My Soul to Take Page 3

  He groaned, but when I glanced at him, I found him watching me rather than the car. “So…do I get a chance to earn your trust?”

  My pulse jumped. Was he serious?

  I should’ve said no. I should have thanked him for helping me at Taboo, then left with him staring after me from his front yard. But I wasn’t strong enough to resist those dimples. Even knowing how many other girls had probably failed that same task.

  I blame my weakness on the recent panic attack.

  “How?” I asked finally, then flushed when he grinned. He’d known I’d give in.

  “Come over tomorrow night?”

  To his house? No way. I was weak-willed, not stupid. Not that I could make it anyway…“I work till nine on Sundays.”

  “At the Ciné?”

  He knows where I work. Surprise warmed me from the inside out, and I frowned in question.

  “I’ve seen you there.”

  “Oh.” Of course he’d seen me there. Probably on a date. “Yeah, I’ll be in the ticket booth from two on.”

  “Lunch, then?”

  Lunch. How much could I possibly be tempted into in a public restaurant? “Fine. But I still don’t trust you.”

  He grinned and opened his door, and the overhead light flared to life. His pupils shrank to pinpoints in the sudden glare, and as my heart raced, he leaned forward like he would kiss me. Instead, his cheek brushed mine and his warm breath skimmed my ear as he whispered, “That’s half the fun.”

  My breath hitched in my throat, but before I could speak, the car bobbed beneath his shifting weight and suddenly the passenger seat was empty. He closed the car door, then jogged up the driveway to slam his mother’s.

  I backed away from his house in a daze, and when I parked in front of my own, I couldn’t remember a moment of the drive home.

  “GOOD MORNING, KAYLEE.” Aunt Val stood at the kitchen counter, bathed in late-morning sunlight, holding a steaming mug of coffee nearly as big as her head. She wore a satin robe the exact shade of blue as her eyes, and her sleek brown waves were still tousled from sleep. But they were tousled the way hair always looks in the movies, when the star wakes up in full makeup, wearing miraculously unwrinkled pajamas.

  I couldn’t pull my own fingers through my hair first thing in the morning.

  My aunt’s robe and the size of her coffee cup were the only signs that she and my uncle had had a late night. Or rather, an early morning. I’d heard them come in around 2:00 a.m., stumbling down the hall, giggling like idiots.

  Then I’d stuck my earbuds in my ears so I wouldn’t have to listen as he proved just how attractive he still found her, even after seventeen years of marriage. Uncle Brendon was the younger of the pair, and my aunt resented each of the four years she had on him.

  The problem wasn’t that she looked her age—thanks to Botox and an obsessive workout routine, she looked thirty-five at the most—but that he looked so young for his. She jokingly called him Peter Pan, but as her big 4-0 had approached, she’d ceased finding her own joke funny.

  “Cereal or waffles?” Aunt Val set her coffee on the marble countertop and pulled a box of blueberry Eggos from the freezer, holding them up for my selection. My aunt didn’t do big breakfasts. She said she couldn’t afford to eat that many calories in one meal, and she wasn’t going to cook what she couldn’t eat. But we were welcome to help ourselves to all the fat and cholesterol we wanted.

  Normally Uncle Brendon served up plenty of both on Saturday mornings, but I could still hear him snoring from his bedroom, halfway across the house. She’d obviously worn him out pretty good.

  I crossed the dining room into the kitchen, my fuzzy socks silent on the cold tile. “Just toast. I’m going out for lunch in a couple of hours.”

  Aunt Val stuck the waffles back in the freezer and handed me a loaf of low-calorie whole wheat bread—the only kind she would buy. “With Emma?”

  I shook my head and dropped two slices into the toaster, then tugged my pajama pants up and tightened the drawstring.

  She arched her brows at me over her mug. “You have a date? Anyone I know?” Meaning, “Any of Sophie’s exes?”

  “I doubt it.” Aunt Val was constantly disappointed that, unlike her daughter—the world’s most socially ambitious sophomore—I had no interest in student council, or the dance team, or the winter carnival–planning committee. In part, because Sophie would have made my life miserable if I’d intruded on “her” territory. But mostly because I had to work to pay for my car insurance, and I’d rather spend my rare free hours with Emma than helping the dance team coordinate their glitter gel with their sequined costumes.

  While Nash would no doubt have met with Aunt Val’s hearty approval, I did not need her hovering over me when I got home, eyes glittering in anticipation of a social climb I had no interest in. I was happy hanging with Emma and whichever crowd she claimed at the moment.

  “His name’s Nash.”

  Aunt Val took a butter knife from the silverware drawer. “What year is he?”

  I groaned inwardly. “Senior.” Here we go…

  Her smile was a little too enthusiastic. “Well, that’s wonderful!”

  Of course, what she really meant was “Rise from the shadows, social leper, and walk in the bright light of acceptance!” Or some crap like that. Because my aunt and overprivileged cousin only recognize two states of being: glitter and grunge. And if you weren’t glitter, well, that only left one other option…

  I slathered strawberry jelly on my toast and took a seat at the bar. Aunt Val poured a second cup of coffee and aimed the TV remote across the dining room and into the den, where the fifty-inch flat-screen flashed to life, signaling the end of the requisite breakfast “conversation.”

  “…coming to you live from Taboo, in the West End, where last night, the body of nineteen-year-old Heidi Anderson was found on the restroom floor.”

  Nooo…

  My stomach churned around a half slice of toast, and I twisted slowly on my bar stool, dread sending a spike of adrenaline through my veins. On screen, a too-poised reporter stood on the brick walkway in front of the club I’d snuck into twelve hours earlier, and as I watched, her image was replaced by a still shot of Heidi Anderson sitting in a lawn chair in a UT Arlington T-shirt, straight teeth gleaming, reddish-blond hair blown back by the relentless prairie wind.

  It was her.

  I couldn’t breathe.

  “Kaylee? What’s wrong?”

  I blinked and sucked in a quick breath, then looked up at my aunt to find her staring at my plate, where I’d dropped my toast jelly-side down. It was a miracle I hadn’t lost the half I’d already eaten.

  “Nothing. Can you turn that up?” I pushed my plate away and Aunt Val turned up the volume, shooting me a puzzled frown.

  “No cause of death has yet been identified,” the reporter said on-screen. “But according to the employee who found Ms. Anderson’s body, there was no obvious sign of violence.”

  The picture changed again, and now Traci Marshall stared into the camera, pale with shock and hoarse, as if she’d been crying. “She was just lying there, like she was sleeping. I thought she’d passed out until I realized she wasn’t breathing.”

  Traci disappeared and the reporter was back, but I couldn’t hear her over Aunt Val. “Isn’t that Emma’s sister?”

  “Yeah. She’s a bartender at Taboo.”

  Aunt Val stared at the television, her expression grim. “That whole thing is so tragic…”

  I nodded. You have no idea. But I did.

  I also had chill bumps. It really happened.

  With my previous panic attacks, my aunt and uncle had had no reason to heed my hysterical babble about looming shadows and impending death. And with no way to shush me once the screaming began, they’d taken me home—coincidently away from the source of the panic—to calm me down. Except for that last time, when they’d driven me straight to the hospital, checked me into the mental-health ward and begun looking at
me with eyes full of pity. Concern. Unspoken relief that I was the one losing my mind, rather than their own, blessedly normal daughter.

  But now I had proof I wasn’t crazy. Right? I’d seen Heidi Anderson shrouded in shadow and known she would die. I’d told Emma and Nash. And now my premonition had come true.

  I stood so fast my bar stool skidded against the tiles. I had to tell somebody. I needed to see confirmation in someone’s eyes, assurance that I wasn’t imagining the news story, because really, if I could imagine death, how much harder could it be for my poor, sick mind to make up the news story? But I couldn’t tell my aunt what had happened without admitting I’d snuck into a club, and once I’d said that part, she wouldn’t listen to the rest. She’d just take away my keys and call my father.

  No, telling Aunt Val was out of the question. But Emma would believe me.

  While my aunt stared, I dropped my plate into the sink and ran to my room, ignoring her when she called after me. I kicked the door shut, collapsed on my bed then snatched my phone from my nightstand where I’d left it charging the night before.

  I called Emma’s cell, and almost groaned out loud when her mother answered. But Emma had gotten home more than an hour early for once. What could she possibly be grounded for this time?

  “Hi, Ms. Marshall.” I flopped onto my back and stared at the textured, eggshell ceiling. “Can I talk to Em? It’s kind of important.”

  Her mom sighed. “Not today, Kaylee. Emma came home smelling like rum last night. She’s grounded until further notice. I certainly hope you weren’t out drinking with her.”

  Oh, crap. I closed my eyes, trying to come up with an answer that wouldn’t make Em sound like a delinquent by comparison. I drew a total blank. “Um, no, ma’am. I was driving.”

  “Well, at least one of you has a little sense. Do me a favor and try sharing some of that with Emma next time. Assuming I ever let her out of the house again.”

  “Sure, Ms. Marshall.” I hung up, suddenly glad I hadn’t spent the night at the Marshalls’, as had been my original plan. With Emma grounded and Traci probably still in shock, breakfast could not have been a pleasant meal.

  After a minute’s hesitation, and much anticipatory panic, I decided to call Nash, because in spite of his reputation and my suspicion about his motives, he hadn’t laughed at me when I told him the truth about the panic attack.

  And with Emma grounded, he was the only one left who knew.

  I picked up my phone again—then I realized I didn’t have his number.

  Careful to avoid my aunt and uncle, who was now awake and frying bacon, based on the scent permeating the entire house, I snuck into the living room, snagged the phone book from an end table drawer and took it back to my room. There were four Hudsons with the right prefix, but only one on his street. Nash answered on the third ring.

  My heart pounded so hard I was sure he could hear it over the phone, and for several seconds, silence was all I could manage.

  “Hello?” he repeated, sounding almost as annoyed as sleepy now.

  “Hey, it’s Kaylee,” I finally blurted, fervently hoping he remembered me—that I hadn’t imagined dancing with him the night before. Because frankly, after the night’s premonition and the morning’s newscast, even I was starting to wonder if Sophie was right about me.

  Nash cleared his throat, and when he spoke, his voice was husky with sleep. “Hey. You’re not calling to cancel, are you?”

  I couldn’t resist a smile, in spite of the reason for the call. “No. I…Have you seen the news this morning?”

  He chuckled hoarsely. “I haven’t even seen the floor yet this morning.” Nash yawned, and springs creaked over the line. He was still in bed.

  I stamped down the scandalous images that knowledge brought to mind and forced myself to focus on the issue at hand. “Turn on your TV.”

  “I’m not really into current events….” More springs squealed as he rolled over, and something whispered against his phone.

  My eyes closed and I leaned against my headboard, sucking in a deep breath. “She’s dead, Nash.”

  “What?” He sounded marginally more awake this time. “Who’s dead?”

  I leaned forward, and my own bed creaked. “The girl from the club. Emma’s sister found her dead in the bathroom at Taboo last night.”

  “Are you sure it’s her?” He was definitely awake now, and I pictured him sitting straight up in bed. Hopefully shirtless.

  “See for yourself.” I aimed my remote at the nineteen-inch set on my dresser and scrolled through the local channels until I found one still running the story. “Channel nine.”

  Something clicked over the phone, and canned laughter rang out from his room. A moment later, the sounds from his television synched with mine. “Oh, shit,” Nash whispered. Then his voice went deeper. Serious. “Kaylee, has this happened to you before? I mean, have you ever been right before?”

  I hesitated, unsure how much to tell him. My eyes closed again, but the backs of my eyelids offered me no advice. So I sighed and told him the truth. After all, he already knew the weirdest part. “I don’t know. I can’t talk about it here.” The last thing I needed was for my aunt and uncle to overhear. They’d either ground me for the rest of my natural life or rush me back to the psych ward.

  “I’ll come get you. Half an hour?”

  “I’ll be in my driveway.”

  3

  I SHOWERED IN RECORD time, and twenty-four minutes after I hung up the phone, I was clean, dry, clothed, and wearing just enough makeup to hide the shock. But I was still straightening my hair when I heard a car pull into the driveway.

  Crap. If I didn’t get to him first, Uncle Brendon would make Nash come in and submit to questioning.

  I pulled the plug on the flatiron, raced back to my room for my phone, keys and wallet then sprinted down the hall and out the front door, shouting “good morning” and “goodbye” to my astonished uncle all in the same breath.

  “It’s early for lunch. How ’bout pancakes?” Nash asked as I slid into the passenger seat of his mother’s car and closed the door.

  “Um…sure.” Though with death on my conscience and Nash in my sight, food was pretty much the last thing on my mind.

  The car smelled like coffee, and Nash smelled like soap, toothpaste, and something indescribably, tantalizingly yummy. I wanted to inhale him whole, and I couldn’t stop staring at his chin, smooth this morning where it had been deliciously rough the night before. I remembered the texture of his cheek against mine, and had to close my eyes and concentrate to banish the dangerous memory.

  I’m not a conquest, no matter how good he smells. Or how good he tastes. And the sudden, overwhelming need to know what his lips would feel like made me shiver all over, and scramble for something safe to say. Something casual, that wouldn’t hint at the dangerous direction my thoughts had taken.

  “I guess the car started,” I said, pulling the seat belt across my torso. Then cursed myself silently for such a stupid opening line. Of course the car had started.

  His brief gaze seemed to burn through me. “I have unreasonably good luck.”

  I could only nod and clench the door grip while I forced my thoughts back to Heidi Anderson to keep them off Nash and…thoughts I shouldn’t have been thinking.

  When he glanced my way again, his focus slid down my throat to the neckline of my tee before jerking back to the road as he clenched his jaw. I counted my exhalations to keep them even.

  We wound up at a booth in Jimmy’s Omelet, a locally owned chain that served breakfast until three in the afternoon. Nash sat across from me, his arms resting on the table, his sleeves pushed up halfway to his elbows.

  Once the waitress had taken our orders and moved on, Nash leaned forward and met my gaze boldly, intimately, as if we’d shared much more than a rhyme in a dark alley and an almost-kiss. But the teasing and flirtation were gone; he looked more serious than I’d ever seen him. Somber. Almost worried.

  �
�Okay…” He spoke softly, in concession to the crowd talking, chewing, and clanking silverware around us. “So last night you predicted this girl’s death, and this morning she showed up on the news, dead.”

  I nodded, swallowing thickly. Hearing it like that—so matter-of-fact—made it sound both crazy and terrifying. And I wasn’t sure which was worse.

  “You said you’ve had these premonitions before?”

  “Just a few times.”

  “Have any of them ever come true?”

  I shook my head, then shrugged and picked up a napkin-wrapped bundle of silverware to have something to do with my hands. “Not that I know of.”

  “But you only know about this one because it was on the news, right?” I nodded without looking up, and he continued. “So the others could have come true too, and you might never have known about it.”

  “I guess.” But if that were the case, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know about it.

  When I drew my focus from the napkin I’d half peeled from the knife and fork, I found him watching me intently, as if my every word might mean something important. His lips were pressed firmly together, his forehead wrinkled in concentration.

  I shifted on the vinyl-padded bench, uneasy under such scrutiny. Now he probably really thought I was a freak. A girl who thinks she knows when someone’s going to die—that might be interesting in certain circles; it definitely presented a certain morbid cachet.

  But a girl who really could predict death? That was just scary.

  Nash frowned, and his focus shifted back and forth between my eyes, like he was looking for something specific. “Kaylee, do you know why this is happening? What it means?”

  My heart thumped painfully, and I clutched the shredded napkin. “How do you know it means anything?”

  “I…don’t.” He sighed and leaned back in the booth, dropping his gaze to the table as he picked up a mini-jar of strawberry preserves from the jelly carousel. “But don’t you think it should mean something? I mean, we’re not talking about lottery numbers and horse-race winners. Don’t you want to know why you can do this? Or what the limits are? Or—”