Page 42 of Elusion

The dorms oddly provide more privacy than the house. But more importantly, they’re closer, and right now, the closer, the better. After I park, I jet around to her side and yank her out. She’s smiling. I’m smiling. Everyone’s fucking smiling because this moment has taken far too long. Unwilling to take my eyes off her, I walk backward to the building. When I hit the door, I hold her tight against me.

“Stillcertainabout me never getting another show?” I ask, seeking a repeat of her performance from after the party, but with a drastically different ending.

“Well”—she bites her lip, nearly destroying me, and looks up in thought—“it is your birthday.”

I widen my eyes and overemphasize a nod.

It’s so my fucking birthday.

“But I’m not taking my clothes off until we’re inside.”

The door flies open with more force than necessary, bouncing off the wall. I resume my backward walking and lead her up the stairs. We round the corner to her hall, hands all over each other. But once her gaze travels over my shoulder, it never returns.

My hand pulls from hers when she stops moving. All color washes from her face. Everything that makes her Callie drains from her eyes, her stare fixed somewhere behind me.

“Callie, what’s wrong?” I touch her pale cheek. Her focus flashes to me and then down the hall again. I check behind me, and in front of her door are two men in sheriff’s jackets, waiting, facing away from us. “Cops?”

The men turn around when they hear me. One with a buzz cut and a boxy face wears an expression hard as stone. The other one can’t possibly be much older than me. Dark hair hangs over his ears and forehead, and even from a distance, his face is an apology.

When I look back at Callie, she only gives me a second to process a line of red rising up her face. Then she explodes past me, one emotion propelling her down the hallway—complete fucking rage.

“You don’t have any fucking jurisdiction here, Kevin,” Callie yells.

Wait, she knows them? I rush after her, no idea what the fuck else to do.

“Calm down,” says the younger officer. He touches her arm when she reaches him. Evidently, it’s the wrong thing to do. She uses all the momentum she has built up and rams her palms into his chest. The strike sends him backward and—oh my God, she’s lost her damn mind.

Ready to do more damage, she advances.

I grab her by the shoulders and drag her back a few steps. “Callie, stop.”

The victim of her fury shuffles a small step over, keeping between her and the buzz cut, almost as a barrier. “Either we came, or Graham was coming,” he says.

Her shoulders tense even more. “Screw you, Trey!”

“Callista—”

“Callie,” she interrupts the buzz cut, who must be Kevin.

“Whatever.” Kevin swings his arm out, removing Trey from between them. “Pack a bag.”

“You can’t make me go with you.”

“I’ll tell you one more time. Pack. A. Bag.”

Her fists clench at her sides. I prepare to intervene, but she doesn’t give me a chance. “I have to admit, the sheriff doing Graham’s dirty work is a new low. Nothing better to do tonight than help your little brother fuck up my life? The taxpayers must be proud.”

Mafia?My Mafia theory? No fucking way.

Kevin stands taller, widening his shoulders as his focus lasers in on her. “Damn it, Callista, enough!”

“Callie,” she shouts back.

“Cal, please.” Trey holds up his hands, pleading with her.

My mind struggles to keep up. Each refers to a different name—Callista, Callie, Cal—all appearing to belong to the girl whose shoulders heave beneath my hands while she tries to maintain some semblance of control.

Kevin’s eyes dart to me, a malicious look accompanying his smirk when they drag back to her. “You been drinking tonight,Callie?” The way he says her name makes me want to beat his face in. He nods at me. “You have ID on you, son?”

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