The Last Echo
Page 44
Violet half-expected Rafe to make fun of her, to tease her about going all Nancy Drew on him, but when she looked back at him, she saw that he was thinking the same thing she was, his gaze appraising everyone.
“We have to tell Sara,” Violet whispered.
Rafe gave a sharp, determined nod, and then he downed the rest of his coffee and slammed his cup on the table. “You’re right. She needs to know this. It could be something. I’ll tell her when I get back to the Center.” He stood quickly.
Violet jumped up too. “No way, I’m coming with you,” she insisted, reaching out to stop him. She was the one who’d figured it out; she didn’t want to be left out.
She’d gotten used to the quick burst of static that erupted between them whenever they touched, but this time, when her fingers clasped around his wrist, the sensation jolted her, both physically and emotionally. She felt the ground shift, not literally, but the effect was just as unsteadying. She jerked her hand back, squeezing her fist into a tight ball.
Rafe must have felt it too, because his eyes flashed, finding hers and holding them with dark warning.
Neither of them spoke; they just watched each other warily for several long moments.
Finally a slow grin spread over his face. “Well, that was awkward.”
Violet flexed her fingers, still awed by the strange sensation rippling through her. “Do you mind explaining what the hell that is?” she asked. “You feel it too . . . don’t you?” Her thoughtful green eyes lifted to his.
“Yeah,” he grudgingly admitted. “I felt it. And you should really keep your hands to yourself, V. That shit freaks a guy out.” But his voice had dropped and his tone had grown serious. His gaze clouded over.
“What? You think it was me? You think I did that?” Violet scrutinized him. “Have you ever felt anything like that before?”
And then she watched as his defenses dropped back into place, the wall that insulated him from everything. From everyone. His expression smoothed and his voice turned cool, emotionless. “Yeah, V, you’re not the first girl I’ve ever touched.” He turned away from her and marched toward the door. “Come on, we have a job to do. Why don’t we concentrate on that?”
Violet glared at his back, and the word jerk rose to the surface, but she managed to swallow it. He was right; they’d come here for a reason, and that reason had nothing to do with either of them. “Fine,” she managed. “I’m right behind you.”
Standing beneath the red awning, Violet watched Rafe for longer than she should have. She doubted she’d ever understand him; he confused her like no one she’d ever met before. And, for some godforsaken reason, he also intrigued her. She wanted to know why he kept everyone at such a distance. And why Sam had said that she was different, because right now, she was pretty sure that wasn’t the case. She sort of thought what everyone else did, that Rafe was an ass.
She turned away from him, heading in the opposite direction, back toward the parking lot where her car was parked. It was then that she noticed it, that same strange sensation she’d felt the day before. That same stinging sensation that prickled more than just the hairs of her nose.
That found its way all the way down inside of her.
Stronger today, even, than it had been before. Stronger and more enticing.
And she thought she knew why.
Because today the sleeping pills were finally wearing off. Today her head was clearer, her senses were more alert. Her ability was unhindered.
And this sensation was an echo of some sort.
She glanced around, searching for some hint as to where it might be coming from . . . who it might be coming from. But no one person looked any different from anyone else. No one seemed unusually interested in her. Everyone kept moving, shifting and pushing along the sidewalks.
From somewhere behind her, Violet recognized the noisy rumble of Rafe’s motorcycle revving, and then she heard the steady drone of his engine as he pulled into traffic. She had the vague realization that he was leaving without her, that he was going to beat her to the Center, but she stayed where she was, rooted to her spot as foot traffic continued around her.
Just when she thought it might be getting closer—the irritating sensation growing more intense—Violet heard the cutting blare of a horn coming from down the street. Coming from the direction Rafe had been headed. The sound was too long and was followed immediately by a distinctly abrasive metallic scraping that sent icy prickles racing up Violet’s spine.
She went completely and utterly rigid. And then she was running, her feet pounding viciously against the pavement beneath her. She shoved her way through the crowds that were already starting to form, already trying to bear witness to someone else’s tragedy.
Around her, Violet heard sharp gasps and the frantic rise of murmurs melding together into a buzzing cacophony. All the while, she fervently prayed that it wasn’t what she thought it was. That it wasn’t who she thought it was.
But when she burst through the crowd, she saw it: Rafe’s motorcycle lay completely still at the center of the intersection. A green sedan that had been coming from the opposite direction was also sitting in the intersection, stopped almost directly on top of the bike. Violet watched as its driver emerged dazedly from her vehicle, blinking furiously as she reached up and gingerly touched her face. Angry red abrasions tore across the skin of her cheeks, chin, forehead, and nose. Inside the woman’s car, her air bag had deployed.
Violet scanned the asphalt—the chaos of the scene—searching for any sign of Rafe. When she didn’t see him right away, she felt a moment of relief, a lightening in the center of her chest as she figured he must have been okay after all. Maybe he’d walked away, he’d somehow come away from the crash completely unscathed, and was standing somewhere in the throng of people . . . that derisive smirk on his face.
“We have to tell Sara,” Violet whispered.
Rafe gave a sharp, determined nod, and then he downed the rest of his coffee and slammed his cup on the table. “You’re right. She needs to know this. It could be something. I’ll tell her when I get back to the Center.” He stood quickly.
Violet jumped up too. “No way, I’m coming with you,” she insisted, reaching out to stop him. She was the one who’d figured it out; she didn’t want to be left out.
She’d gotten used to the quick burst of static that erupted between them whenever they touched, but this time, when her fingers clasped around his wrist, the sensation jolted her, both physically and emotionally. She felt the ground shift, not literally, but the effect was just as unsteadying. She jerked her hand back, squeezing her fist into a tight ball.
Rafe must have felt it too, because his eyes flashed, finding hers and holding them with dark warning.
Neither of them spoke; they just watched each other warily for several long moments.
Finally a slow grin spread over his face. “Well, that was awkward.”
Violet flexed her fingers, still awed by the strange sensation rippling through her. “Do you mind explaining what the hell that is?” she asked. “You feel it too . . . don’t you?” Her thoughtful green eyes lifted to his.
“Yeah,” he grudgingly admitted. “I felt it. And you should really keep your hands to yourself, V. That shit freaks a guy out.” But his voice had dropped and his tone had grown serious. His gaze clouded over.
“What? You think it was me? You think I did that?” Violet scrutinized him. “Have you ever felt anything like that before?”
And then she watched as his defenses dropped back into place, the wall that insulated him from everything. From everyone. His expression smoothed and his voice turned cool, emotionless. “Yeah, V, you’re not the first girl I’ve ever touched.” He turned away from her and marched toward the door. “Come on, we have a job to do. Why don’t we concentrate on that?”
Violet glared at his back, and the word jerk rose to the surface, but she managed to swallow it. He was right; they’d come here for a reason, and that reason had nothing to do with either of them. “Fine,” she managed. “I’m right behind you.”
Standing beneath the red awning, Violet watched Rafe for longer than she should have. She doubted she’d ever understand him; he confused her like no one she’d ever met before. And, for some godforsaken reason, he also intrigued her. She wanted to know why he kept everyone at such a distance. And why Sam had said that she was different, because right now, she was pretty sure that wasn’t the case. She sort of thought what everyone else did, that Rafe was an ass.
She turned away from him, heading in the opposite direction, back toward the parking lot where her car was parked. It was then that she noticed it, that same strange sensation she’d felt the day before. That same stinging sensation that prickled more than just the hairs of her nose.
That found its way all the way down inside of her.
Stronger today, even, than it had been before. Stronger and more enticing.
And she thought she knew why.
Because today the sleeping pills were finally wearing off. Today her head was clearer, her senses were more alert. Her ability was unhindered.
And this sensation was an echo of some sort.
She glanced around, searching for some hint as to where it might be coming from . . . who it might be coming from. But no one person looked any different from anyone else. No one seemed unusually interested in her. Everyone kept moving, shifting and pushing along the sidewalks.
From somewhere behind her, Violet recognized the noisy rumble of Rafe’s motorcycle revving, and then she heard the steady drone of his engine as he pulled into traffic. She had the vague realization that he was leaving without her, that he was going to beat her to the Center, but she stayed where she was, rooted to her spot as foot traffic continued around her.
Just when she thought it might be getting closer—the irritating sensation growing more intense—Violet heard the cutting blare of a horn coming from down the street. Coming from the direction Rafe had been headed. The sound was too long and was followed immediately by a distinctly abrasive metallic scraping that sent icy prickles racing up Violet’s spine.
She went completely and utterly rigid. And then she was running, her feet pounding viciously against the pavement beneath her. She shoved her way through the crowds that were already starting to form, already trying to bear witness to someone else’s tragedy.
Around her, Violet heard sharp gasps and the frantic rise of murmurs melding together into a buzzing cacophony. All the while, she fervently prayed that it wasn’t what she thought it was. That it wasn’t who she thought it was.
But when she burst through the crowd, she saw it: Rafe’s motorcycle lay completely still at the center of the intersection. A green sedan that had been coming from the opposite direction was also sitting in the intersection, stopped almost directly on top of the bike. Violet watched as its driver emerged dazedly from her vehicle, blinking furiously as she reached up and gingerly touched her face. Angry red abrasions tore across the skin of her cheeks, chin, forehead, and nose. Inside the woman’s car, her air bag had deployed.
Violet scanned the asphalt—the chaos of the scene—searching for any sign of Rafe. When she didn’t see him right away, she felt a moment of relief, a lightening in the center of her chest as she figured he must have been okay after all. Maybe he’d walked away, he’d somehow come away from the crash completely unscathed, and was standing somewhere in the throng of people . . . that derisive smirk on his face.
