“How long have you had it?”
“Two years.” He rises up to standing and faces me. “I don’t give out rides.”
I cock my head at him. “That’s funny, I don’t think I asked for one.”
“All girls do,” he says. “I’m just being pre-emptive.”
“No, you’re being cocky and rude. Perhaps you should make an effort to get to know more people before you start making generalizations like that.” I head to my car but turn around a few steps later. “And by the way, around here, it’s not considered polite to wake up the entire neighborhood because you think someone needs to rectify a mistake.”
Not bothering to give him a chance to respond, I cross the rest of the way to my car and get inside. I crank the engine and turn on the heater, waiting for it to warm up enough to take the chill out of the air inside the car. I don’t want to look his way when I drive past, but my eyes are drawn to him involuntarily. I remember the name my mother used when talking about him. Talon. It’s a fitting name for him. He glances up at me, but I look away.
Rather than going straight to the animal shelter, I stop by the donut shop. I didn’t drink any of the coffee I brewed at the house, but now feel the need to wrap my hands around a cup. The interaction with my new neighbor left me breathless, but I don’t know why. Even long sips of dark roast swirled with caramel don’t quiet the strange shaky feeling inside me.
The door leading back to the kitchen opens, and a familiar voice calls out to me.
“Only you would willingly be up this early in the morning on a Saturday, Wren.”
“Aren’t you here willingly?” I ask Samantha, one of my closest friends.
She drops down in the booth across from me and slides a plate with a fresh cinnamon donut across the table.
“I’m here to work,” she says. “That’s different.”
“Well, I’m going to volunteer.”
“Of course you are,” she mutters but smiles as she tears a piece of the donut away and pops it in her mouth. “You make looking good much harder for the rest of us.”
“You bring the joy of deep-fried dough rolled in cinnamon and sugar to the masses,” I offer. “You shouldn’t underestimate the importance of that.”
“True,” she says. “And don’t forget all the crafting supplies, too. Where would the stay-at-home mothers of preschoolers and Girl Scout leaders do without me?”
“That’s right; you got a second job at the craft store. I’m sure there’s a lot more there then you’re letting on.”
“You’re right,” she smiles. “Bree does stock really good quality art supplies. I plan to take full advantage of my employee discount.”
“Do you do any type of art?” I ask.
“No, but now seems as good a time as any to start. Oh, speaking of which. Bree told me something interesting. Apparently, her nephew is coming to stay with her for the rest of the semester. Sounds like you’re getting a new neighbor.”
The mention of Talon quickens my heart unexpectedly. I force it away as a reaction to his smug arrogance.
“I know. Actually, I just met him.”
Samantha’s eyes widen. “You did? What’s he like? Don’t you think it’s strange he’s showing up in the middle of the school year? There’s got to be a story there.”
“I can believe it. From the less than a minute we spoke this morning, I’m already ready for him to head right back where he came from. He is arrogant and entitled. He looked at me like he was expecting me to lap up milk from his hand. Obviously, he’s the kind of guy who thinks the world revolves around him.”
Samantha eyes me suspiciously. “Wow. That sure is a lot of emotion for someone you only interacted with for less than a minute. You’re sure there isn’t a little something else happening there?”
I take a long gulp of my coffee and roll my eyes at her. “Absolutely not. It makes me cringe just thinking about having another conversation with him. Besides, I have Isaiah.”
“Yes, you do. For almost five years. Pretty impressive for high school,” she says.
I stuff the rest of the donut in my mouth and stand. “I’ve got to get going. I’ll see you at school on Monday.”
“See you then,” Samantha says. I’m almost to the door when she calls out to me again. “Wren?”
I turn back to face her. “Hmmmm?”
“Are you okay?” she asks.
I force a smile. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
She shrugs. “Just seems like something’s bothering you.”
I shake my head. “Nope. Just got some dogs to walk and a new litter of kittens to look after. See you Monday.”
4
Talon
Who the hell does she think she is?
Cold air stings what exposed skin it can find as I slice through it on the back of my bike. This is what I was waiting for yesterday when I first arrived, and the subject of a pointed phone call to the courier service last night. I arranged for it to be delivered almost as soon as I found out I was moving here. Having it with me is non-negotiable. Being with Aunt Bree is better than being with anyone else, but if I’m going to be spending the next few months in this slumbering little town, at least I’ll have my bike.
I’d call it my freedom machine if I were old and didn’t have any self-respect.
But I understand the sentiment. Speeding through the night on my bike, cutting down roads and back alleys like a ghost gives me a sense of release. The roar beneath me lets me think or makes my mind go clear. Whichever I need. Right now, it won’t get off the girl next door.
I expected her to fall at my feet like every other girl who I get anywhere near. I feel pretty confident she’s not used to guys like me. The way she looked at my bike confirms it. There was a soft sweetness in her voice when she first spoke to me, the kind of powdery innocence I had to put a stop to immediately. But in an instant, that disappeared.
She wasn’t impressed by me. She fucking called me arrogant.
I push my bike into a faster speed and let the louder roar drown out the sound of her voice in my head. No one talks to me like that and gets away with it. Few have ever tried. Especially not girls with pink and white bedrooms.
Yet I find myself intrigued by it. Not fawning over me is one thing, but the sass on her tongue is another. It frustrates the hell out of me, but I can’t let it go. This stay with my aunt might have just gotten more interesting.
No one is supposed to have two first days of their senior year. I already had one. Back in September, when I strode into my private high school back home. I walked down the hallway under the hesitant eyes of the teachers and the hungry eyes of the girls. There was the new fascination in the freshmen and the lingering burn of the girls in my class who have watched and waited for three years or may have already had their turn.
There’s some of that hunger in the eyes staring back at me as I enter this school for my second first day of senior year, but it comes mingled with an almost equal amount of distrust and uncertainty. Not that their reaction is unexpected. To say I stand out in these hallways is an understatement. Kids raised around nothing but the bucolic cocoon of their little town don’t know what to make of the safety pins embedded in my black jacket or that I’m wearing heavy black boots in the place of their work boots and running shoes.