Variant Lost (The Evelyn Maynard Trilogy Book 1) Page 10

  My blood boiled.

  Zara appeared at my side, slinging an arm over my shoulder and turning me in the opposite direction. “That went well,” she mumbled, bugging her eyes out at me as Dot pushed a drink into my hand with a commiserating look.

  “Maybe we could try to forget all the drama and go have a dance?” Beth was trying to salvage the night again, and I couldn’t blame her.

  “Stellar idea, Beth!” Dot led the way to the dance floor.

  The girls—and the cocktail in my hands—slowly coaxed me out of my shitty mood. We danced and joked together, jumping around to pop music until we were panting and sweaty, but my eyes kept wandering over to where Alec was still standing with the snide girl. I couldn’t help it; the situation felt so unresolved. Plus I was curious about this woman who could touch Alec so casually when everyone else avoided him like the plague. Zara was dancing closest to me, so I asked her.

  “Ah, yeah, that’s Dana. Her ability is to block other abilities.”

  “That’s interesting.” I hadn’t heard of that one before, and I wondered how it worked. Did it have something to do with blocking access to the Light? It made sense, though, why she was unafraid to touch Alec. His ability couldn’t hurt her.

  “Yeah, it’s unique.” Zara followed my gaze, so we both ended up watching Dana push Alec up against the wall and kiss him, his hands gripping her hips, as we talked. “But it makes her as much of a pariah as him.”

  “Why?”

  “Variants love their abilities. Having a connection to the Light, even a small one without a Vital to amplify it, is revered. Would you want to be around someone whose mere presence takes away what’s special about you?”

  Of course. No one would want their ability stripped away. Except Alec. Alec seemed happy to be rid of his ability. He was embracing being powerless as enthusiastically as he was embracing Dana.

  I felt a little voyeuristic watching them as they shared such an intimate moment, but they were the ones making out in the middle of a party. My gaze felt locked on his hand as it trailed lower, gripping her firmly by the ass.

  As if he could feel my eyes on him, he opened his and looked directly at me. I should have looked away, but I couldn’t, and he held my stare as he continued to kiss the girl in his arms.

  I was so focused on my stare-off with Alec that I didn’t notice someone coming up behind me until a warm, sweaty body pressed against my back.

  “You like to watch, huh?” The guy’s breath reeked of beer as it washed over my cheek. “Do you like to be watched too? I can help you put on a show.”

  His hand landed on my hip, and my face scrunched up in disgust. “Eew! No chance in hell!” I spoke loudly, getting the attention of my friends, and the relaxed smiles fell from their faces.

  I tried to step out of his grasp, but his grip on my hip tightened, and his other arm wrapped around my shoulders. My instinct was to elbow him in the stomach—all the paranoid advice my mother had given me about avoiding abduction flashing through my mind—but before I had the chance, Zara and Dot stepped up, each taking a sweaty arm, and shoved the drunk away from me.

  “She said no, asshole!” Dot yelled as Zara stared daggers.

  Beth gently wrapped her hand around mine and tugged me backward, and I turned around to get a good look at the guy. Between Zara and Dot’s defensive stances, I glimpsed him swaying just a little where he stood, eyes glazed. He was a little older than us, wearing jeans, a tank top, and a backward baseball cap.

  “Why don’t you crawl back into whatever hole you came out of, Franklyn, and leave our friend alone?” Dot was doing all the talking while Zara just stood there, looking intimidating.

  The guy laughed, as if it were all a big joke, and walked off, waving his hands in the universal “yeah, yeah” gesture.

  My new friends surrounded me.

  “Are you OK, Eve?” Beth put a hand on my shoulder.

  “I’m . . .” My eyes were flying about the room, my brain trying to take in as much information as possible in its heightened state. Once again, my attention snagged on Alec. Dana was still pressed up against him, but she was in a conversation with some other girl. Alec was staring right at me. His expression was completely blank, but his eyes held a perplexing intensity that was evident even from across the room.

  I couldn’t stand the scrutiny and looked away, giving my friends a smile. “I’m fine, guys. Really.”

  They looked skeptical.

  “I might get some water or something.” I really was OK. My brain had processed the fact that the immediate danger had passed, but the oppressive crowd and loud music had become a little overwhelming. My friends all offered to go with me, but I insisted they stay. I didn’t want to ruin their night any further, and honestly, a moment alone was exactly what I needed.

  I managed to squeeze my way off the dance floor and picked up my pace as soon as I was free of the throng. As I passed the kitchen, focused on the foyer ahead, I barreled into someone.

  The guy had come from around the huge kitchen island, shouting to someone behind him and not looking where he was going. As we crashed into each other, the beer he’d been holding, filling two red cups to the brim, ended up all over his very neat outfit. Only a few drops had landed on my sleeve, but his pale green Oxford shirt and beige chinos were dripping.

  I stepped back, my hands out in front of me, eyes going wide in shock. His perfectly smooth dirty blond hair fell over his forehead as he surveyed the mess down his front. He looked vaguely familiar, and my brain got stuck on trying to place him, completely forgetting that I should be apologizing.

  “Shit,” he muttered. He glanced at me, then dropped his arms by his sides, resigned, before turning around and disappearing toward the front of the house.

  As he walked away, I finally realized who he was: Kid’s friend—the one I’d seen him hanging out with around campus and the one the Reds had said lived here. I couldn’t remember his name though.

  I stood there stunned for all of three seconds before another familiar guy stepped into my field of vision. The drunk from the dance floor was back.

  “Hey! There you are!” He spoke as if we were old friends, not as if he had accosted me on the dance floor.

  He started moving toward me, arms wide as if to give me a hug. I held both hands in front of me and started backing away.

  Naturally, I ended up bumping into another person.

  Big, warm hands landed on my shoulders, steadying me, followed by Kid’s booming voice. “Franklyn, leave the lady alone.” There wasn’t an ounce of humor in his tone. It was serious and firm, but the drunk guy laughed anyway and started slurring about what a great party this was.

  I half turned to look at Kid, craning my neck to meet his eyes.

  “Thanks.” Just having his strength at my back made me feel calmer. We smiled at each other, but the moment didn’t last long. I still wanted to get out of there, and he still had a drunk dickhead to deal with.

  “Anytime. Excuse me while I . . .” He gestured to our “friend.”

  I nodded and walked toward the foyer, immediately missing the steadying weight of Kid’s hands on my shoulders.

  Eight

  I speed-walked toward the front of the house, trying to look casual, but the whole thing had shaken me up. I wanted nothing more to do with that drunk guy. Thank god Kid had been around to step in.

  When I got to the giant staircase at the front of the house, I sprinted up it, desperate for a moment away from the party and the craziness of it all. I was out of breath by the time I reached the landing, my heart beating fast inside my chest—whether from residual fright or from the run up the million-step staircase, I wasn’t sure. I needed to sit, calm myself, but I couldn’t just plonk down in the middle of the corridor.

  Voices drifted up from below, and I groaned—I hadn’t gotten far enough away.

  The drunk guy slurred something unintelligible while laughing boisterously. Kid’s booming voice, talking over the top of him
, carried up the stairs.

  “Dude! Not cool. You need to leave.”

  It didn’t sound as if drunk guy was going to go without a fight, and I didn’t envy Kid his task of trying to get a wasted person to do—well, pretty much anything.

  Not wanting to get caught between them again, I rounded the corner and made my way, much more slowly and quietly, up the second flight of stairs. Convinced no one would be up in this part of the house, I walked to the first door on my left and let myself in, turning immediately and pressing my ear to the wood.

  Nothing. Even the booming music from the giant speakers was muffled to a distant rhythmic thud. I relaxed my shoulders and turned to check out where I was, only to find myself staring into a pair of amused green eyes.

  I jumped, startled by the guy standing in the middle of the room. He was taller than me, not by much but enough that I needed to angle my head up to look him in the eye. He wasn’t as tall as Kid and nowhere near as wide—no one was quite as big as Kid—but he had presence

  “Jeez!” My hand flew up to my throat, trying to calm my panic. “You scared the crap out of me! What the hell, man?”

  He chuckled, crossing his arms over his chest loosely. “You’re the one that barged into my bedroom without knocking, and you made me spill beer all over myself.”

  It was the guy I’d run into downstairs. He’d changed out of his beer-soaked shirt and into a grungy Metallica T-shirt. Combined with his now mussed hair, it was such a contrast to the polished look of his original outfit that he almost looked like a new person.

  His eyes were the same though. A rich green, almost emerald, muted in the dim light of his bedroom.

  “Right. Fair point. Sorry about that. I didn’t know there was anyone in here. And sorry about before . . .” I made a waving gesture at his chest, indicating where the beer had soaked him. He had the build of a soccer player, lithe and defined, his biceps not bulging out of the T-shirt sleeves but still making themselves known. “. . . with the beer and all that.”

  As I spoke, I took in the room. The tall ceilings, wood paneling, and heavy drapes over the window were in line with the opulence of the home, as was the sheer size of the space—yet the room was filled with personality. Opposite the neatly made king-size bed, a leather couch faced a large fireplace in the left-hand wall. Surrounding the fireplace and curving around the two adjoining walls were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves bursting with books, records, CDs, and even tapes. In one section of the shelf sat an impressive-looking stereo system.

  “I didn’t like that shirt anyway.” His voice dragged my gaze away from the bookshelf and back to him. “Hiding from someone?”

  “Ah, yeah. Some drunk guy—Freddy? Frankie? Something.”

  His face got serious. “Franklyn? Are you all right?” He took a step toward me, his eyes running over me from head to toe. “You need me to go take care of it?”

  “No! No, it’s fine. Kid’s already kicking him out, I think.” The last thing I wanted was more drama, and Kid seemed as though he had it under control.

  “Right. OK.” He visibly relaxed. “I’m Josh Mason, by the way.”

  I made a mental note to remember his name. Zara had mentioned it in the driveway earlier, but I’d forgotten it.

  “I’m Eve Blackburn. I’m kind of new here.” The shelf was drawing my attention again, and I found myself drifting toward it. “So, you’re not related to Ethan and Alec, are you? You don’t look alike.” I couldn’t help digging for some information—something to confirm or deny the facts of the tragic story Zara had told.

  “No. I just live with them. We grew up together.” He didn’t seem inclined to elaborate.

  I was wary of being too nosy, and besides, the bookshelf now had me thoroughly distracted. “You must read a lot.”

  Obvious, but I was so occupied with scanning the sea of titles that I wasn’t really paying attention to what I was saying. Some familiar ones jumped out at me. He had the classics—Dickens, Bronte, Austen, Tolstoy—but also some modern literature and, in among those, some nonfiction too—philosophy, history, and a bit of politics.

  His chuckle came from close behind me. He had followed me over, his movements completely silent on the soft carpet. “Yeah, I like to read. Do you read?”

  “Yes. More like devour the words.”

  He laughed, a soft, contained sound.

  “Although I don’t read as much fiction as you,” I continued. “I don’t mind philosophy and politics, but there’s still too much subjectivity. Give me an edition of New Scientist any day. Even textbooks . . .” I trailed off—I was sounding like a total nerd and maybe a bit of a show-off. I, an intellectual, read scientific journals and textbooks for fun. I groaned internally, afraid to look at him. Maybe it was time to slowly back out of the room and leave the gorgeous boy with the full lips and kind eyes alone.

  He stepped up next to me and leaned one shoulder on the shelf to my right. “As interesting as I find science, I struggle with the journals. Too much jargon.”

  We were looking at each other now, him casually leaning on the shelf, arms crossed, me with my arm still resting on the spine of the book I’d been looking at, my mouth slightly parted in shock. He wasn’t freaked out or put off.

  Then I remembered where I was. Of course everyone here would be intelligent and well-read. Bradford Hills Institute was the most exclusive school in the country.

  “You must be studying some science subjects then?” he asked. “Are you taking any of the Variant studies units?”

  I quickly did my best to cover my astonishment and tried to act naturally, pushing my sleeves up to my elbows to give my hands something to do. Natural, however, was becoming increasingly difficult to pull off; I was speaking to a guy that was not only ridiculously good looking and intelligent but also actually interested in speaking to me.

  We chatted briefly about which classes we were both taking. He was twenty, a bit older than me, but due to Bradford Hills’ unique way of structuring classes, we had a few in common. When I made an intentionally cheesy joke about how organic chemistry is difficult because those who study it have “alkynes” of trouble, Josh laughed and leaned forward, lightly touching my forearm where it rested on the shelf. His warm hand felt soft on my bare skin.

  A tingling warmth at the point of contact reminded me of when Kid and I first shook hands. We both stopped laughing, and the air became heavier around us. I looked down at where we were connected, marveling at the sensation. He must have mistaken it for discomfort, because he withdrew his hand and rubbed the back of his neck, looking a bit uncomfortable.

  “So . . .” My voice sounded shaky even to myself. That buzzing energy was starting up again. It had been nearly a week since my last stretch of sleeplessness, and it was choosing this particular moment to rear its head. Great. “What kind of music do you like? By the look of your shelves . . . all of it.” I laughed lightly. There were easily just as many records, CDs, and tapes jammed onto the shelves as there were books.

  He laughed and looked at me with a sparkle in his green eyes, the awkwardness gone. “I don’t mind most music, but what I really love is rock.”

  “So all these are . . .”

  “Yep. Everything from AC/DC to ZZ Top. From Foo Fighters to Linkin Park to Marilyn Manson to . . . well, you get the idea. There’s such a variety in sound and style and so many subgenres. So much to listen to, and real artistry in the way the music is made. These guys really play their instruments, you know?”

  His enthusiasm was downright adorable, and I smiled wide, equally amused at his excitement and impressed with his knowledge.

  He returned my smile and crouched down, flipping through some records stacked along the bottom shelf. “You wanna hear something?”

  “Sure.” I could watch Josh geek out over rock music for the rest of the evening. I didn’t even need to go back to the party. What party?

  He plucked out a record and walked over to the stereo system, lifted the flap, extracted the r
ecord from its sleeve, and placed it gently on the turntable.

  As a slow, moody guitar filled the space, he walked back over to me, eyes never leaving mine. “This is Led Zeppelin. It’s one of their less well-known songs, but I love it. Rock doesn’t have to be all high energy and loud banging. There’s real emotion in music like this.”

  He stopped right in front of me.

  The itching, as hard as I tried to ignore it, was burning at my wrists. It was torture not to reach up and scratch my arms, but Josh’s eyes had pinned me to my spot.

  He gently laid his hand on my waist, and I reacted instantly, placing my hand on his bicep. We leaned into each other slowly, keeping eye contact until our faces were so close that I could see how dilated his pupils were, the green around them almost pulsing.

  Our lips met softly at first, in a gentle kiss that felt like a sigh. I’d only met him twenty minutes ago, but kissing him felt like a much-anticipated reunion after a long absence, as if I’d been waiting for him for years. We moved into each other simultaneously. His arms wrapped around my middle, pressing me into his chest as I lifted my own arms around his neck, one hand twisting into his hair.

  The kiss was soft, but also intense and warm. Comforting and firm. Our breathing deepened as our lips moved against each other. It felt so natural. It felt like home.

  That warm tingly feeling was back but so much stronger. It was everywhere, bleeding in and out of me. His touch felt like liquid gold. The sensation was present wherever our skin touched, but my whole body felt connected to him. I was acutely aware of his every movement, every twitch of his fingers against my spine, every breath that pressed his chest impossibly closer to mine.

  When he pulled away, the lights seemed to dim. I leaned forward, moving with him, a snake leaning toward the snake charmer. He had broken the kiss but didn’t let me go. We stood there, holding each other, looking into each other’s eyes as a look of shock spread over his face.

  The kiss had been nothing short of spectacular—I’d never been kissed like that before. Judging by his speechlessness and the way his hands were flexing against my back, bunching the fabric of my shirt, I had a feeling he’d liked it too.