Nevermore

The smell of tobacco filled her nostrils as his mouth trailed up to her jaw. She felt his arms slide around her lower back, clamping her to his solid frame. “No, Brad,” she was scarcely able to squeak. She raised her hands, palms pressed against the front of his jacket. She pushed, angling back, but not far enough. “I said stop!” He pressed his mouth over hers.

She made a muffled sound as close to a scream as she could manage, even though she knew there was no way her father would hear over the blare of the television. If only he would walk into the kitchen and look out the window. He’d see—he’d know how Brad could be sometimes. She thrashed against him, preparing to bite down on his bottom lip, when suddenly, tensing, he stopped and pulled back.

“What was that?”

“Let go!” she growled, prying herself away, shoving him as hard as she could, though she only succeeded in rumpling his jacket. “What is wrong with you?”

He shushed her, tilting his head to listen. From above came the sound of heavy scraping. “There it is again,” he muttered.

Her eyes widened. Varen. He must have heard them arguing from the roof. What was he doing? Was he coming this way? Was he crazy? Her mind raced for a distraction.

“You’re such a jerk!” she shouted as loud as she could. Brad’s head whipped back around to her, his eyes, that angry, electric shade of blue, searching.

She staggered a few steps back. “Go away!” she shouted again, knowing someone would be there any second.

Brad did too, it seemed, because he wasted no time in stepping down off the porch. He raised a finger, pointing at her as he backed away. “You’ll see,” he said. “You’ll see. In the meantime, why don’t you tell that little faggot I’m gonna kill him. Tell him I’m gonna beat the livin’ piss out of him for what he did, ’cause I know it was him. Tell him that for me, would ya, Iz?”

Isobel stared after him in horrified disbelief, her confusion mounting. Did what?

She heard the porch door open behind her and her mother’s voice. “Isobel, time to come in now.

You shouldn’t even be out here after being sick.”

Isobel stood frozen, staring after Brad as he turned away and headed around to the front of the house, no doubt to wherever he’d parked his Mustang.

His Mustang. Why hadn’t she heard his Mustang? Turning, she rushed in past her mother, through the kitchen and into the living room, right up to the window. Parting the draperies, Isobel watched Brad climb into another car, one she recognized as his mom’s sleek black BMW.

She turned to see her father sit up from reclining in his easy chair. The TV on mute, he glared at her.

“Where’s Brad’s Mustang?”

Her father’s gaze narrowed. “I didn’t ask,” he said coolly, “because yesterday you told me that it was in the shop.”

“I forgot,” she muttered, and swiveled for the stairs. “I’m going to bed.”

“I was just about to suggest that,” he said, then snapped the TV volume back on.

Isobel stomped upstairs once more, averting her gaze from Danny, who stood leaning halfway out his door. “Ooh, somebody’s in trouuuuuu—” She shut her door, cutting him off, then stopped, her heart tripping over itself at the sight of Varen Nethers perched on one corner of her tousled pink bed, last year’s cheerleading album draped open across his lap.

“What are you doing!?” Undiluted panic spurred her forward, giving her enough nerve to snatch the album away.

Oh God, she thought, looking down at the page the album had been opened to. He’d seen the one from last year’s squad sleepover, the one of her stuffing an entire slice of pepperoni pineapple pizza into her mouth.

“Impressive,” he said as he lay back against her bed, propped up on his elbows.

Clutching the scrapbook to her chest, she turned away, not wanting him to see the lobster-red hue of her face. “What is wrong with you?” she seethed. “You don’t just barge into somebody’s personal space and start going through their stuff!” Marching to her closet, she flung the album in.

“Really,” he said in that infuriating monotone.

She whirled around to see him staring at her, amused by some private joke, and her stomach turned several lopsided backflips at the sight of him half lying on her bed like that. Black sprawled over pink. She angled her eyes toward the ceiling, trying to get a grip.

“How come you’re off the squad?” he asked out of nowhere.

She flushed again, her suspicion that he’d been able to hear her conversation with Brad confirmed.

“I quit,” she snapped. “I guess since you heard—”

“I heard everything,” he said.

He was doing it again. Watching her with that intense, penetrating look, the one she didn’t quite get.

It made her nervous and dizzy and flustered. Realizing she’d been wringing her hands, she dropped them to her sides.

“Well, then you also heard enough to know you’d better steer clear of Brad for a while.”

“Given how much we hang out as it is.”

“You know what I mean. I don’t know what you did to piss him off like that but . . . well, he’s pissed.”