens his seat belt.

“Come on,” he says. “I'm sure there’s plenty of bruschetta to go around. No need to be shy.”

“Ha-ha,” I deadpan.

“Oh, right.” Bishop nods sagely. “Forgot you flashed your ass to half of Los Angeles earlier. Not shy at all.”

I smack him on the arm, and he laughs.

“You go ahead, Bishop,” Paige says. “We'lll meet up with you in a minute.”

Bishop narrows his eyes.

“Girl talk,” she explains.

Paige? Girl talk? I almost burst out laughing, but Bishop just shrugs.

“Whatever. More Jäger for me.” He hops out of the car and saunters up the sidewalk, disappearing into Jarrod’s house.

Oh God. Here it comes.

“Care to explain to me
what the hell
is going on?” Paige asks.

I swivel in the seat to face her. “I’m giving him what he wants, okay?”

“Yeah, right. Of course. Good idea.” She barks a laugh, neurotically bobbing her crossed leg so that the whole car rocks.

“Paige—"

“Have you lost your mind?” she interrupts. “You’ve just chauffeured some crazy dude to a party where all your friends are.”

When she says it like that, it does sound pretty off the rails.

“We’re not staying long,” I reason.

She sears me with a look.

I sigh, facing forward again.

The sounds of the party come into focus. I wonder what Devon is doing at this moment, how he’s going to react when he sees me. My nerves stretch tight, and I tap my fingers on the steering wheel.

“Well, it’s obviously too late to leave now,” I say, breaking the silence.

“Is it?” Paige asks incredulously.

“I should at least get Bishop out of there. What if he’s murdering people or something?”

Okay, probably not the best argument.

“Look,” I say, facing her again. “I’m just going to go in quickly and check on things and then we’ll leave, okay?”

She rolls her eyes, as if she was expecting something like this to happen, and then pulls out her phone.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Texting Jessie.”

“Why?”

“Because she wanted an update on your dog, if you must know.” She taps at the screen.

“Dog? What dog?”

“Your dog is dying,” she says without looking up.

“I don’t have a dog.”

She glances up. “Oh, would you prefer I’d told her the truth?” She takes my horrified expression as an answer and returns to her typing. “Didn’t think so. He’s not going to make it, by the way. Poor Tripod. really should have laid off the thongs. But they were his favorite, and it wasn’t his fault you kept your underwear laying around the house all the time.”

What the … ? I try to snatch the phone from Paige, but she pulls it close to her chest and grins. When the hell did she get so snarky? I watch, annoyed, as Paige taps away at her phone. She better not open her mouth about this at school.

I start to open the car door, but something niggles at the back of my mind, stopping me from leaving. I try to push the concern back, but it just shoves itself forward again, refusing to be ignored. Dammit. I swing around to face Paige again. “You can’t stay out here alone. Bishop might come back.”

“So what?” she says, but I can tell by the pause in her typing that she’s considering what I’ve said.

“You’re right,” I say. “You can probably handle Bishop alone. You can run fast, right? His legs are freakishly long, though.” I tap my chin with my finger. “You could always scream? Except that it might be hard to hear you over the noise of the party.”

Paige wrinkles up her nose at me, but she stows her phone in her purse and unbuckles her seat belt. I resist the urge to smile. And Bishop said cheerleaders aren’t smart.

Except that maybe he’s right. Because wasn’t this—the social suicide of being seen at a party with Paige—what I was
just
trying to avoid?

I give Paige an appraisal as we walk toward the house. She’s wearing a pair of ripped boyfriend jeans and a fitted wifebeater. It’s actually a good look on her. She should probably consider wearing her pj’s out more often.

We climb the spotlit steps that lead to the doors, which are framed with neatly trimmed bushes.

I open the doors and— Holy crap. How has this party not been busted up by the cops yet? The living room is crammed full of three hundred of Jarrod’s closest friends, a sea of bodies jumping, writhing, and swaying to the music that thumps from huge speakers set up in all corners of the room. There are red plastic cups
everywhere,
and a couple is practically doing it on the couch. Not to mention the air reeks of vomit. Jarrod’s neighbors must be out of town. Or in a really, really forgiving mood.

“Indie!” Some guy I vaguely recognize from the football team wraps his arm around my neck (really, it’s like a choke hold), sloshing his drink down the front of my shirt. “Hey, everyone! Indie made it!”

The party erupts into cheering and whistling, and I can’t help but smile, despite smelling even more like a whiskey distillery than when I left the concert. The guy finally lets go of my neck and stumbles off to join a group of guys doing shots at the minibar.

“Be right back,” I say to Paige. She leaps back from a drunken girl who nearly stumbles into her. And just like that, my fear of being seen with Paige vanishes entirely, because I’m now confident that if anyone saw us come in together, they won’t remember tomorrow.

I push through the crowd, toward the kitchen, craning my neck to look for Devon’s floppy blond waves. I finally arrive there with only two new scents (vodka and beer) added to my shirt.

And what the hell is this? Bishop leans against the stainless steel fridge, hands in his pockets, while no fewer than four girls circle him. Two I don’t recognize, but the other two are the Amy/Ashley twins. One touches his arm while the other bats her eyelashes at him. Have they been passing around hallucinogens at this party?

I scrutinize Bishop more closely. Longish hair, tattoos, leather—I guess he
is
good-looking. I mean, if I were drunk I might find him good-looking. In a bad-boy, poser kind of way.

He gives me a two-fingered salute, then goes back to flirting with the girls.

I suppose it’s good he’s not killing anyone. And why should I care what the stupid Amy/Ashley twins do? I don’t. There.

I turn away and spot Jarrod’s red hair over the top of a crowd of people near the keg.

“Jarrod!” I call out.

“Indie! Come do a keg stand.” He wobbles, holding out the black hose attached to the keg.

“Um, no thanks. Have you seen Devon around?”

He shrugs. “Nah. Hey, Andrew, wanna do a keg s-stand?”

Some guy stumbles up from behind me, and then Jarrod’s helping to hold up his legs.

I will never understand keg stands.

I check the dining room and sitting room without any luck, then go upstairs. It’s less crowded, but I still have to flatten myself against the wall to maneuver down the wide hallway. I pass the first bedroom—and seriously, who doesn’t close the door? Shielding my eyes from the writhing mass of skin on the bed, I continue down the hall. There’s a line at least a dozen people long coming from one door, which I guess is the bathroom. The next room I find is an office, which is surprisingly empty. That leaves only one room left. Down this wing, anyway.

I give the door a little tap, then crack it open. It’s dark, but moonlight slants in through the open windows and onto the king-sized four-poster. The sheets are rumpled over two bodies, which shift at the sound of me entering.

“Sorry!” I start to close the door.

“Indie?”

My breath hitches. Bianca? For some reason, instead of cowering, I throw the door open.

Bianca sits up, drawing the covers over her bare chest. I can’t see her face, just that her perfect hair is mussed.

“I’m so sorry,” she says.

“Sorry? Sorry for what?” I take a step into the room.

And that’s when I see the blond hair pressed against the pillow next to Bianca.

Devon.