Shadowland (The Immortals #3)(6)
And when he looks at me, eyes meeting mine in that way that he has, along with the usual wave of warmth I get this horrible feeling that ditching the car is just the start of his plans.
“How’d you get to school?” I ask, just as we reach the front gate where Haven is waiting.
“He rode the bus.” Haven glances between us, her recently dyed, royal blue bangs falling into her face. “I kid you not. I wouldn’t have believed it either, but I saw it with my own eyes. Watched him climb right off that big yellow bus with all the other freshmen, dorks, retards, and rejects who, unlike Damen, have no other choice but to ride.” She shakes her head. “And I was so shocked by the sight of it, I blinked a bunch of times just to make sure it was really him. And then, when I still wasn’t convinced, I snapped a pic on my cell and sent it to Josh who confirmed it.” She holds it up for us to see.
I glance at Damen, wondering what he could possibly be up to, and that’s when I notice he’s ditched his usual cashmere sweater in place of a plain cotton tee, and how his designer jeans have been replaced with no-name plain pockets. Even the black motorcycle boots he’s practically famous for have been swapped for brown rubber flip-flops. And even though he doesn’t need any of that dash and flash to look as devastatingly handsome as the first day we met—this new low-key look just isn’t him.
Or at least not the him that I’m used to.
I mean, while Damen is undeniably smart, kind, loving, and generous—he’s also more than a tad flamboyant and vain. Always obsessed with his clothes, his car, his image in general. And don’t even try and pin him down on his exact date of birth, because for someone who chose to be immortal he has a definite complex about his age.
But even though I normally couldn’t care less about the clothes he wears or his ride to school, when I look at him again, I get this horrible ping in my gut—an insistent push, demanding my notice. A definite warning that this is merely the beginning. That this sudden transformation goes way deeper than some cost-cutting, altruistic, environmentally conscious agenda. No, this has something to do with last night. Something about being haunted by his karma. Like he’s convinced himself that giving up his most prized possessions will somehow balance it all out.
“Shall we?” He smiles, grasping my hand the second the bell rings, leading me away from Miles and Haven who’ll spend the next three periods texting back and forth, trying to determine what’s up with Damen.
I look at him, his gloved hand in mine as we head down the hall, whispering, “What’s going on? What really happened to your car?”
“I already told you.” He shrugs. “I don’t need it. It’s an unnecessary indulgence I no longer care to—indulge.” He laughs, looking at me. But when I fail to join in he shakes his head and says, “Don’t look so serious. It’s not a big deal. When I realized it’s not something I need, I drove it out to a depressed area and left it by the side of the road where someone can find it.”
I press my lips together and stare straight ahead, wishing I could climb inside his mind and see the thoughts he keeps to himself, get to the bottom of what this is really about. Because despite the way he looks at me, despite the dismissive shrug that he gives, nothing he’s said makes the least bit of sense.
“Well, that’s fine and all, I mean, if that’s what you need to do, then great, have fun.” I shrug, fully convinced that it’s not at all great, though knowing better than to say it out loud. “But just how are you planning to get around now that you’ve ditched your ride? I mean, in case you haven’t noticed, this is California, you can’t get anywhere without a car.”
He looks at me, clearly amused by my outburst, which is not exactly the reaction I’d planned. “What’s wrong with the bus? It’s free.”
I gape, shaking my head, hardly believing my ears. And since when do you worry about cost, Mr. I Make Millions Playing The Ponies And Just Manifest Whatever Else I Might Want? Realizing just after it’s out that I forgot to shield my thoughts.
“Is that how you see me?” He stops just shy of the classroom door, obviously hurt by my careless assessment. “As some shallow, materialistic, narcissistic, consumer-driven slob?”
“No!” I cry, shaking my head and squeezing his hand. Hoping to convince him even though I actually did kind of mean it. Only not in a bad way like he thinks. More in a my boyfriend appreciates the finer things in life kind of way, and less in a my boyfriend’s the male version of Stacia kind of way. “I just—” I squint, wishing I could be even half as eloquent as him, but still forging ahead when I say, “I guess I just don’t get it.” I shrug. “And what’s up with the glove?” I raise his leather-clad hand to where we can see.
“Isn’t it obvious?” He shakes his head and pulls me toward the door.
But I just stay put, refusing to budge. Nothing’s obvious. Nothing makes sense anymore.
He pauses, hand on the knob, more than a little hurt when he says, “I thought it was a good solution for now. But perhaps you’d prefer I not touch you at all?”
No! That’s not what I meant! Switching to telepathy the moment some classmates approach, reminding him how hard it’s been avoiding any and all skin-on-skin contact for the last three days. Pretending I had a cold when we both know we don’t get sick, and other ridiculous avoidance techniques that left me feeling deeply ashamed. It’s been torture, pure and simple. To have a boyfriend so gorgeous, so sexy, so amazingly awesome—and to not be able to touch him—is the worst kind of agony.