Out of Love(6)

“Shit,” I whispered, cringing at the spilled tea pooling by my feet as I scrambled to shove my laptop into my bag and bolt toward the door. After depositing the empty cup into the trash just outside the room, I pushed through the main doors and scurried down the wide stone stairs. “Wait!” I chuckled at myself. “He can’t hear you,” I mumbled.

I slowed my jog and stretched my strides to an impossibly fast walk when I caught up to him. He halted like a soldier snapping to attention, but he didn’t turn toward me.

Pivoting to face him, I presented my kindest smile. “What’s your next class?” I signed.

Nothing.

“I’m sorry about yesterday. He’s a service dog. I get it. I should have kept to myself.”

His gaze remained affixed to mine. I dropped my hands to my sides. Such a dark, unreadable soul. Maybe he’d recently lost his hearing and didn’t understand sign language. So many thoughts went through my mind as I waited to find a way to communicate with him, until …

“What the fuck are you doing?”

My eyebrows inched up my forehead. “You’re not deaf.”

“Brilliant observation. Are we done here?”

When I hesitated for more than one second, he brushed past me.

I pivoted one-eighty. “PTSD? Bipolar disorder? Panic attacks? Suicidal thoughts? Is he an emotional support dog?” My voice lowered to a whisper when his confident pace increased the distance between us. “Okay. That went well.”

“Did Livy Knight strike out?” Karina nudged the heel of my shoe with the toe of hers before sidling next to me.

On a laugh, I nodded. “Royally.”

“Maybe he’s gay.”

I lifted a shoulder. “Maybe. I wasn’t hitting on him. He just makes me … curious.”

A throng of students from the dismissed class swallowed us, forcing us forward.

“Well, he’s definitely mysterious.”

Tipping my chin up, I searched for him, but he’d already disappeared. “Yes. Mysterious. Sure wish I didn’t like mysteries so much.” I smirked. “But I can’t help it. I do.”

“Liv …”

“What? I’m just…” gathering my blond hair off my neck, I rested it over my right shoulder and absentmindedly braided it “…curious why he has that dog in class. He’s not deaf or blind. And I want to know why he’s renting the firehouse—seemingly by himself. And everyone … I mean everyone knows it’s haunted. I don’t see how he can afford it unless his family’s rich or he is, in fact, a drug dealer.”

“Or he’s a serial killer and thought a haunted homicide house would be a great fit. He could have bodies stored in freezers in that dungeon they call a basement. Ever think about that?”

I nodded. “You know me. Of course I’ve thought that.”

We laughed in sync.

“I have to go. See ya.”

“K.” I shot her a conspiratorial smile as she veered off to the right while I headed to my next class.

Deep state.

Conspiracy theories.

Corruption.

Serial killers.

All forms of crack for me. My mom used to say my overly curious and highly suspicious mind came from my dad. However, I never equated his overprotectiveness to CSI or government espionage.

After my usual scooter drop-off at the end of our street, I made one pass in front of the firehouse, turned around, and made another pass. No black SUV. No signs of Slade Wylder.

Just a quick peek. I fed my obsessively curious side with the very drug it needed to avoid. The guy threatened to rip my arm off, and I hadn’t completely forgotten his rumored drug dealer status. Yet …

Yet I made a sudden right-left glance and sauntered up the driveway like I lived there. Closed shades obscured any chance of me getting a peek inside the firehouse. If Slade Wylder owned houseplants, they were going to die. Was the dungeon of death still there? The trapdoor covered by a rug?

Slade didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d have rugs. Or houseplants. Or cookies in a jar on the counter. My mom always had cookies in a jar for me. After she died, my dad tried to fill the jar with store-bought sandwich cookies. I turned my nose up at them and his pathetic attempt to fill my mom-void with store-bought cookies.

I’ll-rip-your-fucking-arm-off Wylder felt more like a dirty-black-boots-in-the-house kind of guy. I imagined him coming home at a werewolf’s curfew, taking a piss, leaving his jeans unfastened, peeling off his shirt, and collapsing onto an unmade bed with his boots on—one leg dangling off the side.

Finding no luck getting the tiniest glimpse into the house from windows and doors, I snooped around the detached two-car garage. The side access door had a window, but it was painted black … and it was locked.

“You know what happens to trespassers?”

“Jesus!” I jumped, whipping around and pressing my back against the door like a fly nailed with a swatter. As I swallowed, coaxing my thundering heart back down into my chest, I clenched my hands. “I’m … I’m not trespassing.”

“My property. You weren’t invited.” His frown deepened. “Trespassing.”

On an eye roll, I mimicked his intolerable facial expression. “So?” I shrugged. “Call the cops.” My gaze dropped to Jericho.