Taken In by the Pack: Second Chances (7 page)

Damn, but he was handsome. I could feel an almost irresistible pull to him even now, just as I had back then. But I hated him for what he did to me. Or at least, that’s what I had told myself for years… I was so befuddled by now that I didn’t know what I felt any more.

It seemed like ever since I had spotted him on campus, no matter how hard I chased answers, all I caught were more questions.

Chapter Five

Our return home from the party was unremarkable, aside from the fact that Angie did, indeed, manage to land a date with Josh. She was so happily bubbling about that, I (thankfully) didn’t have to come up with any conversation on the way home. As soon as I arrived back at my apartment after dropping her off, I fell into bed, forgetting to even change out of my party clothes. Luckily I realized that before I actually fell asleep, and managed to drag myself up again to shuck my party clothes and put on my pj’s.

Sunday was devoted to studying. Or, at least, that was the plan. My study efforts were only vaguely more successful than the attempt from the day before. Although I was determined not to simply give up this time, my mind just kept chewing over everything that had happened with Bryson, and Mutton Chops —
Elijah
, I reminded myself — and particularly the bonfire last night. Instead of analyzing equations, I was analyzing nuances of Bryson’s expressions. Instead of remembering the dates of important events leading up to World War I, I was remembering the touch of his fingers on my cheek.

Every word and every possible meaning I could think of was mulled over and considered from every angle.

I was proud of myself for keeping up trying to do my schoolwork all day, though, aside from a few breaks for food and short walks to try and clear my head. Certainly it could not be said I was not stubborn, even if it didn’t accomplish very much.

Monday was little better than Sunday. Angie seemed much more interested in gushing about Josh, rather than helping me get back on track. Not that I begrudged her that; I was genuinely happy for her, and my studying or its comparative effectiveness was not her responsibility. It was just awful timing for me, and I had gotten used to her keeping me on track. I tried to be upbeat and effusive for her, but it was difficult. Mostly I wanted to pout and sulk.

I stayed up later than I should have that night, since we had a test the next day that I was woefully unprepared for — even though I’d spent far more time trying to study than I normally did (
trying
being the operative word, unfortunately). Still, I got at least a solid six hours of sleep in. That should be plenty for a healthy college aged girl, right? Yeah, right. I was still fairly drowsy Tuesday morning, unsurprisingly.

I was positive the morning lecture was a dozen times more dull than normal, and dragged on at least three times as long. I nearly fell asleep more than once, if not for Angie preventing my escape by poking me with her pen.

By the time the test rolled around that afternoon, I was jittery and rather ill-tempered. I was so thoroughly distracted, that I didn’t even manage to answer the last two questions. There were several others that I was almost certain I got wrong, because I had to purely guess at the answers. Had that actually been covered in the reading or lectures…?

If I passed that test, it would be a miracle. I could not afford this! I had worked so hard, for so long, and I was barely scraping by as it was. If I started failing tests now, I would end up failing classes, and I would be in danger of losing my financial aid. My mom and stepdad helped where they could, but they could not afford to cover my whole tuition and rent.

Maybe… hopefully… this Friday would actually answer all of these questions, or at least some of them, and give me some peace, so that I could get my mind focused back where it needed to be: on my school work. I could not let a boy from my past destroy the future I had been working so hard to reach.

❖ ❖ ❖

I finally managed to actually get to bed early and have a good night’s restful sleep on Tuesday night, for which I was very grateful. My sleep had been too short and too fitful for far too long.

I actually woke up before my alarm Wednesday morning, and was able to just luxuriate in my bed, a rare treat that I adored. When I finally got up, I decided to dress for comfort rather than looks, to try to preserve that serene, luxurious feeling as long as possible. I picked a pair of loose terrycloth shorts, and a floppy tee.

I felt considerably better than I had in nearly a week.
Why couldn’t this have happened
yesterday
, when it could have saved that test?
I whined to myself. Ah, well. Better late than never.

Classes were uneventful. I had indeed bombed the test the day before, but not too badly, and I had already done my mourning and stressing for it, knowing what was coming. I was much more easily able to rhapsodize with Angie and her excitement over her upcoming date with Josh. She, in turn, seemed more enthused to help me with my work. All in all, it was a much better day than any in the last week or so.

After classes were done for the day, I decided to head to the gym. With all the craziness, I hadn’t managed any gym time in a week and a half, and that was no good.

When I got there, I went in the back to change into my workout clothes I kept in a little locker there. I did some stretches, then got on a treadmill, working up from a walk, to a jog, to a pretty brisk run, getting my blood pumping. After that, I moved on to some light weight training, though I didn’t really have any interest in bulking up, just maintaining reasonable levels of strength. From there, it was to the round-robin circle, which was mostly hydraulics machines designed to strengthen various parts of the body.

The music they had going was great, and I was quickly lost in the rhythm of the repetitions, move, repeat. I was pulled out of the happy half-trance, though, when an unpleasantly familiar song came on. Normally it was the type of song I’d have enjoyed, but it just happened to be the song that Bryson and I danced to at Junior Prom. With that song, and the memories it always evoked, the last week came tumbling back into the forefront of my mind.

I sat, almost stunned, listening to the music, and completely missed the low tone that signaled the time to switch to the next station. A grumpy — or maybe frumpy — soccer-mom type cleared her throat loudly to remind me that it was her turn on the machine I was perched on.

“Oh, sorry,” I mumbled, and hopped up off the seat. I decided I was probably finished with the round-robin for now, and returned to the treadmill for a leisurely jog to cool down. Unfortunately, that left my mind entirely free to sink back into the confused tumultuous near-depression of the last few days — which was precisely what happened.

Why couldn’t he have just answered some of my questions at the bonfire?
I whined in my mind.
Why all this stupid secrecy? Were they a ring of thieves? Drug dealers? Or kidnappers?
I couldn’t imagine Bryson doing anything like that, anything that would warrant such evasiveness.

Or such worry about my safety
, I reminded myself.

The fact that he felt the need for me to be watched over, presumably simply for having a past association with him, was more frightening than all the rest combined.

I sighed. So much for my better day. Once my jog had slowed to a walk for a few minutes, I hopped off the treadmill, did a few more stretches, then headed for the shower.

Afterward, I bundled up my workout things into the little laundry bag with my name on it, and tossed it in the big hamper on the way back to my locker. That was one of my favorite perks of membership at this gym; they would wash your things and replace them in your locker for you, clean and tidy waiting for your next visit.

I got back into my street clothes, trying not to backslide all the way into melancholy.

❖ ❖ ❖

As I left the gym, I spotted the old beat-up red pickup truck that had followed me before. With a soft growl of frustration, I stalked in that direction, hands clenching slightly.

Well, what a shock
, I thought. It was Elijah. Not that I hadn’t basically figured that out when he’d followed me before.

I walked right up to the truck, and knocked on the window, which he obligingly rolled down.

“Yeah?” he asked brusquely. He had a surprisingly pleasant voice, despite the brevity of the question, making me realize that it was the first time I’d heard him speak.

“Why does Bryson have you following me, Elijah?” I asked, trying to make my tone as pleasant and conversational as I could, though I imagine it was still rather tart.

“He wants t’see that you’re safe, that no harm come to you.” He sounded perfectly reasonable, just as Bryson had, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world.

“So he said. But why? What is it that I need to be kept safe from? The only sense of danger I’ve gotten in a long time was you folks “protecting” me.” I smirked wryly, shaking my head a bit, my still-wet ponytail tickling the back of my neck disconcertingly.

He just shrugged in reply. “Not my place t’ask. I just do what he tells me to do.” Again, calm and reasonable. I felt the random urge to strangle him.

“Oh come on, you don’t really expect me to believe that you don’t know why he might feel I wasn’t safe, do you?”

Again, he shrugged, and said nothing more.

“Argh! What is this all
about
, anyway? Are you some kind of… of criminals or something?”

Elijah looked over at me, his watery blue-grey eyes lighting up with mirth. Despite his obvious years of abuse to his body and his unfortunate taste in beard grooming, I realized, he was actually a rather good looking man. “Thought you an’ Bryson was a pair back when he was living with his dam down the road? And you don’ know him no better than that?”

With his ‘dam’? What was this Elijah, a Hell’s Angels’ kennel keeper? He was an odd one, that’s for sure.

“Back then, I wouldn’t have thought so. But after what he did to me, I’m not sure I believe there’s much of anything that is beyond what he’d do.”

He frowned deeply, looking over my face. “You’re awful cynical for such a young pup. Guess I can understand it. He’s a good male, our Bryson, and don’t doubt it, young’un. Don’t doubt it. You’ll understand soon.”

I gave him a funny look. He had the strangest turns of phrase. “Why do you all do whatever he says, anyway?”

“He’s in charge. Wouldn’t be right not to.”

I blinked, trying to sort that out in my head. “Uh..huh. Okay. Well, this was a singularly unhelpful conversation. Thank you
ever
so much.”

He actually laughed at the sarcastic jibe at the end, and I couldn’t help smiling a bit. Dammit! I was
not
going to start liking my assigned stalker!

I spun on my heel with a little huff, hoping he hadn’t seem the smile.

“Any time, young’un. Any time.” He was still laughing when he rolled his window back up. The glass cut off the sound before I made it to my car a few rows over. I opened the door and sat down, sighing, laying my head on the steering wheel for a long moment, before I started up the engine and made my way home.

Elijah didn’t even bother being subtle, now. He pulled out right behind me and followed me the whole way home, waiting in the road in front of my apartment until I had my door open. When I glanced out to see if he was really still there — as if the rumble of the engine didn’t make that perfectly obvious — he actually
waved
at me, before driving slowly off.

❖ ❖ ❖

By Thursday, I seemed to have found a comfortable balance between morosely stressed, and cheerfully serene. Classes were less uncomfortable than they’d been since early last week, and Angie and I were able to get some good work done. As the day wore on, though, what optimism I had managed to reclaim leaked slowly away, until I was dragging terribly by the end of our last class.

“Alright!” Angie proclaimed as we exited the building. “Enough of Miss Mopey. We need to fix this!”

I raised a brow at her. “By the way you say that, I assume you have something in mind?” I asked wryly.

“Yep! Sure to cheer up any halfway sane girl. Retail therapy!” She giggled, and I couldn’t help joining her.

“We just went shopping last week!” I objected, but not seriously.

“True, but we had to leave early and you were all freaked out by the end. That hardly counts as shopping therapy,” she pointed out, sounding oh so reasonable.