Hopeless (Hopeless #1)(12)

“You run?” he asks, leaning his elbow on the mailbox.

I nod. “Usually in the mornings. I forgot how hot it is in the afternoons.” I attempt to look back up at him, lifting my hand over my eyes to shield the sun that’s glowing over his head like a halo.

How ironic.

He reaches out and I flinch before I realize he’s just handing me his bottle of water. The way his lips purse together in an attempt not to smile makes it obvious he can see how nervous I am around him.

“Drink this.” He nudges the half empty bottle at me. “You look exhausted.” Normally I wouldn’t take water from strangers. I would especially not take water from people I know are bad news, but I’m thirsty. So damn thirsty.

I grab the bottle out of his hands and tilt my head back, downing three huge gulps. I’m dying to drink the rest, but I can’t deplete his supply, too. “Thanks,” I say, handing it back to him. I wipe my hand over my mouth and look behind me at the sidewalk. “Well, I’ve got another mile and a half return, so I better get started.”

“Closer to two and a half,” he says, cutting his eyes to my stomach. He presses his lips to the bottle without wiping the rim off, keeping his eyes trained on me while he tilts his head back and gulps the rest of the water. I can’t help but watch his lips as they cover the opening of the bottle that my lips were just touching. We’re practically kissing.

I shake my head. “Huh?” I’m not sure if he said something out loud or not. I’m a little preoccupied watching the sweat drip down his chest.

“I said it’s more like two and a half. You live over on Conroe, that’s over two miles away. That’s almost a five mile run round trip.” He says it like he’s impressed.

I eye him curiously. “You know what street I live on?”

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t elaborate. I keep my gaze fixed on his and remain silent, waiting for some sort of explanation.

He can see I’m not satisfied with his “yeah,” so he sighs. “Linden Sky Davis, born September 29th.

1455 Conroe Street. Five feet three inches. Donor.”

I take a step back, suddenly seeing my near-future murder played out in front of my eyes at the hands of my dreamy stalker. I wonder if I should stop shielding my vision from the sun so I can get a better look at him in case I get away? I might need to recount his features to the sketch artist.

“Your ID,” he explains when he sees the mixture of terror and confusion on my face. “You showed me your ID earlier. At the store.”

Somehow, that explanation doesn’t ease my apprehension. “You looked at it for two seconds.” He shrugs. “I have a good memory.”

“You stalk,” I deadpan.

He laughs. “I stalk? You’re the one standing in front of my house.” He points over his shoulder at the house behind him.

His house? What the hell are the chances?

He straightens up and taps his fingers against the letters on the front of the mailbox.





The Holders.


I can feel the blood rushing to my cheeks, but it doesn’t matter. After a middle of the afternoon run in the Texas heat and a limited supply of water, I’m sure my entire body is flush. I try not to glance back at his house, but curiousity is my weakness. It’s a modest house, not too flashy. It fits in well with the mid-income neighborhood we’re in. As does the car that’s in his driveway. I wonder if that’s his car? I can deduct from his conversation with whats-her-face from the grocery store that he’s my age, so I know he must live with his parents. But how have I not seen him before? How could I not know I lived less than three miles from the only boy in existence who can turn me into a ball of frustrated hot-flashes?

I clear my throat. “Well, thanks for the water.” I can think of nothing I want more than to escape this awkwardness. I give him a quick wave and break into a stride.

“Wait a sec,” he yells from behind me. I don’t slow down, so he passes me and turns around, jogging backward against the sun. “Let me refill your water.” He reaches over and grabs my water bottle out of my left hand, brushing his hand against my stomach in the process. I freeze again.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, running off toward his house.

I’m stumped. That is a completely contradictory act of kindness. Another side effect of the split personality disorder, maybe? He’s probably a mutation, like The Hulk. Or Jekyll and Hyde. I wonder if Dean is his nice persona and Holder is his scary one. Holder is definitely the one I saw at the grocery store earlier. I think I like Dean a lot better.

I feel awkward waiting, so I walk back toward his driveway, pausing every few seconds to look at the path that leads back to my home. I have no idea what to do. It feels like any decision I make at this point will be one for the dumb side of the scale.

Should I stay?

Should I run?

Should I hide in the bushes before he comes back outside with handcuffs and a knife?

Before I have a chance to run, his front door swings open and he comes back outside with a full bottle of water. This time the sun is behind me, so I don’t have to struggle so hard to see him. That’s not a good thing, either, since all I want to do is stare at him.

Ugh! I absolutely hate lust.

Hate. It.

Every fiber of my being knows he’s not a good person, yet my body doesn’t seem to give a shit at all.