Earthbound
Page 33
The impulse shocks me into stillness. I shouldn’t want Benson so strongly—especially after having just seen Quinn this morning—Quinn, who makes my chest ache with longing and my mind spin in bliss.
So why do I?
I don’t know. But I keep coming back to the burn of Benson’s lips on mine, the possessive way his arms wound around me, how warm it felt to have his body pressed against me. I look up at him and know the sheen of wanting is shining in my eyes. But I don’t have the energy to hide it.
“You okay?” he asks, his face lined with concern. “Rough morning?”
Tell no one. “You could say that,” I grumble.
The main doors open, and just past Benson’s shoulder I catch a glimpse of dark hair. I take half a step to my right to put Benson’s admittedly slim profile between us and peek out.
Black pullover and sunglasses.
He found me.
“Can we go to your office?” I ask, desperation in my voice. “Right now? Please?”
“Yeah, sure,” Benson says, looking confused. He doesn’t ask any more questions, though, and leads me zigzagging across the floor, through the study tables, to the doorway of a barely closet-size alcove.
With a fast but searching glance behind me, I sit in the chair across from Benson and shove my backpack underneath the table. Then I scoot to the side of the chair, attempting to hunch out of view.
“If it’s about yesterday, we can find another way to get some privacy,” Benson whispers—his office doesn’t have a door, or even a proper doorway, so it would be ridiculously easy for someone to overhear us. “We could even go somewhere else if you wanted—”
“It’s not about that,” I murmur. But just bringing up yesterday makes my head pound. It was too strong a mix of amazing and devastating. I sit up and within seconds am squishing a stress ball first in one fist and then the other. I’ve passed it back and forth a few times before I realize I created it without even thinking. Horrified, I thrust it onto Benson’s desk, where it rolls innocently across the uneven surface until it collides with a pile of paper clips.
Benson leans forward, reaching for my hand, doing his best to ignore the yellow ball. “Are you okay?”
My nod is more than a little spasmodic and I pull my hand out of reach. My thoughts are caught in a whirlpool of confusion and I can’t let the touch of his skin make things worse. I begin to wonder if this is what having a mental breakdown feels like.
“Are you sure? Because, um, you’re sweating.” He looks meaningfully at my forehead and I realize I didn’t even feel the drop of sweat that’s now tickling my cheek. I lift my sleeve to wipe it away, feeling gross.
“Benson?” My throat freezes and I can’t continue.
“Yes?” he says after a long pause.
“Remember the man I told you about?” I say it before my jaw can clamp shut against the words.
“You mean … Quinn?”
“No.” Please don’t mention Quinn. I can’t talk about Quinn. Not just yet. “No, the man with the sunglasses; the one who I’ve seen a couple times.”
“Yeah …”
“He’s been following me since I left home this morning. Down into the historic district, then to Elizabeth’s office. And now he’s here and he—” I shut my mouth. I’m rambling.
“Did he see you …” He hesitates and leans forward before finishing in a whisper, “Did he see you do anything?”
“Make anything? No!” But I remember the locket and add, very quietly, “I don’t think.”
“Okay. That’s good, right?” he asks, peering out at the library floor over my shoulder.
“I think maybe Reese and Jay sent him.”
He looks confused. “Why would they start having you followed?”
“Why would they decide to fry my brain?” I ask, feeling both questions are equally valid. “Point is, this guy’s been following me, and now he’s here, and you have to help me get away.”
“Can you point him out?” Benson asks.
If only it were that simple. “Just in case he doesn’t know I’ve spotted him, I have to keep pretending I don’t see him.”
“Good point,” Benson says. “Tell me what he looks like.”
“He’s got dark brown hair, he’s probably about six feet. He was wearing sunglasses and a black pullover.”
Either of which he may have taken off on entering the library.
I sift through my recollection. It’s amazingly hard to describe someone when all you have to go on are furtive glances. “Brown shoes. He’s got brown shoes. Lace-ups, like Docs or hiking boots.”
“Okay,” Benson says, writing something I can’t see on a Post-it note. “I’ll find that for you.” His voice is just a little louder as he rises from his chair.
I open my mouth to protest and realize he’s pretending to find a book. Perfect. I turn and watch him go—that would be natural, right?—and my eyes instantly find the man, sitting at a corner table, pretending to read.
My gaze jerks away as if he’ll sense everything if I look too long.
Benson won’t be able to miss him. Surely.
I sit at the desk, breathing in and out and forcing myself to calm down. I’m here with Benson; he’s going to help me.
I’m almost calm when the stress ball I’d nearly forgotten about suddenly disappears. I squeak and shrink away.
So why do I?
I don’t know. But I keep coming back to the burn of Benson’s lips on mine, the possessive way his arms wound around me, how warm it felt to have his body pressed against me. I look up at him and know the sheen of wanting is shining in my eyes. But I don’t have the energy to hide it.
“You okay?” he asks, his face lined with concern. “Rough morning?”
Tell no one. “You could say that,” I grumble.
The main doors open, and just past Benson’s shoulder I catch a glimpse of dark hair. I take half a step to my right to put Benson’s admittedly slim profile between us and peek out.
Black pullover and sunglasses.
He found me.
“Can we go to your office?” I ask, desperation in my voice. “Right now? Please?”
“Yeah, sure,” Benson says, looking confused. He doesn’t ask any more questions, though, and leads me zigzagging across the floor, through the study tables, to the doorway of a barely closet-size alcove.
With a fast but searching glance behind me, I sit in the chair across from Benson and shove my backpack underneath the table. Then I scoot to the side of the chair, attempting to hunch out of view.
“If it’s about yesterday, we can find another way to get some privacy,” Benson whispers—his office doesn’t have a door, or even a proper doorway, so it would be ridiculously easy for someone to overhear us. “We could even go somewhere else if you wanted—”
“It’s not about that,” I murmur. But just bringing up yesterday makes my head pound. It was too strong a mix of amazing and devastating. I sit up and within seconds am squishing a stress ball first in one fist and then the other. I’ve passed it back and forth a few times before I realize I created it without even thinking. Horrified, I thrust it onto Benson’s desk, where it rolls innocently across the uneven surface until it collides with a pile of paper clips.
Benson leans forward, reaching for my hand, doing his best to ignore the yellow ball. “Are you okay?”
My nod is more than a little spasmodic and I pull my hand out of reach. My thoughts are caught in a whirlpool of confusion and I can’t let the touch of his skin make things worse. I begin to wonder if this is what having a mental breakdown feels like.
“Are you sure? Because, um, you’re sweating.” He looks meaningfully at my forehead and I realize I didn’t even feel the drop of sweat that’s now tickling my cheek. I lift my sleeve to wipe it away, feeling gross.
“Benson?” My throat freezes and I can’t continue.
“Yes?” he says after a long pause.
“Remember the man I told you about?” I say it before my jaw can clamp shut against the words.
“You mean … Quinn?”
“No.” Please don’t mention Quinn. I can’t talk about Quinn. Not just yet. “No, the man with the sunglasses; the one who I’ve seen a couple times.”
“Yeah …”
“He’s been following me since I left home this morning. Down into the historic district, then to Elizabeth’s office. And now he’s here and he—” I shut my mouth. I’m rambling.
“Did he see you …” He hesitates and leans forward before finishing in a whisper, “Did he see you do anything?”
“Make anything? No!” But I remember the locket and add, very quietly, “I don’t think.”
“Okay. That’s good, right?” he asks, peering out at the library floor over my shoulder.
“I think maybe Reese and Jay sent him.”
He looks confused. “Why would they start having you followed?”
“Why would they decide to fry my brain?” I ask, feeling both questions are equally valid. “Point is, this guy’s been following me, and now he’s here, and you have to help me get away.”
“Can you point him out?” Benson asks.
If only it were that simple. “Just in case he doesn’t know I’ve spotted him, I have to keep pretending I don’t see him.”
“Good point,” Benson says. “Tell me what he looks like.”
“He’s got dark brown hair, he’s probably about six feet. He was wearing sunglasses and a black pullover.”
Either of which he may have taken off on entering the library.
I sift through my recollection. It’s amazingly hard to describe someone when all you have to go on are furtive glances. “Brown shoes. He’s got brown shoes. Lace-ups, like Docs or hiking boots.”
“Okay,” Benson says, writing something I can’t see on a Post-it note. “I’ll find that for you.” His voice is just a little louder as he rises from his chair.
I open my mouth to protest and realize he’s pretending to find a book. Perfect. I turn and watch him go—that would be natural, right?—and my eyes instantly find the man, sitting at a corner table, pretending to read.
My gaze jerks away as if he’ll sense everything if I look too long.
Benson won’t be able to miss him. Surely.
I sit at the desk, breathing in and out and forcing myself to calm down. I’m here with Benson; he’s going to help me.
I’m almost calm when the stress ball I’d nearly forgotten about suddenly disappears. I squeak and shrink away.
