Rogue (9 page)

“Y
es.”

Frustrated with my own answer, I let my head fall to thump against the door, then held my breath until I was sure Marc wouldn’t turn back to investigate the sound. He didn’t. Instead, from across the house came the barely there sound of the magnetic seal breaking as he opened the refrigerator door.

“Really?” Andrew sounded suspicious, almost as surprised by my answer as I was. But it was the truth; I
had
been thinking about him. In fact, I’d had trouble
blocking
him from my thoughts. I felt guilty about the way I’d left things between us, and about how ugly the whole situation would get soon if he didn’t stop calling.

I sighed silently. Why did I feel compelled to be honest with Andrew, but not with Marc? Did I owe Marc any less than I owed Andrew?

No.
The truth was that I owed them both an explanation. I’d left each of them—albeit five years apart—without saying goodbye. But Marc was like me. He was strong, and stubborn,
and…one of us. Resilient. Andrew was human, and thus fragile in a way I could never really understand, and Marc could no longer remember. Honesty was the least I owed Andrew—up to a point.

“Yes, really,” I said at last. I snatched the remote from my desktop and aimed it at my stereo. Music blared to life from the speakers mounted in the corners of the room. The All-American Rejects, “Dirty Little Secret.” Frenetic, taunting tempo and all.

Figures.

Counting on the music to cover my voice, I turned my attention back to Andrew and exhaled slowly in anticipation of a very awkward conversation. “I was thinking that I should have tried harder to get in touch with you in June.”

“How right you are. Fortunately, you’re going to have the opportunity to make that up to me. Soon.”

What?
My pulse spiked.
No.
He was coming to see me.

Andrew
couldn’t
come to the ranch. There was no possible way for a meeting between him and Marc to go well. Or even a meeting between him and my father, who also assumed my human
indiscretion
to be a thing of the past.

“What does that mean?” I asked, my voice soft with horror I couldn’t quite disguise, but he only laughed. “Andrew, how do you want me to make it up to you? You want to talk? We can talk. Let me explain what happened.” One version of it, anyway…

He snorted. He actually snorted into my ear. “Oh, let me guess. It’s not me, it’s you. I just don’t fit into your life anymore, right?” The bitterness in his voice stung.

“It’s not like that.” But it was. It was exactly like that—in no way he could possibly understand.

“Oh? What is it, then? Your parents? You’re scared to introduce me to your parents?” I started to answer, but he spoke over my protest. “They don’t even know about me, do they? You never told them.” His accusation was sharp and pointed. But this time he was wrong.

“Of course I did.” My words came out rushed; I was eager for something legitimate to deny. “They know.” Did he honestly think my parents thought I was a virgin? That I was afraid to tell them I’d gone off to college and had sex? Sure, my mother
looked
like she belonged in a fifties sitcom, but my parents were neither stupid nor naive. Which was no doubt one of the reasons they’d sent the guys to watch over me.

“You told them?” He didn’t believe me; that much was obvious. “And they’re okay with it?”

I shrugged, though he couldn’t see the motion. “Well, I doubt they’re
thrilled
by it.” They were no more pleased with my perceived promiscuity than any parents would be. But their real problem was not that I’d let a guy into my bed, but that I’d let a
human
guy into my bed. A guy I could have no future with, who could never marry me and give them grandchildren.

None of which I could tell Andrew, naturally.

“You’re lying,” Andrew shouted into the phone, and I could actually hear his teeth grinding together as he spoke through them. “You’re
fucking
lying, and we damn well know it.”

“We?” I frowned in confusion. “Who’s w—”

“You didn’t tell them about me. You didn’t tell your family any more than you told
him.
”

“Andrew…” On the radio, the All-American Rejects gave way to an announcer rambling on about the weather and the traffic, and I lowered my voice, hoping no one would walk
by my room before the next song came on. “Andrew, what the hell are you talking about?”

“You owe me, Faythe. I know where you are, and I know who you’re with. And when the time comes, that won’t make one fucking bit of difference. He won’t be able to prote—”

Another voice barked in the background, pounding through Andrew’s fury like a hammer through a block of ice—quick and violent. And effective. I couldn’t make out what he said, and before I had a chance to think about it, Andrew was back. “I’ll see you soon, Faythe. Tell Marc I’ll see him, too. I think he and I have a lot to talk about.”

Oh, no. Oh
hell
no.
Alarm shot through my limbs and I stood so fast my chair fell over on the carpet in front of me. “Andrew!” I whispered into the phone, glancing at my bedroom door, just to be safe. “You have no idea what you’re—”

But he was gone. He’d hung up on me. Again.

Furious, I snapped my phone shut and tossed it onto the desk behind me, then bent to pick up my chair.
What the
fuck
is wrong with him?
I slammed the chair on the floor, but that did nothing to help burn off my anger. Andrew and I had only dated for four months and we’d now been apart almost as long as we were together in the first place. So what the hell did he hope to gain by coming here and confronting Marc?

Oh, shit. Marc.
I sank back into the chair, facing my desk this time.

Marc would never attack a human, and under most circumstances would make no offensive moves even if assaulted by one, so I wasn’t really worried about him hurting Andrew. But my father would never trust me again when he found out I’d kept the first call to myself. And neither would Marc.

I’d meant no harm by keeping my secret. But seriously,
how was I supposed to know that one little human ex-boyfriend could be so much trouble? That not breaking it off with him in person would turn a calm, rational,
nice
individual into the bitter, angry man I’d just spoken to?

The thing I’d liked most about Andrew was how very
normal
he was. How incredibly even-tempered and predictable. He was almost boring, which I loved because of how well it contrasted with my claws-and-kicks home life.

The most daring thing I’d ever done with Andrew was, well…
him,
in broad daylight. In his apartment. Beneath the covers. With the door locked. Andrew wasn’t a daring sort of guy—at least not when we were a couple. Even during our one nooner, only hours before I’d left campus, he’d complained when I nibbled too hard on his earlobe. I’d barely broken the skin, but he jumped as if I’d tried to pierce his ear.

Instead of protesting, Marc would have upped the ante. He was always up for more. Faster. Harder. Anytime. Anywhere.

If Andrew came to the Lazy S, disaster would be hot on his heels.

How does he even know where I live?
I wondered as I flipped my phone back open and navigated to the call history screen. I’d never told him, specifically so he couldn’t visit. But it wouldn’t be too hard to find out, even with nothing but my name and an Internet connection.

I pressed the call button and stood again as Andrew’s phone rang in my ear. It rang four times, and by the time his voice mail answered—in a woman’s mechanical voice—I was already pacing. When the beep sliced through my thoughts, I stopped, one hand propped on my hip.

“Andrew, it’s Faythe. Stop hanging up on me! And do
not
come here! I’m sorry about leaving like that, but it’s over now. You can
not
come here. Please.”

I hung up and threw the phone at the wall this time, glad only in retrospect that it didn’t break. How did Andrew even know about Marc, anyway?

Sammi.

No one else from school knew about Marc, but Sammi had met him. She must have told Andrew. My heart pounding again, I snatched the phone from the floor and dialed my college roommate. But she wasn’t home, either, so I left a message on her machine asking her to call me back as soon as she could.

Then I sat on the end of my bed and forced my heartbeat to slow, my breath to come evenly. If I went out in my current state, Marc would know something was wrong the minute I entered the kitchen. I couldn’t keep doing this. It was unfair to Marc and bad for my own health. If Andrew called again, I would tell Marc the truth. I’d rather have him mad at me for a few days than taken by surprise when Andrew showed up at the gate.

At the front of the house, the doorbell rang, and I listened as Vic answered the door, exchanging pleasantries with the pizza guy as he paid for our dinner. When anger and frustration no longer pulsed through my veins, I pressed the power button on my stereo remote, shoved my phone in my pocket, and ran a brush through my ponytail, reminding myself one last time that I’d been talking to Sammi, just in case Marc asked. Then I prayed that he wouldn’t, and headed for the hallway.

In the kitchen, Marc and Vic stood guard around three open and steaming boxes of pizza, a slice in each of their hands. Marc saw me and swallowed his mouthful. “There’s
your salad,” he said, barely pausing before stuffing the pointed end of another slice into his mouth.

“Thanks.” I looked where he’d pointed with a chunk of pizza crust and found a single cereal bowl full of limp wet lettuce. I laughed. I should have known. Even on two legs, Marc was a carnivore, with little use for the food groups unrelated to meat, fat, and dairy. He probably didn’t even know what else went into a garden salad. Luckily, like the rest of us, he had great metabolism.

I’d just popped open a chilled can of soda from the guesthouse when the clicking of heels on tile echoed from the foyer. My mother paused in the kitchen doorway wearing a simple but elegant calf-length black dress, accessorized only by the pearls at her throat and the matching clutch purse in her right hand. “We’ll be back in a couple of hours.” Her voice was low for a woman’s and smooth. Like butterscotch, it was sweet and deceptively soothing, which was part of what made her nagging so annoying. It was terribly hard to tune out such a beautiful speaking voice, even when it was telling you what you should already have accomplished by this point in your life.

“We’ll be at Mansion on the Hill, in case you need to get hold of us,” she continued, clearly speaking to me as her eyes roamed the junk food contaminating her pristine kitchen. “And, of course, your father will have his cell phone on.”

“Aww, Mom,” Ethan said, stepping up behind her to lay a heavy arm across her shoulders. “She may be a spoiled brat, but she’s old enough to take care of herself for a couple of hours.”

“Yes, of course you’re old enough,” my mother continued. She smiled at me and patted Ethan’s hand affectionately where it rested on her shoulder. “Old habits die hard sometimes.”

My mother was a study in contradiction. Petite, prim, and delicate, she was the embodiment of feminine grace, with a backbone of pure steel. She was both overbearing and soft-spoken, hiding the power she’d once wielded on the Territorial Council behind the facade of a cultured 1950s model housewife.

“Come on, Ethan, we’re going to be late,” Jace called from the hallway, his footsteps clomping toward the front door. He was dating again, and would smile back at me if I smiled at him first, but we were never alone together anymore, and he’d stopped teasing me entirely. Things between us had not been the same since I told him I was in love with Marc, and as sad as that made me, it seemed to be a necessary sacrifice for the peace of the household.

“Don’t forget, your father wants you both in the barn by nine-forty-five,” Mom said, trying to brush the wrinkles from Ethan’s shirt.

He frowned and swiped at her hand. “We’ll be there. Eventually.”

Jace stepped into sight behind them both and smacked Ethan’s head, sending straight black locks flying. “We’ll be early.” He pulled Ethan toward the front door by one arm, never quite making eye contact with any of the rest of us. “Save me some pizza.”

“Get your own!” Vic yelled as the front door closed.

“Pizza again?” Mom came closer to inspect. “You know, it wouldn’t hurt the three of you to take a bite of something green every now and then.”

Grinning, I grabbed my “salad” from the counter behind me and popped a piece of lettuce into my mouth, crunching it loudly as I chewed. “There.” I set the bowl down and crossed
my arms beneath my breasts, leaning against the counter to smile at her. “Happy now?”

“It’s a start,” she conceded, refusing to rise to my bait. “But next time add some tomatoes and carrots.”

“But I didn’t make—”

“Karen!” my father bellowed from across the house, cutting off my protest.

“There’s no reason to shout, Greg. I can hear you even when you whisper.” My mother shot me a conspiratorial eye roll, as if we shared some kind of special experience by virtue of tolerating the male sex.

I took another bite of Marc’s pizza, ignoring her. I refused to willingly bond with her unless she could pick an activity that didn’t require me to use my feminine wiles. I’d misplaced them sometime during adolescence.

My father appeared in the kitchen doorway, wearing a black three-piece, which showed off the tall, athletic figure he’d kept even in his midfifties. The silver vest and tie brought out streaks of silver in his hair. His eyes, the same vibrant green as Ethan’s, contrasted brilliantly with the monochromatic formality.

“You look great, Dad,” I said, wishing I could hug him without getting pizza grease all over his clothes.

“I agree.” My mother wrapped her arms around him, resting her head on his shoulder as her hands snuck beneath the material of his jacket to snake around his back. My heart ached as I watched them, recognizing a pose Marc and I had struck countless times. But surely we’d never looked as in love, as picturesque, as they did.