Miles frowns and motions toward his dad, while I cringe and mouth sorry. Having forgotten he's out of the closet with his friends, but not yet his parents. "Don't you worry, all is well," he whispers, batting his false eyelashes and running his hands through his blond-streaked locks. "I had a temporary meltdown, but it's over with now, and all is forgiven. And speaking of Prince Charming..." I turn toward the door, eager to see Damen walk through it. My heart going into overdrive at just the mere thought of him—the whole, wonderful, glorious thought of him—and not doing much to mask my disappointment when I realize he's referring to Haven and Josh.
"What do you think?" he asks, nodding at them. "They gonna make it?" I watch as Josh slides his arm around Haven's waist, cupping his fingers and pulling her closer. But no matter how hard he tries, it's no use. Despite the fact that they're perfect together, she's focused on Roman—mirroring the way he stands, the way he tilts his head back when he laughs, the way he holds his hands—all of her energy flowing straight toward him as though Josh doesn't exist. But even though it seems mostly onesided, unfortunately Roman's the type who'd be more than willing to take her out for a test drive. I turn back to Miles and force a casual shrug.
"There's a cast party at Heather's," Miles says. "We're all headed there soon. You guys coming?"
I give him a blank look. I don't even know who that is.
"She played Penny Pingleton?"
I don't know who that is either, but I know better than to admit it, so I nod like I do.
"Don't tell me you guys were macking so much you missed the whole show!" He shakes his head in a way that makes it clear he's only partly joking.
"Don't be ridiculous, I saw the whole thing!" I say, my face flushing a thousand shades of red and knowing he'll never believe me even though it's more or less true. Because even though we were behaving ourselves and not at all macking, it was almost like our hands were macking—with the way Damen entwined his fingers with mine—and like our thoughts were mucking—with the telepathic messages we sent back and forth. Because even though my eyes were watching the whole entire time—my mind was elsewhere, already occupying our room at the Montage.
"So you coming or not?" Miles asks, his mind correctly guessing not, and not nearly as upset as I thought he might be. "So, where you two headed, anyway? What could be more exciting than partying with the cast and crew?"
And when I look at him, I'm so tempted to tell him, to share my big secret with someone I know I can trust. But just as I've convinced myself to spill it, Roman walks up with Josh and Haven in tow.
"We're heading over, anybody need a ride? It's only a two-seater, but there's room for one more." Roman nods at me, his gaze pushing, probing, even after I turn away.
Miles shakes his head. "I'm grabbing a ride with Holt, and Ever better-dealed me. Some top-secret plan she refuses to spill."
Roman smiles, his lips lifting at the corners as his eyes graze over my body. And even though, technically speaking, his thoughts could probably be considered more flattering than crude, the fact that they're coming from him is enough to give me the creeps. I avert my gaze, glancing toward the door, knowing Damen should've been here by now. And I'm just about to send him a telepathic message, telling him to step it up and meet me inside, when I'm interrupted by the sound of Roman's voice saying, "Must've kept it secret from Damen too, then. He already left."
I turn, my eyes meeting his, feeling that undeniable ping in my gut as a chill blankets my skin. "He didn't leave, " I say, not even trying to clear the edge from my voice. "He just went to pull the car around back."
But Roman just shrugs, his gaze filled with pity when he says, "Whatever you say. I just thought you should know that just now, when I stepped out for a smoke, I saw Damen pulling out of the parking lot and speeding away."
Chapter Twelve
I burst through the door and into the alley, gazing around the narrow empty space as my eyes adjust to the darkness, making out a row of overflowing Dumpsters, a trail of broken glass, a hungry stray cat—but no Damen.
I stumble forward, my eyes searching relentlessly as my heart beats so fast I fear it might break free from my chest. Refusing to believe he's not here. Refusing to believe that he ditched me. Roman's awful! He's lying! Damen would never just up and leave me like this.
Trailing my fingers along the brick wall for guidance, I close my eyes and try to tune in to his energy, calling him to me in a telepathic message of love, need, and worry, but getting only a solid black void in response. Then I slalom through cars all heading for the exit, cell phone pressed to my ear while I peer into windows, leaving a series of messages on his voicemail. Even when my right, heel breaks off my sandal, I just toss them aside and keep going. I don't care about my shoes. I can make a hundred more pairs. But I can't make another Damen.
And as the lot slowly empties, with still no sign of him, I crumble to the curb, feeling sweaty, exhausted, deflated. Watching the cuts and blisters on my feet simultaneously mend, and wishing I could close my eyes and access his mind—get a read on his thoughts, if not his whereabouts. But the truth is, I've never been able to get inside his head. It's one of the things I liked best about him. His being so psychically off limits made me feel normal. And wouldn't you know, the one thing that once seemed so appealing is now the very thing that's working against me.
"Need a lift?"
I look up to find Roman standing over me, jangling a set of keys in one hand, my broken sandals in the other. I shake my head and look away, knowing I'm in no position to refuse a ride, though I'd rather crawl through a trail of hot coals and broken glass than climb inside a two-seater with him.
"C'mon," he says. "I promise not to bite."
I gather my things, tossing my cell into my bag and smoothing my dress as I stand up and say, "I'm good."
"Really?" He smiles, moving so close our toes nearly touch. "'Cause, to be honest, you're not looking so good." I turn, making my way toward the exit, not bothering to stop when he says, "What I meant was the situation isn't looking so good. I mean, look at you, Ever. You're disheveled, shoeless, and though I can't be too sure, it appears that your boyfriend has ditched you." I take a deep breath and keep going, hoping he'll soon tire of this game, tire of me, and move on, "And yet, even in that frenetic, slightly desperate state, I have to admit, you're still smokin'—if you don't mind my saying." I stop, suddenly turning to face him despite my vow to keep moving. Cringing as his eyes slowly rake over my body, lingering on my legs, my waist, and my chest—with an unmistakable gleam. "Makes one wonder what Damen's thinking, 'cause if you ask me—"
"No one asked you," I say, feeling my hands starting to shake and reminding myself that I'm completely in charge here, that I've no reason to feel threatened. That even though I may look like your average defenseless girl on the outside, I'm anything but. I'm stronger than I used to be, so strong that if I really wanted, I could take him down with one swing. I could pick him up off his feet and toss him clear across the parking lot to the other side of the street. And don't think I'm not tempted to prove it.
He smiles, that lazy grin that works on just about everyone but me, his steely blue eyes peering straight into mine with a gaze so knowing, so personal, so amused—my first instinct is to flee. But I don't. Because everything about him feels like a challenge, and no way am I letting him win.
"I don't need a ride," I finally say.
Turning to pick up the pace and feeling his chill as he trails right behind me. His icy cold breath on the back of my neck when he says, "Ever, please, slow down a minute, would ya? I didn't mean to upset you."
But I don't slow down. I keep going. Determined to put as much distance between us as I possibly can.
"Come on now." He laughs. "I'm only trying to help. Your friends have all left, Damen's buggered off, the cleaning crew went home, which makes me your only hope left."
"I've plenty of options," I mumble, wishing he'd just go away so I can try to manifest a car, some shoes, a
nd be on my way.
"None that I can see."
I shake my head and keep walking. This conversation is over.
"So what you're saying is, you'd rather foot it all the way home than get in a car with me?"
I reach the end of the street and punch the signal again and again, willing the light to turn green so I can get to the other side and be rid of him.
"I don't know how we got off to such a bad start, but it's pretty clear that you hate me and I've no idea why." His voice is smooth, inviting, as though he really wants to start over, let bygones be bygones, make amends, and all that.
But I don't want to start over. Nor do I want to make amends. I just want him to turn around, go somewhere else, and leave me alone so I can find Damen. And yet, I can't let it go, can't let him get the last word. So I glance over my shoulder and say, "Don't flatter yourself, Roman. Hating requires caring. In which case, I couldn't possibly hate you." Then I storm across the street even though the light has yet to turn green. Dancing around a couple of speeders intent on beating the yellow, and feeling the insistent chill of his gaze.
"What about your shoes?" he shouts. "Shame to just leave 'em like this. I'm sure the heel can be fixed."
But I just keep moving. Seeing him bow deeply behind me, his arm sweeping upward in anexaggerated arc, my sandals dangling from the tips ofhis fingers. His all-encompassing laugh chasing behind me, following me across the boulevard and onto the street.
Chapter Thirteen
The moment I cross the street I duck behind a building, peer around the corner, and wait until Roman's cherry red Aston Martin Roadster pulls onto the road and drives away. Then I wait a few minutes more until I'm fully convinced he really is gone and won't be returning anytime soon. I need to find Damen. I need to find out what happened to him, why he disappeared without saying a word. I mean, he's (we've) been looking forward to this night for four hundred years, so the fact that he's not here beside me proves something's gone terribly wrong.
But first I need a car. You can't get anywhere in Orange County without one. So I close my eyes and picture the first thing that comes to mind—a sky blue VW Bug—just like the one Shayla Sparks, the coolest senior to ever walk the halls of Hillcrest High, used to drive. Remembering its cartoonish round shape and the black cloth top that seemed so glamorous and yet took such a beating in the relentless Oregon ram. Picturing it so clearly it's as though it's right ther ebefore me—all shiny and curvy and adorably cute. Feeling my fingers bend around the door handle, and the soft stroke of leather as I slide onto the seat, and when I place a single red tulip in the flower holder before me, I open my eyes and see that my ride is complete. Only I don't know how to start the engine. I forgot to manifest a key.
But since that's never stopped Damen, I just close my eyes again and will the engine to life, remembering the exact sound Shayla's car used to make as my ex-best friend Rachel and I stood on the curb afterschool, watching in envy as her super cool friends piled into the front and back seats. And the moment the engine turns, I head toward Coast Highway. Figuring I'll start at the Montage, the place we were supposed to end up, and take it from there.
The traffic is thick this time of night, but it doesn't slow me. I just focus on all of the surrounding cars, seeing what everyone's next move is going to be, then adjusting my journey around it. Moving quickly and smoothly into each open space, until I arrive at the entrance, jump out of the Bug, and sprint for the lobby. Stopping only when the valet calls out from behind me, "Hey, wait up! What about the key?"
I pause, my breath coming in short shallow gasps, not realizing until I catch him staring at my feet that I'm not only keyless but shoeless as well. Yet knowing I can't afford to waste any more time than I already have, and reluctant to go through the whole manifesting process in front of him, I run through the door, yelling, "Just leave it running, I'll only be a sec!"
I make a beeline for the front desk, bypassing a long line of disgruntled people, all of them weighed down with golf bags and monogrammed luggage, all of them complaining about checking in late due to a four-hour delay. And when I cut in front of the middle-aged couple that was supposed to be next, the griping and grumbling hits the next level.
"Has Damen Auguste checked in?" I ask, ignoring the protests behind me, as my fingers curl around the edge of the counter and I fight to steady my nerves.
"I'm sorry, who ?" The clerk's gaze darts to the couple behind me, shooting them a look meant to say—don't worry, I'll be done with this psycho chick soon!
"Damen. Auguste." I enunciate slowly, succinctly, with far more patience than I have.
She squints at me, her thin lips barely moving as she says, "I'm sorry, that information is confidential." Flicking her long dark pony-tail over her shoulder in a move so final, so dismissive, it's like a period at the end of a sentence.
I narrow my eyes, focusing on her deep orange aura and knowing it means strict organization and self control are the virtues she prizes the most—something I showed a glaring lack of when I jumped the turnstile a moment ago. And knowing I need to get on her good side if I've any hope of obtaining the info I need, I resist the urge to act all huffy and indignant, and calmly explain how I'm the other guest who's sharing the room.
She looks at me, looks at the couple behind me, then says, "I'm sorry, but you'll have to wait your turn. Just. Like. Everyone. Else."
And I know I have less than ten seconds between now and when she calls for security. "I know." I lower my voice and lean toward her. "And I really am sorry. It's just that—"
She looks at me, her fingers inching toward the phone as I take in her long straight nose, thin unadorned lips, and the hint of puffiness just under her eyes, and just like that, I see my way in. She's been dumped. She's been dumped so recently she still cries herself to sleep every night. Reliving the horrible event every day, all day—the scene following her wherever she goes, from her waking state to her dreams.
"It's just that, well—" I pause, trying to make it seem as though it hurts too much to say the actual words, when the truth is I'm not sure which words I'll actually use. Then I shake my head and start over, knowing it's always better to stick with some semblance of the truth when you need the lie to seem real. "He didn't show up when he was supposed to, and because of that... well... I'm not sure if he's even still coming." I swallow hard, cringing when I realize the tears in my eyes are for real. But when I look at her again, seeing her face soften—the grim judging mouth, the squinty narrowed eyes, the superior tilt of her chin—all of it suddenly transformed by compassion, solidarity, and unity—I know that it worked. We're like sisters now, loyal members of an all-female tribe, recently jilted by men. I watch as she taps some commands on her keyboard, tuning in to her energy so I can see what she sees—the letters on the screen flashing before me, showing that our room, suite 309, is still empty.
"I'm sure he's just running late," she says, though she doesn't believe it. In her mind, all men are scum, of this she's convinced. "But if you can show me some ID and prove that you're you, I can—" But before she can finish, I'm already gone, turning away from the desk and running outside. I don't need a key. I could never check into that sad empty room,waiting for a boyfriend who clearly won't show. I need to keep moving, keep searching. I need to hit the only other two places where he might be. And as I jump in my car and head for the beach—I pray that I'll find him.
Chapter Fourteen
I park near the Shake Shack and head toward the ocean, feeling my way down the dark winding path, determined to locate Damen's secret cave even though I've only been there one other time, which happens to be the one other time we came really close to doing the deed. And we would have too—if it weren't for me. I guess I have a long history of slamming the brakes at the most crucial moment. Either that, or I end up dying. So obviously, I was hoping tonight would be different. But the moment my feet hit the sand and I make my way down to his hideout, I'm sorry to see that it's pretty much the same as we
left it: blankets and towels folded and stacked in the corner, surfboards lined up against the walls, a wet suit draped over a chair—but no Damen.
And with only one place left on my list, I cross my fingers and run for my car. Amazed by the way my limbs move with such speed and grace, the way my feet merely glance over the sand, covering the distance so quickly, I've barely started and I'm already back in my car pulling out of my space. Wondering just how long I've been able to do this, and what other immortal gifts I might have.
When I arrive at the gate, Sheila, the gate guard who's used to seeing me by now and knows I'm on Damen's permanent list of welcome guests, just smiles and waves me right in. And as I head up the hill toward his house and pull into his drive, the first thing I notice is that the lights are all off. And I mean all of them. Including the one over the door that he always leaves on. I sit in the Bug, its engine idling as I gaze up at those cold dark windows. Part of me wanting to break down the door, tear up the stairs, and burst into his "special" room—the one where he stores his most precious mementos—the portraits of himself aspainted by Picasso, Van Gogh, and Velazquez, along with the piles of rare, first-editions to mes—the priceless relics of his long and storied past, all hoarded into one overstuffed, gilt-laden room. While the other part prefers to stay put, knowing I don't need to enter to prove he's not there. The cold, foreboding exterior, with its stone-covered walls, tiled roof, and vacant windows, is completely devoid of his warm loving presence.
I close my eyes, struggling to recall the last words he said—something about getting the car so that we could make an even quicker getaway. Sure that he really meant we—that we were supposed to make the quick getaway so that we could finally be together—our four-hundred-year quest culminating on this one perfect night. I mean, he couldn't have been looking for a quicker get away from me—Could he?