Page 7 of Ominous: Part 1
Cold runs down my spine, prickles along my scalp as I stare up at him. “What does that even mean?” I should never have entertained this conversation. He wants to mess with me for whatever reason. Maybe see if he can get into the poor girl’s pants. But the answer is no. I could’ve told him from the start. My fantasies stay inside my head. I never trust myself to let them out. Not anymore.
He sighs, like he didn’t expect me to understand, and his shoulders drop just slightly. It’s the most basic change in his posture, but it’s the first time he looksless than.He steps closer, but looks up, away from me, and if he hadn’t, I would have had to back away. Put more space between us.
Instead, I’m staring at the elegance of his throat. The way the choker lies flat with his skin but doesn’t pinch. It fits tightly enough I know he feels it, always a constant pressure, but it won’t leave an indentation. I wouldn’t be able to slip my little finger between the leather and his neck though. Not without hurting him.
The idea is mildly appealing.
“I can tell,” he says quietly, almost as if to himself. “Every day you walk into class, there’s something in your face. Like… you’re not quite sure what you’re doing here. Like no one will ever come close to understanding your thoughts, your brain, and you hold yourself so apart, you don’t even want them to, do you?” He still doesn’t look at me.
I take a deep breath, catching the scent of the beach.He smells like the ocean,and I amintimatelyfamiliar with the fragrance. But this—deep, intense conversation with a stranger—it’s foreign to me. I feel as if my brain may be tricking me again.
“How long did it take you to rehearse that?” I counter, lifting a brow.
He slowly smiles, dropping his gaze, almost to affect a bashful look. It’s complete when he peeks up at me through his lashes, a dimple flashing below his cheekbone. “Tell me I’m wrong.” His words are barely more than a whisper. He’s good, with his deep sentiments, but it feels like it’s part of his act, and I’m the willing thespian, getting sucked into his play.
“Of course I don’t belong,” I say with a touch of annoyance. “I’m not like…you.”
I’m thinking of stepping away when he lowers his eyes to me, intently focused on mine, pinning me to the spot, I couldn’t get away if I tried.
“You’re not at all, are you?” He practically whispers the words.
I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, biting hard for a second. But I can’t hold back. “What is that supposed to mean?”
He smiles and it flusters me more. “I know you’re here with scholarships and,” he gestures vaguely like money is trivial, before slipping his hand back into his pocket, “financial aid.”
I freeze, my fingers squeezing the phone in my hand, the book in the other. I glance down at my shirt, wondering if my clothes gave me away, their lack of polish, the years of wear. And I’m only here because Reece’s brother has connections; he helped me get a leg up. But I don’t really belong, do I?
“Shit, sorry,” Eli cuts through my ringing ears, the mortification at being found out. “It’s not…” He trails off, cupping the back of his neck with his hand, his bicep flexing, and I see a tattoo there with script I can’t read before he drops his hand.
The corners of his mouth turn down in something which isn’t quite a frown. More like he’s puzzled as he looks over my head, like he’s searching for the right words.
“It’s not your clothes,” he finally says, looking at me again. His eyes drop over my body.
I hold my breath, waiting for him to tell me what itis,if not my outfit.
“I saw your files.” He doesn’t look remorseful over the words, even as cold floods my body, the distant feel of arousal at his admiration draining away.How? When?“On accident.” He doesn’t hurry along, the way someone truly embarrassed about seeing something they shouldn’t would. This is where his charade breaks down, and I don’t know if it’s intentional or not. “You had just left, I think, the first day of classes, and I was in Ms. Corbin’s office, going over some paperwork.”
What kind of paperwork could you possibly need? Don’t your parents just cash checks without missing the weight from their balance, and you move along?
I don’t say anything though. I let him keep going, because this requires some sort of explanation if he wants to keep up his cover.
“Your files were there, on the corner of her desk. Then you were in Latin, and Ms. Romano called your name, and I put it all together—”
“Why didn’t you say anything to me before now?” I feel unnerved.Found out.I hold his gaze this time, and he doesn’t blather on about my files or notbelonging.
“You’re in your own world, aren’t you?” His tone is almost accusing, this reason for how Ilooklike I don’t belong. It’s like he’s flinging charges my way, ready to hold me accountable for operating on a different plane than everyone else.
My stomach drops. Maybe not everyone else.Maybe him.
He leans down, almost imperceptibly. Not too close but close enough I feel my heart racing all over again, adrenaline flooding my body, a stiffness in my limbs.
Don’t touch me.
It echoes in my head, at the same time another contradictory thought bounces around.
Touch me, so I can see if I hate the way you feel like I do everyone else.
“It looked like a nice world,” he continues, and I can smell his breath. It isn’t mint, like I thought it might be. He seems like the kind of guy who’s polished enough to have a stick of gum in his pocket at all times. But his breath is sweet. Cotton candy. It’s ridiculous.
