Complete Nothing (True Love #2)(70)

I leaned forward in my seat, my fingers itching, my heart in my throat. Hephaestus quickly shoved his computer and books aside. I waited for a face to appear in the glass, wondering if that was even how it worked and wondering if that face would be my sister’s or someone else’s. Then Hephaestus gripped the handles on his wheelchair with both hands and pushed himself up until his legs hovered inches above the seat. With one mighty grunt of effort, he flung one arm out to touch the mirror.

There was a flash of light, and the screen in front of me went black. Not the entire computer, just the small window opening that had been showing his room.

“No!” I shouted. “No! No! No!”

I clicked the play button a thousand times. Clicked fast-forward. Clicked everything. The timer was still running, which meant the camera still thought it was recording, but there was nothing. Nothing but an infuriating black screen.

The power of the mirror, once activated, must have fried the transmission. It took some serious self-control not to rip the computer in half at its hinge. Instead I got up, tore the pillows from my bed, flung the bedspread to the floor, and pounded on the mattress as hard as I could with both fists. I picked up the biggest pillow and whipped it over and over and over into the wooden footboard, sweat popping out along my brow, tears squeezing from the corners of my eyes. I wanted to see my sister. I wanted to know if it was she who Hephaestus was talking to, or some unknown enemy. I needed to know where Apollo and Artemis were. What they were plotting. I couldn’t take the not knowing anymore, having no news from home, no contact with those I loved, no clue as to whether I was going to be suddenly attacked and mortally wounded at any second.

It wasn’t fair that I didn’t get to know. It wasn’t fair.

Finally, after a few minutes of this humiliating fit-having, I ran out of steam. I sank to the floor of my room atop a pile of folded and crushed pillows and breathed. A few tears streamed down my face, but I didn’t sob. I was angry and frustrated more than anything. I felt weak. I felt impotent. I felt out of control.

These feelings didn’t sit well with me. I was a goddess. I was supreme. I was not this sniveling, desperate wuss.

“I just want Orion back,” I said aloud, resting my head down on the nearest pillow and clutching the corner in one hand. “I just want to go home.”





CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT


Claudia


As I walked down the long family-photo-lined hallway of Keegan’s second floor on Tuesday afternoon, peeking into rooms with him, I could feel the weight of the recital ticket in my backpack, tugging at the vinyl, pulling down on the straps so heavily my shoulders were tilting backward.

What was he going to say? What would I do if he laughed?

“And this,” Keegan said, opening a thick wooden door and flicking on the lights, “is my room.”

Suddenly the ticket no longer mattered. I eyed Keegan nervously. It was a weekday afternoon, no one else was home except his little brother, who was glued to the Wii in the basement two floors below, and there we were, standing at the threshold of his bedroom. Did he really expect me to just walk in there like this moment wasn’t loaded with a thousand different questions and expectations? But then, maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he had no intention of doing anything other than showing me his autographed baseball collection.

Yeah, right, Lauren’s voice said inside my head. Because that’s exactly what guys think about when showing the girl they’ve been Frenching all weekend their room.

Keegan walked inside and stood back against the door. I could either slip in past him or make an excuse to bail.

“What do you think?” he asked. “I cleaned it up just for you.”

“Yeah?”

Now it felt like I had to go inside, so I did. It was perfectly male. Blue-and-gray-plaid bedspread, football posters on the dark-blue walls. Dark wood furniture. A scent that was both flannelly and sweaty at the same time. It reminded me of Peter’s room, except that it was bigger and there was more furniture. I had always thought guys were supposed to be messy, but neither one of these guys were. Every book on Keegan’s shelves was lined up and pushed back, every shelf dusted, every piece of sports memorabilia set and angled in its place.

He closed the door, and the silence surrounded me.

“It’s nice,” I said, because I had to say something. “Very clean.”

“Glad you like it.”

He was right behind me now, his breath tickling the skin of my neck. He nudged my backpack off my shoulders and it hit the floor, the fingers of my right hand curling instinctively around the strap and holding fast. Before I could turn, his lips touched my shoulder, bare thanks to my wide-necked T-shirt, and then he was inching that neckline wider, kissing down toward my arm. When the fabric wouldn’t stretch any farther, he made his way back, across my shoulder to my neck and slowly up to my ear.

Was this really happening? No parents, the door closed, alone in the room with a guy I’d known for less than a week? What was I doing? This was so not me. I had to get out of there.

And then his hand slipped around my waist, gripped my shirt at the front, and turned me around. I took one look into his deep-brown eyes and my brain actually said, Oh, who cares? Then my body took over.

We kissed. A lot. Standing there in the middle of his bedroom, we kissed and kissed and kissed, his hands traveling up and down my back, into my hair, down my spine, over my butt and back up again. I gripped the back of his striped polo shirt with both hands, feeling childish and grown-up at the same time. Childish because I had no clue what to do with my arms or legs, grown-up because wasn’t this the definition of a grown-up moment? Kissing a guy I was just getting to know in the middle of his bedroom alone with a zillion possibilities of what might happen next vibrating around our bodies like thousands of tiny supercharged ions?