The Breakaway (7 page)

Brad was lying on his stomach on top of her bed and reached his hands to the floor where she sat Indian-style. She was trying to finish the last chapter of
The Great Gatsby.

“Wear your white hoodie,” he said when she told him she couldn’t possibly go since all her winter clothes were downstairs in the laundry room.

“What white hoodie?” She kept her eyes focused on her book, annoyed that he wasn’t letting her finish, and even more annoyed that he wanted her to go for a three-mile walk down the beach to party with a bunch of people from school she didn’t even like.

“The one I bought you, remember? You wore it yesterday; I can see it in your hamper.”

She twisted around. He was right, and she scrunched her nose. “It smells like fish. It got wet when I reached into the tide pool, remember?”

“It does not.” He jumped off the bed and went to the hamper. “Well, maybe a little,” he mumbled after pressing one of the sleeves to his nose. “But who cares? You won’t be able to smell it outside.”

He was right. Again.

As they headed down the beach hand in hand, the only thing she could smell was the drifting, hot scent of a bonfire. When they finally reached the party, she was freezing. She had only worn flip-flops and could hardly feel her sand-covered toes as Brad led her to a log close to the fire.

He left her sitting between two groups clustered in their own conversations, and as she patiently waited for him to get her some food, she pressed her knees and elbows together and stared into the flames. She was admiring the color when somebody sat next to her.

“You’re Brad’s girl, right?” a deep voice asked.

She jumped and turned to face the guy. He was skinny, but not nerdy, with longish, dark brown hair swept across his forehead. She thought he looked handsomely philosophical, with thin, wire-rimmed glasses perfectly balanced on his polished, symmetrical features.

“His
girl?”
she replied, annoyed. “I guess you could call me that.”

“Oh, sorry. Naomi, right?”

“Yes.”

He reached out a hand for her to shake, something she wasn’t used to from her own age group. None of them were so formal.

“I’m Damien, Brad’s roommate if he decides to come to Berkeley this fall.”

She took his hand, suddenly recalling Brad’s mention of him awhile back—some friend of his she had never met. He had graduated three years ago, and if she remembered right, was supposed to be a great photographer.

“I’m sorry,” she exclaimed sheepishly. “Brad told me about you, but he didn’t say you’d be here tonight.”

His grip was strong as he looked through his glasses into her eyes. “Yeah, I’m visiting my parents for the weekend. This usually isn’t my kind of thing. I mean, the cops’ll probably show up in a few hours since everyone here is underage.”

She dropped her eyes to the beer in his hand and gave him a half-smile. “And you aren’t?”

“I’m twenty-two.”

“Oh, right.”

“Anyway, Brad’s told me a lot about you. Says you’re into photography.” He smiled—a cute smile with dimples. “I’m always looking for somebody else who enjoys it as much as me. You know, who’s actually serious about it.”

She was hooked.

They talked for ten minutes, halfway through which she wondered where Brad was, but kept talking anyway. That was when she learned about the fog.

“This will be a great spring,” Damien said with a toothy grin. “Nice and cold. Perfect for fog. You know, so thick you can barely see through it? If you catch it right when it’s rolling in, you can get some eerie-looking shots.” He took a drink. “We’ll do anything for a great shot, right?”

Chuckling, she lifted her wrists to her nose. The smell was faint, but revolting.

“What’s the matter?” He laughed. “You look like you’re gonna hurl.”

She lowered her hands. “It’s just ... I hate the smell of fish, and I was digging around in this tide pool yesterday to straighten out a starfish. You know, for that perfect shot? Well, I got my sleeves wet and now they reek.”

“What? Tide pool water doesn’t smell like fish.”

He chuckled and dropped his eyes to her hands now lying in her lap. “May I?” he asked, reaching to touch her fingers. Before she could answer, he slipped her hand into his and lifted the cuff of her sweatshirt to his nose.

His touch was gentle, but persistent. His thumb caressed her skin as he looked into her eyes. He slid the cuff up her arm and turned the underside of her wrist to his lips. What did he think he was doing? Every move made her jumpy and hot, like the flames a few feet away.

He breathed slowly, practically kissing her pale skin with his lips. Excitement wound its way through her. How would those lips feel against her mouth? Those sweet caresses on her neck? She tried to shove the thought away as he took a deep, sensual breath that sent heat all the way down to her chilled toes. Finally, when she thought her heart couldn’t beat any faster, he let go.

“You’re crazy,” he said softly, and then with an elegant smile, “I couldn’t smell fish at all. Only you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you smell incredible. Like lilies.”

She wasn’t sure if he was trying to flirt with her or not, if the confident, dimpled smile and the way he had touched her was supposed to make her knees weak and her hands warm, or if she was imagining it all. Either way, she was shocked at how he made her feel; at how easily a complete stranger could sweep her off her feet when she was already in love with Brad.

Where
was
Brad?

She looked up to see him standing ten feet away, carrying a plate of food and two open beers. He was stopped in his tracks, frozen next to the fire with fury scorching his face. Embarrassed to see him watching her, she pushed down the cuff of her sleeve as he shot an angry glance at Damien.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” he snapped.

Damien smiled and shrugged, apparently oblivious that Brad looked like he might deck him. “Yeah, me neither. I’m in town for the weekend and saw Naomi sitting here.” He took a long drink from his beer. “I recognized her from the picture you showed me last summer, remember?”

Brad shifted his weight across the sand. “Yeah, I remember.” He stepped forward and sat down on the other side of Naomi. His thigh pressed against hers. “So I guess you two found a lot to talk about while I was gone?” He leaned forward and shoved the two beers into the sand. His irritation was thick and intense. Naomi could have felt it a mile away, but Damien wasn’t reacting to it. He was either extremely imperceptive or he simply didn’t care. She was inclined to think the latter. All she wanted to do was disappear, but she grabbed one of the beers instead and took a long swallow. Maybe it would take the edge off everything.

Damien leaned forward to look at Brad. “Sure, we found a lot to talk about. You know we both like photography.” Then with a heavy sigh, “So have you decided where you’re going to school yet? Should I count on you for the other half of my rent?”

Naomi watched the orange flames of the bonfire shimmer off his glasses before she took another swig of beer and turned to Brad, who was staring down at the plate of food in his lap.

“I don’t know yet,” he mumbled, and leaned forward to snatch the other beer from the sand. He took a long, deep swallow before wrapping an arm around her waist. He squeezed her tightly. So tightly it hurt.

“Baby, are you hungry?”

She looked at the plate in his lap and nodded. The hot dog he handed her was charred, topped with lots of mustard. That was just the way she liked it.

“Looks good,” Damien said and stood. He smiled down at her. “Guess I’ll talk to you later. See how those night shots go, huh?”

“Wait a sec.” Brad set his plate on the ground and stood up to face Damien. Of the two, Brad was more daunting despite his younger age. He worked out nearly every day and was proud of his sculpted biceps and six-pack abdomen. He said he did it for Naomi. He thought she liked his strength, and when she ran her hands across his smooth, muscle-taught skin, she was thinking
protector, intimacy, safe—
when what she was shamefully thinking lately was
pain.
Sometimes he was just too rough with her.

“Listen,” Brad snapped into Damien’s face, “I don’t want you anywhere near her, understand? There’s a reason I’ve kept her away from you, and you damn well know why.”

“Sure, whatever you say. Let me know when you’re moving in, alright?”

Damien gave her a brief smile and walked away before Brad could say anything else. He whipped around to face her with clenched fists at his sides.

“I swear,” he hissed as she shoved her beer back into the sand and shakily ran a finger across her wrist, “if you ever look at somebody like that again ....”

“Like what, Brad?”

She tried to ignore the sweat breaking out on her palms as his fists tightened. He had never hit her before, but that look in his eyes was all too familiar. She was sure he could slam one of those fists into her face without a second thought. Worse than that, he might make her do something in bed that might hurt more than usual. She twisted her trembling hands together at the thought. A fist might be better, but the problem with that was she would have to hide the bruise under makeup, and if someone noticed, she would have to explain it away with some stupid excuse. There was no way she would risk getting Brad in trouble, and he knew it. It was in that moment that something shifted inside her head, like a puzzle piece moving into place.

His fists unclenched and he softened his expression and sat back down next to her. “I shouldn’t get angry with you because of him. He’s a great friend, but he’s a regular player. That’s the main reason I don’t want him near you. Somebody like you ... he’s always looking for an easy—”

He stopped and ran his hand up her back. “Don’t talk to him anymore, okay?”

She spotted some mustard on her thumb, eerily bright in the glow of the fire. “Okay,” she answered softly.

The food wasn’t appetizing anymore as she imagined Brad actually hitting her. For the way she was feeling about Damien, she probably deserved a swift punishment.

VI

March

NAOMI SPENT A LOT OF TIME IN THE shower. She took at least two a day, sometimes three. If she was extremely bored, she took four. Maybe it was because she liked the tile walls. They turned slick and dark under the water and reminded her of moss-covered cave walls or smooth stones at the bottom of a river. Safe, enclosed places.

There was a spot between two of the tiles where the grout had turned soft. With her fingernail, she had scratched a mark for every day she was kidnapped.

Twenty-seven so far.

She stepped out of the shower and faced the foggy mirror. She wanted to wipe away the condensation to look at herself, but she knew it was a bad idea. She didn’t want to see her short hair. She wanted to forget the motel room. In her mind, it seemed so far away from this isolated bedroom. She was beginning to feel safe for the most part.

Her stomach growled, indicating it was time for dinner. Evelyn would be up any moment. Opening the bathroom door, she stopped dead in her tracks.

Jesse.

He was leaning against the dresser and looked up from a book in his hands. She wanted to run back into the bathroom and lock the door, but she was so shocked to see him—to see anybody besides Evelyn—that she couldn’t move.

He smiled, closing his book before he set it on the dresser. It was
The Great Gatsby.
She noticed a new stack of books next to it.

“Evelyn sent me up here,” he said, struggling to keep his eyes on her face. They kept drifting to the edge of the towel wrapped around her chest. He shifted his feet. “Get dressed and I’ll take you downstairs for dinner.”

Heart pounding, she clutched the towel even closer and stepped back. The way he was looking at her invaded her space even more than when he had touched her face and told her she was beautiful.

“I’m sorry,” he said with a half-smile. His cheeks were red. “I didn’t know you’d be undressed.”

She stepped back. “You’re not going to watch me, are you?”

“Of course not. I’ll be right outside the door.”

When he was gone, she rushed to the closet. Her breaths were fast and panicked. She looked at her naked body when she dropped the towel and imagined a stranger’s hands on her skin. Sick. Sick. Sick. She shuddered, dressing as fast as she could before heading for the door. But something caught her eye. The stack of books Jesse had left on the dresser. He had brought her fantasy novels, even some Mercedes Lackey. God bless him in spite of everything else.

There were classics too, one in particular that made her breath catch in her throat.
The Awakening.
It was the same book her mother had given her in the library at home. The thought of even touching it made her look away. He couldn’t possibly know about that, could he? What were the chances?

Slipping through the doorway, she let him lead her downstairs to the dining table where the others were already eating. A lump formed in her throat. The table was set with prepared bowls of chicken Caesar salad, something she always avoided because most Caesar dressings tasted fishy. She hated fish. She had told Evelyn weeks ago that she hated it, but maybe she had forgotten.