Deep (Chicago Underground #8)(11)

But he hadn’t touched me in the end. He’d let me go.

Sloan cleared his throat, expression half expectant, half hopeful. Oh no. “Ella, would you…would you like to go on a date?”

My heart sank. I’d been too young for Philip. Too good for him, or so he’d claimed. The good girl. The worst part was, I couldn’t even argue. All I’d done since then was go to class like an obedient daughter, ignoring that my adoptive father’s gambling debts had gotten me in trouble in the first place.

Sloan was perfect for me, in every way. Except he didn’t make me ache.

When I touched myself at night, it wasn’t his boyish face that I pictured. It wasn’t his lean body I pictured between my legs. I had never been with a man, not all the way, and the only man I could imagine myself with wasn’t interested.

“Sloan—”

“I think we get along,” he filled in quickly. “And I really like you. I know you don’t like me like that, at least not yet, but maybe in time that would change.”

The last word lilted up, like a question. My mouth snapped shut. I felt bad for the answer I’d have to give. I also felt impressed that he knew my answer—and that he’d asked anyway.

Sloan was a good guy. Cute in that lanky, all-American way I should be attracted to.

I just wished he inspired half the heat that a single blank postcard could.

I glanced at the stack of junk mail in my hands. There wasn’t a postcard. Hadn’t been one for months. They had always been erratic, but now it was time to face facts.

Another one wasn’t coming.

And even if it did, that wasn’t a relationship.

“Yes,” I whispered, because this was what I should do. I should go to school and get a regular job. I should date a nice boy and marry him. That would give me the family I longed for, the connection I still desperately wanted.

“I think we’d have a good time, and I wouldn’t expect—Oh.” Sloan looked surprised. Then sheepish.

Guilt gnawed me inside, that I’d made him beg. That I instantly regretted saying yes.

Why couldn’t I want him?

He rallied quickly. “Tomorrow night?”

That was fast. But maybe for the best, like ripping off a Band-Aid. I just didn’t want to think about what wound the Band-Aid had been protecting, the wound I’d just exposed. “Tomorrow night.”

We rode the elevator to my floor, and I waved goodbye without looking back. Tomorrow night I’d deal with what I’d agreed to. I’d deal with having a bad time—or having a good time. I wasn’t sure which one I dreaded most.

For now I headed to my dorm room while he continued in the elevator up to his. I crossed the long hallway over dark carpet, questionable stains barely visible under the dim, flickering light.

Inside my room I leaned back against the door, shutting my eyes.

What was I thinking saying yes?

But I already knew the answer. I was lonely. Had always been lonely, if I was being honest. I pulled my sociology textbook from my backpack and started studying, reading about all the ways people connected with each other, my nose pressed to the glass of human experience.





Chapter Ten

I WOKE UP on the little two-cushion couch, disoriented. My textbook was open, one page creased from where my arm had rested. I didn’t remember falling asleep.

What had woken me up?

That seemed important, but I didn’t hear anything. I checked my phone to find a new e-mail about a study group and a text message from Sloan confirming our date. That hadn’t been a dream, then.

Looking forward to it, I texted back, not quite holding in a wince.

I stood and stretched. My attention went to the collection of Chicago postcards tacked to my bulletin board. Each had a different touristy design—the skyline at sunset or the lit-up Navy Pier. Each was blank aside from my name and address.

I studied the nondescript block letters, somehow both aggressive and contained. What had inspired him to send these?

What made him stop?

It was dark outside, grown late, and I hadn’t eaten dinner yet. Somewhere out there, Philip was probably dining with crystal and expensive wine. Meanwhile I’d probably order a pizza with one of those coupons by the door.

A low sound raised the hair on my neck.

Oh God, I’m not alone.

My gaze swept over the small dorm room. From here I could see the tiny bedroom area and the kitchenette. I could see almost the entire space. Empty.

Maybe it was just one of my neighbors getting busy and—

The sound came again, louder. A shiver ran through me. It was coming from outside the room, but not from either side. It was coming from the door.

I crept over and looked out the peephole. An empty hallway bulged in the distorted lens.

Now I was doubting myself. Had I actually heard something? Maybe it had come from the dorm room across the hall. When I first moved here, it had been shortly after my “ordeal,” as my adoptive mother called it. I had jumped at every sound, both real and imagined, more traumatized by my brush with danger than I’d wanted to admit.

My gaze snapped to my phone.

I could call my adoptive mother right now, but I knew she wouldn’t want to be bothered. I could call the building management, but I knew what would happen. The same thing that had happened last time I called them. They’d send my floor advisor to check on me. If there was anything scary in this hallway, she’d have to face it first.