Fade Out (The Morganville Vampires #7)(37)

“Have you looked up your professor? Seen what pieces she has published. What works she favors.” She glances around, noticing the students starting to funnel into the school. “We’ll talk about it later. I’ll give you a list of things—”

“When?” I attempt to start walking beside her, but she holds up her hand.

“Just…text me. I have a class to get to.” Then she’s off. Turning and heading into the school before I can ask her anything more.

But it’s a start. I feel like we’ve been dancing around each other this whole time—not counting the actual time we danced, that is. I don’t want to let her go without confirmation that we’re going to see each other again.

God. I look up at the swaying tree branches, feeling like the biggest loser. This girl has me so wrapped around her finger, ready to do just about anything, and she doesn’t even realize it. It’s that sad. This is the one thing that is exactly like the Alyssa situation.

Even though I do need some help with my class—it’s not the reason why I asked her. I could’ve asked just about anyone to tutor me. And I could get through it okay with a passing grade, a decent story. I do want to excel, try to go for creating a story I’ll be proud of—but by asking her at all, I’m inviting her into a world I block everyone else from.

I had to do something, though. It’s a sorry excuse, one I’m sure she sees right through.

I shake my head and start toward the building. And just as Gavin strolls up to me in the hallway, an idea—one where I get to kill two birds with one stone—hits me square in the head.

“Hey, Gav, what’s the word on that booster party?”





* * *



A cold is sinking past my skin, into my bones. The wind lashes viciously at the field. I watch a stack of paper cups roll across the 50-yard line. One of the booster girls races after it, cradling a giant Gatorade bottle on her hip like a kid.

After popping on my helmet, I look to the risers, to where there’s always a small group of the boosters based at every practice. Ari is never one of them. Which is good, really, because I’m not sure I could concentrate if she was here. But the clear thought of her feels like a presence.

While Coach is running half the team around the field, the other half circling the Gatorade table, I pull out my phone and scroll through my messages until I find Ari.

Me: You can thank me now

I adjust the straps of my helmet, not expecting her to text back right away. So when my phone vibrates in my hand, a stupid thrill rushes through me.

Ari: Usually someone tells you what they should be thanking them for before they expect it—and then a truly confident (read: not cocky) person doesn’t expect thanks in the first place

A laugh barrels out of me. I type quickly. Me: I would never pretend to be anything but cocky (read: cocky around you). Do you want to know or not?

Ari: Yes

I smile. Me: Booster party this Friday, where I’ve arranged a convenient meet for our two favorite people

I don’t tell her I’ve left all the planning up to Gavin—that he’s the one putting the details together. I figure he’ll feel like a god at his own party, and that could work in Ari’s girl’s favor. But I don’t mind taking a little credit here.

Ari: Nice, Ryder. You work fast

Right. When there’s something I want…

Oh, the many responses to that pummel my head. I’m tempted, as my thumbs hover over the screen, to let them fly. But I reel it in. We’re not there yet. So I accept her small form of praise and write back: I aim to please

Then I immediately cringe. Knowing Ari, she’ll take that absolutely the wrong way. It’s like walking across a bed of hot coals with her sometimes, dancing in and out of the fire, trying to get burned as little as possible. She’s so…delicate. Physically as well as emotionally.

Ari: ;)

My eyebrows hike up my forehead. I’m already punching in my reply, asking her if that’s humor I sense in her response, when my name being called breaks through the cloud of bliss. I stop typing.

“Nash!”

I jerk my gaze away from my phone and look up. Coach is waving me over. Glancing once at my phone, I decide it’s probably better to leave it at that with Ari. I’ll end up botching things soon enough. I slip my phone into my pack near the bottom bleacher and then head over to Coach and some other man who’s standing near him.

“What’s up, Coach?” I say, then nod to the other guy. A faculty member, though I can’t recall his name. Not a professor, a counselor, I think.

Coach lays a heavy hand on my shoulder and lowers his head to talk over the wind. “You’ve received a phone call.”

My insides lock up. Tension forms between my shoulder blades. He didn’t call my cell—had to use a landline—so I already know. Glancing between coach and the counselor, I straighten my spine, feeling like I need to deflect the shame suddenly worming its way in. My father’s voice, telling me to man up, drifts to my ears on the next gust of wind, and I shake my head.

“You don’t have to…” Coach starts but trails off. He knows the hard facts, though he’s never pushed the subject too much with me.

“Yeah,” I say, already unsnapping my helmet. “I know I don’t have to take it. But if I don’t, he’ll just call my—” Shit damn. I clear my throat. “I’ll take the call,” I say to them.