Following Me (7 page)

“I don’t know.  It’s not like I
haven’t asked you to visit.”

“Just had that little thing
called school,” Devon told her.

“School.  Psh!  Who needs that?” 
Hadley’s lips quirked up.  She glanced down at Devon’s notebook and tapped it
twice.  “You still writing?”

“I haven’t changed that much
since you left,” Devon said.

“Can I read your latest?”  Hadley
reached for the notebook with a knowing smile.

“No,” Devon responded quickly,
pulling the notebook off the bar and stuffing it back into her bag.  She picked
up the pen again and began flipping it between her fingers absentmindedly.

Hadley laughed and shook her
head.  “You really haven’t changed.  You should let more people read your
songs.  They’re really good, Dev.”

Devon blushed and looked back
down at her food.  She didn’t want to have this conversation, especially not in
public.  She had too many emotions locked in her notebook.  There was no way
she was just going to open it up.

“Brennan could even play guitar
for your lyrics,” Hadley offered without Brennan’s approval.

“What’s that?” he asked, leaning
forward.

Hadley glanced at Devon as if
asking for permission to continue.  Devon rolled her eyes, knowing she didn’t
have much choice now that Hadley had already started.

“You play guitar?” Devon asked,
being quicker on the draw.

Brennan seemed artsy enough, but
she wasn’t sure if he actually fit the bill.  She had grown up around
musicians, and while he seemed to have the whole desperate bartending routine
down, there seemed to be something more to him.  Her distaste for her own
lyrics bled over to people who thought they could play instruments.  She was
too accustomed to how musicians acted and how they thought they ruled the
world.  They weren’t exactly her speed.

“Devon writes lyrics,” Hadley
interrupted.

“Yeah, I play,” he said, locking
eyes with Devon.  “You write?  I wouldn’t have pegged you.”

“A little,” she said with a
shrug.  She liked proving his judgments wrong.  “I wouldn’t have pegged you as
a musician.”

“I’m a struggling musician.”

“What are you doing in Chicago if
you’re a musician?”

“I said I was struggling.”

“And by struggling, you mean you
have no talent?” Devon asked arching an eyebrow.

“I have talent,” he said, off
hand like it didn’t matter what she thought.  It likely didn’t.  “I just find I
should spend more time on my bartending talent while I continue to fail the
entrance exams to get into med school.”

Devon swallowed, her mind
immediately going to Reid.  She felt really bad that she hadn’t told him the
truth.  He was going through such a hard time, applying to medical school
himself, and she had just left him to go through it alone.

Maybe she should call him.

No.

She couldn’t do that without
telling him that she had lied, without telling him that she wasn’t in Paris for
the summer.  Then, she would have to go back to St. Louis, and she just wasn’t
ready for that.

“He has talent,” Hadley said as
if it were the most painful thing for her to admit.  “I’ve heard him play.  Do
you have an open mic gig this week?  We could stop by.”

“Nah,” Brennan said, shaking his
head as a large group walked into the bar.  “I don’t have anything for a couple
weeks.”

“Bummer,” Hadley muttered. 
“They’re so much fun.  We’ll have to take you up to the bar at the John Hancock
building before you leave.  That will be fun.  I was up there once.  It was
snowing on the ninety-ninth floor, but it wasn’t even raining on the bottom
floor.  When are you off, Brennan?  You could come with?”

“You want me to go to an
overpriced bar over a thousand feet off the ground when I work at a bar?” he
asked.

“Yep!” Hadley said with a big
smile.

“I have Monday off, but I’m
busy.  What about next Sunday?”

“Are you going to be here next
Sunday?” Hadley asked Devon.

“Uh…yeah.  Next Sunday works for
me.”

“Great!  Next Sunday it is then,”
Hadley said.  “It can be Devon’s going-away party.”

“Yeah,” Devon said dejectedly.

She didn’t want to spend only one
week in the city.  She would need to find a place to stay for the rest of the
summer or else she would have to fess up to Reid and her family sooner rather
than later.

And that was something she just
couldn’t do.

DEVON WALKED ACROSS Brookings Quad
in the early summer air mingled with the scent of blooming flowers.  The Quad
at Wash U was surrounded on all sides by Gothic-style buildings.  The one
directly in front of her was Brookings Hall, and it served as the face of the
campus.  It primarily housed high-ranking university officials as well as the
big colleges, so she rarely visited the building, but the walkways surrounding
it were pretty.  Devon much preferred the openness of the area to the other
parts of campus.  She was probably biased though because the social work
building, Brown Hall, was right next door to Brookings.

Devon would have taken the
shortcut to Brown Hall, but the weather was so nice that she wanted to delay
the inevitable.  She nearly reached the archway through Brookings when she felt
eyes on her back.

Strange.
  She hadn’t
remembered seeing anyone else on the Quad.

It was such a beautiful day that
she thought others would be out there studying, tanning, goofing off, and
generally, enjoying the sunshine.  But it was the summer session, and few
people remained on campus, so it wasn’t all that surprising.

Trying to push away the nagging
feeling that someone was watching her, Devon quickened her pace and walked
through the archway.  She didn’t like being in there anymore than she liked
being out in the open on the Quad, but at least in the Quad, she could see
whoever was following behind her.  It wasn’t likely that whoever the person was
would do anything in the middle of the day at the heart of campus.

But the archway at Brookings was
different.  While it was still a very public place, connecting the Quad and
Hoyt Drive, it bottlenecked through the corridor.  She felt suddenly trapped
even though it wasn’t a far distance.  The hair on the back of her neck stood
on end, and the blood coursed through her body.  She could feel her pulse
beating rapidly in each of her fingers, and she swallowed back the cotton balls
lodged in her throat.

Devon glanced back over her
shoulder, her blonde hair spinning out around her face, as she hoped to catch a
glimpse of the person behind her.  But no one was there.  She didn’t even hear
footsteps or anything.  Yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling.  Whoever was
following her was rather adept at
not
being seen.  The only way she
would see the person was when he wanted to be seen, and that unnerved her even
more.

Dashing through the archway,
Devon crossed to the other side, unharmed.  Her eyes shifted left and right,
looking for anyone waiting to ambush her on the other side.  No one was there. 
In fact, no one was anywhere.

There were no cars on the usually
busy Hoyt Drive or Brookings Drive, which led into campus.  Cars sat idly by in
parking spaces along the road, but she couldn’t see anyone in them.  Even on
the best day, incoming freshmen flocked the school to make their final
decisions about enrollment.  Despite her annoyance with them, Devon wanted to
know where they were.

She didn’t have more time to
think about it.  Someone was tailing her and almost instinctively, she knew he
was getting closer.  Without a backward glance, she barreled down the stairs
leading to the street.  Devon had walked up and down the soft sloping and
seemingly endless staircase more times than she could count, but today, the
descent felt excruciatingly long.

Finally reaching the sidewalk on
Hoyt, she immediately turned right toward Brown Hall.  She had a strong desire
to be inside a familiar environment.  Plus, she knew the entire faculty, and
someone had to be there.  Professor Turner was there every day.  She had spent
countless hours in his office going over assignments and catching up.  She
never had to make appointments since he was always just there.  If no one else were
on campus, he would still be there in his loosened tie staring at his Mac. 
She
could get to him.  She could make it.

It wasn’t a long walk.  It was
literally right around the corner. 
Why hadn’t she taken the shortcut
through Busch Hall?
  All she would have had to do was taken a right before
the Quad, walk straight through the Humanities department, and Brown would be
standing right in front of her.  Instead, Devon had wanted to enjoy the
weather, but she wasn’t enjoying the weather right now.

She jogged up the sidewalk,
feeling eyes on her from every direction.  She felt completely ambushed.
 
They were coming for her.  They were closing in.  They would get her.

No.
  She had to be strong
and push herself harder.  Someone would be inside Brown Hall.  If not Professor
Turner, then another professor or even a student would have to be there.  Devon
would make this work.  She had to.

Reaching the double doors, she
wrenched one open as fast as she could and rushed inside.  It smelled exactly
as it always had, like too many cleaning supplies had been used to mask the
dusty smell of the old building.  She padded down the familiar hallways,
navigating the corridors like an expert.  Professor Turner’s office was on the
fourth floor of the building.  She knew it was a bad move to run all the way up
the stairs.  She would be trapping herself in the stairwell, but she didn’t
have another choice.

Jerking the door open, she took
the stairs two at a time.  Her breathing was ragged by the time she reached the
top floor, but at least she didn’t feel eyes on her now.  Her pursuer must not
have known where she went.

Cautiously, she strode down the
corridor, searching for Professor Turner’s office.  Halfway down the hall, she
heard a door click.  Her heart leapt out of her chest, she spun around to see
if someone was behind her, but no one was there. Although she didn’t get that
nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach, telling her someone was watching,
she felt like she was in the wrong place, like she had made the wrong move. 
She felt as if she had accidentally placed her guarding Bishop in front of her
opponent’s Queen.

Having no other choice, she moved
in front of Professor Turner’s office and knocked softly.  “Professor,” she
whispered, “are you in there?”

No response.

“Professor, it’s urgent!  I know
it’s not during school hours, but I must speak with you.  There are things I
need to tell you.”

Still no response.

“Professor!  Someone is following
me!”  She knocked again, anxious to get out of the open hallway and into the
safety of his office.

Yet, no response came.