Chapter 9: Tomorrow You'll Come Looking for Me

Lyra's POV

The door shut behind us, and the hall went quiet.

He'd picked an empty classroom. A forgotten pen sat on one of the front desks. Sunlight came in low through the windows.

He pulled me two steps forward and backed me into the wall. One hand caught both my wrists and pinned them above my head. The wall was cold, and the chill went straight through the thin fabric of my shirt dress.

"Listen." He looked down at me. "Don't run somebody else's play. How many of you have pulled this on me? I don't have time for games. So talk. What are you doing?"

My heart was pounding.

I shrugged. Lifted my chin a little. Let it drop again, and let my lashes tremble.

"I didn't do anything." My voice wobbled like I was about to cry. "I was in class. You dragged me in here for no reason, and now you're threatening me. Let go of me."

His grip tightened. The skin under his fingertips went white.

Skin on skin. His hand on me. And nothing.

That's the part that matters. So let me lay it out.

My hands can read people. Bare skin — and only when I'm the one reaching out. A hand on a shoulder. Fingers closed around a wrist. A palm across a face. Intent plus contact. You need both, or it doesn't fire.

What I get is what a person wants right now — what they're chasing at this point in their life — and the wound underneath the wanting, the root it grew out of. Images only. No sound, no context, no names. Ten seconds, nothing dramatic, and then it cuts off.

And it only runs one way. Only for me.

Any time someone touches me, my screen goes blank. That's how it went the first time — a boy grabbed my arm behind the gym, I reached back and grabbed him, and it worked. But when they're the one grabbing me, it has never once worked.

The last time I was with Damian Quinn, I was the one who grabbed him.

He leaned in and dropped his voice.

"Do you know who I am?"

"I know who you are." Who the hell doesn't?

I fought to get out of his grip. Nothing moved. So I stopped fighting and twisted my wrists instead, rocking them back and forth under his hands, letting the movement say what I couldn't. I don't want this. I'm the one who got hurt.

"But there's nothing between us. I've never done anything to you. You can't — you can't do this to me. Let go."

He didn't answer. Didn't push. He tilted his head a little, watching me the way you watch something you've already caught. Then, calm and methodical, he told me the real reason he'd brought me here.

"The gallery show in March. The street a few days ago. Finance class just now. Every time, the same face in my line of sight."

He wasn't guessing.

My body reacted before my brain caught up — a chill from the inside out. I had to work to keep my mouth shut, because everything he'd just said was true, and denying one word of it would only make it worse.

"You want to tell me it's a coincidence?"

I had one card. I played shocked. It wasn't much of a stretch — hearing somebody else say it out loud was what made it real, and before that it had only been a thought in my head.

His eyes were heavy, waiting on my answer. He wanted me to say it myself. That I'd been using him.He never got it.He pushed, I denied it. He pushed harder, I cried. In a standoff like this, whoever breaks first loses.

He smiled. Cold.Then his free hand caught my chin and forced my head up. Rough. "Look at me."

I didn't look away. Tears slid down my cheeks and dropped onto the hand holding my face. His eyes dipped down to check.

I stared at him like he was the only person in the room. Then I heard my own voice break.

"It was you. That night. On the street. The drunk."I let it come out in pieces, like saying it cost me the right to speak.

He thought he had me.

"So you finally remember." Half smug, half amused. "And you still want to tell me you weren't playing me?"

He let go of my wrists and stepped back, smiling.

Go on. Enjoy it.

I rubbed my wrists, working the feeling back in. I'll give him this — his grip was strong.

I'd decided to hit him about four seconds earlier. Two reasons, and only one of them was temper.

First, it killed the girl-in-a-dress act, and that reaction would be a real one. Second, it would trigger the ability again and show me more of him.

I thought it, so I did it. The slap echoed through the empty classroom.

My palm landed on his cheek and it fired like always — ten seconds, then it cut off. I didn't stop to study what I'd seen.Right now I had something more urgent in front of me.

I kept coming at him, louder: "I helped you that night." My voice was still shaking. The tears still wouldn't stop. "This is what I get? If I'd known it would end like this, I'd have left you on the sidewalk."

His head snapped to the side. His face was pure shock. Then he had me down on a desk — one arm barred across my chest, his weight behind it, too fast for me to get a breath.

Less than a foot between us.He opened his mouth. "You — you actually hit me?"

I stuck out my chin. "Why wouldn't I?"

I fought him, the desk creaking and rocking under us. Neither of us expected it to give. It came apart, and we went down in a pile of broken legs and tabletops, my mouth landing on his.

Some part of me went: isn't this moving a little fast? We're kissing already? So that thing where the leads in a drama end up like this — it's real.

I climbed off him. He was still on the floor, and that cold, blank face of his flushed red from his neck to his hairline in one shot.

I laughed at him in my head. No way. That innocent?

I kept my face friendly. "Need a hand?"

"Stay away from me." A second later he shoved me off hard. I stumbled back two steps and landed on the floor.

He walked to the door, back to me, one hand on the handle. He looked back once. Then he pulled it open and walked out.

I pulled myself up on a desk. Half my hair had come loose; I tucked it behind my ear, straightened my clothes, and shook my fingers out until the blood came back.

Then I smiled. Slow. Not friendly. So that's what he likes. I slap him, and he blushes.

Feeling very pleased with myself, I stood up and smoothed my skirt flat. Damian Quinn, you're not getting out of my hands. Today you won't give me the time of day. Tomorrow you'll come looking for me.