I wriggled a bit, but since Dex chose that instant to move closer, he interpreted it in the very wrong way.
His voice deepened. “I’m good to wait until you’re ready, but just so you know . . . I’m ready whenever you are.”
Evidently.
I opened my mouth to tell him I needed to be alone, but I was too slow. His mouth was on mine and suddenly I was up against something uncomfortable.
Oh no. No, no, no. This isn’t happening.
But it was.
On Second Four, his hand tightened on my waist . . . and I shifted.
I gasped for air, kicking my feet out as if trying to escape from invisible restraints.
As I thrashed around, something that felt like a lead pipe smacked me on the forehead, forcing me to finally take stock of my surroundings.
“Shit, shit, shit!” I’d just shifted with Dex’s tongue down my throat. I was going to be sick. In some bizarre screwed-up way, for the next twenty-four hours Dex was going to have his tongue lodged in my mouth until I shifted back and threw him the hell off me.
“Shit,” I said again, swallowing back the urge to throw up and concentrating on slowing my breathing. I had to get a grip.
The “lead pipe” that had hit me in the head was in fact the cast on my arm. I wiggled my fingers and could feel the familiar pain flare up. Still broken. Interesting.
What was going on? I pulled my right arm out from under the covers and felt my stomach slide to an all-bad place.
The cut I’d just gotten in the basement—the cut I’d just been looking at—was gone. Not so much as a scratch. And though I’d never really experimented with alcohol and the Shift before, I was no longer drunk. In fact, I felt horribly sober. Something had definitely changed.
It was a dangerous thought, but it was there nonetheless.
The physical wasn’t crossing over.
I slipped out of bed and walked out into the hall. The house was silent; everyone was asleep.
“Shit,” I whispered, lost for any other words, frozen in no-man’s-land. I don’t know how long I stood there, mouth agape, but eventually I about-faced and shuffled back to my room to try—somewhat pathetically—to go to sleep.
But in those dazed and confused moments . . . the seed of a thought was watered and had begun to grow. I tried to stop myself. Tried to block it out.
I failed.
When 7:00 a.m. rolled around, I got up and headed for the kitchen.
I could hear Mom humming away in the shower. Since we all shared the one downstairs bathroom, I decided to start on breakfast while I waited for my turn. Today was Saturday, so at least I didn’t have school. Four-day weekends were not the worst parts about my lives.
Partly for Maddie—and partly to block out the mental image of Dex and me before the Shift—I started whipping up some pancake mix. Before long, Mom was in the kitchen with me, frying up some bacon and helping me hold the bowl while I tried to whisk with my good arm.
By the time Maddie’s feet shuffled into the kitchen, Mom and I were sitting down to our pancakes with Maddie’s waiting on the warm stovetop. I’d let Mom take over while I showered and dressed, opting for a deep-purple stretch mini and gray tank top to avoid buttons. I still had to ask Mom to lace up my boots. She suggested I might like to borrow a pair of her slip-ons. I asked her if she was high. She gave me her Mom smirk, then laced up my boots.
We always sat in the kitchen for meals. We did have a dining room, but Mom and Dad had it stacked to the ceiling with stock for the drugstore. They insisted on buying in bulk for better pricing from their suppliers—if that meant we filled the best room in the house with toilet paper and diapers, so be it.
I didn’t mind. It seemed homier, even if the kitchen was our most run-down room. If I had it my way, Mom and Dad would use my college money to fix up the house a bit. But they weren’t about to listen to my suggestions. Mom would see it as me being disrespectful, and Dad would just accuse me of not living up to my potential. He was big on always telling Maddie and me that we could be more. I never missed the subtext, the one that translated to you’re not enough.
Mom put Maddie’s plate in front of her and poured her an apple juice. Without a word, Maddie smiled and started eating. She wasn’t a morning person. Mostly because she spent half the night snooping around. It would take her a couple of hours to hit her stride, so Mom and I kept the conversation going.
“Do you need help today?” I offered, already knowing the answer. Usually I hated helping out at the drugstore; it was bang-your-head-against-the-wall kind of work, and there are only so many seventy-plus ladies you can show to the hair-coloring section. But today I had ulterior motives for helping.
Mom nodded. “A few hours this morning. Maddie is going over to Mrs. Jefferies’s house to play with Sara, and I was hoping Dad could take a day off.”
I mopped up the last of my maple syrup with my pancake and nodded. “No problem. Capri and I were going to meet up at the mall before she starts work, so I can head in by nine.”
Mom stood up and started to clear our dishes away, both of us ignoring Maddie as she quietly worked away on her own breakfast. Mom took a deep breath. “Sometimes I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she said softly. Then she sniffed and added with her usual pragmatism, “Try not to get sidetracked with Capri.”
I smiled uncomfortably as I grabbed my backpack and headed for the door. “See you there.” On my way past Maddie, I mussed up her hair. “Don’t make Sara climb too high in the tree this time, kiddo.” Last time it had taken forty-five minutes for Mrs. Jefferies to climb up and get Sara down.
Maddie gave her standard 8:00 a.m. grunt and shoveled a piece of bacon into her mouth, but when I reached the front door she called out, “Can I still draw on your cast when I get home?”
It wasn’t great timing given everything I had planned for the day, but it was Maddie. “You know it!” I yelled back, and headed out, knowing I’d left her smiling at the kitchen table.
Capri worked weekends at the secondhand music store, Thrifty Tunes. There was double incentive for her: she needed a job plus she got to hang out with Angus, her most-of-the-time boyfriend, who worked weekends there too.
Even if Capri wasn’t ready to admit it, they were perfect for each other: both into the Goth look, both into music, both opinionated, strong-minded people. And when they were together . . . well, even unfortunate bystanders could tell they were into one another in all the right ways. But part of that meant they also drove each other crazy and fought like maniacs. Last fight they’d had, Capri had given him the silent treatment for two weeks.
“You wanna meet up later, go catch a movie or some-thing?” Capri offered as we meandered toward Thrifty Tunes, each with a Mocha Frappuccino in hand.
“Can’t. Gotta hang out with Maddie this afternoon,” I said between sips, somewhat satisfied that my lie actually held a grain of truth.
“Davis is planning to stop by.” She said it as if it were an incentive.
“I’ve already told you, Davis and I are just friends. That’s it.”
Capri threw her empty bottle in the recycling bin and popped a few pieces of gum in her mouth before reapplying her black-currant lip gloss, all while still on the move.
“That’s not what he thinks. I can see his smaller version thinking other things when you’re around,” she said teasingly.
I smacked her on the arm. “Please don’t go there.” Please! It was bad enough knowing how close I currently was to Dex. “Davis is cool. As a friend.”
“Come on, Sabs, what’s the deal? You holding out for Mr. Sweep-you-off-your-feet or something? Or are you holding out for me? Cause you know . . .”
I smacked her again, but I was laughing. “You wish.”
She was still looking at me, wanting an answer. I groaned. “I don’t know, Cap, I just don’t like anyone like that at the moment.” I gave her a stern look to emphasize my point, since I was pretty sure Capri was happy to swing either way. ?
??But when I do, it will be a guy.”
We stopped outside the music store and she shrugged, satisfied that I wasn’t lurking in any kind of closet. “Just want you to get some. You know, before you’re fifty.”
Part of me, a fairly big part, totally agreed. But I glared anyway. “You’re a bitch, you know that?”
“I might’ve been told once or twice before,” she called out as I walked away.
I stopped by an office-supply store and bought a lined black notebook. I would need it as part of the plan. With shaking fingers I also dialed a number on my phone and made an appointment for later.
At the drugstore, I said hello to Mom and the pharmacist Denise, then I wriggled awkwardly—thanks to my cast—into one of the white jackets that were supposed to make us look more “medically informed.” When Mom and Denise weren’t looking, I slid my notebook onto the counter. I kept a magazine resting on top of it, so when customers came in they wouldn’t see the list.
1. Test blood theory—exterior physical reaction
2. Test hair—pigment and removal
3. Test laxatives—internal physical response
4. Test poison—loss of consciousness and organ failure. If points one through four achieve a successful outcome, proceed to next point
My hand trembled as I wrote number five.
5. Choose
I chewed on a fingernail, staring at what I’d just written. Could it really be that simple? I didn’t know, but even so . . . I crossed out the last point. It was too early for that. Points one through four first. Then I’d worry about what would happen next.
Giddy from the rush of thinking such forbidden thoughts, I did what I’d really come here for: I stocked up on everything I was going to need, waiting until Denise went on her break to grab some items from behind her counter. By the time I returned to the register, someone was waiting and looked like he’d been there for a while.
“Sorry for the wait. What can I get you?” I was sure I was flushed from guilt. I hoped he hadn’t seen me shoplifting from my own family’s store.
The guy, who’d had his back to me, spun around and glared. I let out a little gasp before I could stop myself. He was probably in his early twenties—and his presence packed a punch. Trouble and attitude radiated from him. And there was something . . . more. In his eyes. They were startling: dark blue and intense, with a depth you didn’t normally see. Eyes that could too easily see through someone.
I set my shoulders and got ready to deny any accusations. But he just gave me an up-and-down look I couldn’t read—other than to know it wasn’t flattering—and shoved a handful of crumpled prescriptions toward me.
“How long?” he asked, his full lips set in a straight line.
I gave him a tight smile as I sifted through over a dozen prescriptions, more than a few for heavy-duty medications. That explained the aggressive, defensive attitude: drug dealer.
“These are going to take a while,” I told him. “Since there are so many and they’re not all in one name.” Hint: I know what you’re doing. “The pharmacist will need to see ID and get an authorization.” After which we’ll call the police.
I kept a firm hold of the prescriptions, expecting him to snatch them and make a run for it. But he simply shrugged, leaned against the counter, and folded his arms.
“Just call Roxbury Hospital and give them the prescription codes and my ID details. They’ll verify.” He slipped a driver’s license out of his wallet and tossed it on the counter before narrowing his eyes at me. “How long?”
This guy was an ass. And thankfully I wasn’t in Wellesley today; I didn’t have to behave. I sucked in a breath and was about to tell him to take a hike when Denise came back from her break.
“Ethan!” she said, looking delighted. “What are you doing here?”
Drug guy shrugged, sending me a sly look. “Being interrogated.”
Denise looked at me, the wad of scripts in one hand, phone barely balancing in my other, and smiled. “It’s okay, Sabine. Ethan works at the hospital. They have weekly prescriptions, but usually not till Monday.” She turned to Ethan, closing the distance in a few steps. “I haven’t seen you around in a while. How are you?” She squeezed his arm tenderly.
“Amazing.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.
Denise just nodded as if he wasn’t being a total jerk and took the scripts from my hand. “I’ll take care of them, Sabine.”
I shot a look at Ethan, who now seemed to be enjoying himself, just as Mom emerged from her pigeonhole office and called out, “Sabine, can you do the dry-cleaning and coffee run?”
“Yeah, ‘cause I can really carry all that,” I answered. But Mom had already closed the door, forgetting my broken wrist. End-of-month accounts can do that.
Denise looked up from typing prescription details into the computer. “Ethan, why don’t you give Sabine a hand? You don’t mind, do you? I’ll get these processed while you’re out.”
Ethan frowned, looking annoyed that I’d suddenly become his problem.
My jaw clicked to the side in anger. I picked up my note-book, intending to stuff it in my backpack, but instead I accidentally knocked the bag off the opposite side of the counter with my cast. The unzipped backpack and all its contents—including my notebook—landed right at Ethan’s feet.
“Shit!” I exclaimed as Ethan bent down to pick up my things. I scrambled to get around the counter, but by the time I got to him he was already straightening up, my backback in one hand, my open notebook in the other.
He passed the bag over, face blank.
“Thanks,” I said, putting out my other hand for the notebook. I was sure he must have seen the list, and I wanted to kick myself for using a black marker.
He handed it over calmly. I shoved it back in my bag while he bent down again to pick up something from under the counter. My heart pounded in my ears. It was a box of pills.
He looked at me curiously. “Yours?”
At least I’d had enough foresight to put the pills in a generic white box. He couldn’t know what they were—if he asked, I’d shut him down by saying they were for period pain. But the fact that there was no label or prescription sticker had him looking over the box suspiciously.
I snatched it from his hand and quickly shoved it in my bag. “Thanks,” I mumbled.
Now who looked like the drug dealer?
“Not a problem.” He raised an eyebrow, and I was again struck by how dark his eyes were. A deep ocean blue. My gaze traveled down to his mouth and somehow became stuck there. I stared at the arc of his full bottom lip just as his teeth slid smoothly over it as if he were contemplating some-thing important. He cleared his throat and I blushed, caught mid-gawk. “We should get going then.” He gestured toward the door.
“Oh no. You don’t have to . . . I’ll make two trips. It’s fine.” Then, finding some backbone, I narrowed my eyes and added firmly, “Really.”
He shrugged and half-smiled, enjoying my discomfort. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”
Oh, the flattery.
“Whatever,” I said. If he wanted to play help-the-invalid, that was his issue. And I did not stare at his ass after I took off my white coat and followed him out of the store. It was more of a fleeting glance.
If Ethan had been frosty to me in the drugstore, he was positively arctic after we left. I let him suffer the awkward silence I had no intention of fixing. It was clear he didn’t want to be doing this any more than I did.
“You in college?” he asked finally.
“Graduating high school,” I answered, avoiding eye contact. I didn’t want to encourage small talk with this guy.
“Graduation, huh? Big plans for the future?”
I rolled my eyes. Like he cared. “I suppose. I’m looking forward to finishing school and some new possibilities.”
“Oh?” He raised his eyebrows. “And what are those?”
I shrugged, confused by his interest. “I’m not exactly sure yet, but I like the id
ea of a future I can take one day at a time and, I don’t know, live each day to the fullest, I guess.”
He nodded, his gaze moving down to my cast. “So what’d you do?”
I cringed, shaking my head at myself. “Tripped on the subway steps.”
“It happens.”
“Not to me it doesn’t,” I said without thinking.
He gave me an odd look.
“I mean, I just . . . I’ve never broken anything before.”
He was still staring at me curiously, but thank God we hit the dry cleaner’s and he stopped asking questions. He didn’t speak again until we were back out of the shop, when he insisted on carrying the white coats wrapped in plastic.
“Thanks,” I said, trying to stop my gaze from travel-ing below his rolled-up shirt sleeves, where his forearms flexed as he gripped the hangers. He wasn’t super built or anything—if anything he was lean—but everything was just . . . annoyingly nice to look at.
I cleared my throat. “So you work at the hospital then? You a doctor or something?”
He didn’t look like the doctor type—dark jeans, black shirt, and overgrown dark hair curling at the ends—but you never knew.
“Or something,” he said wryly, shooting me a look as if he knew exactly where I’d pegged him. “Your mom owns the drugstore?”
We went into Starbucks—thankfully no line—and I ordered Mom and Denise their usual caramel lattes. “Nope. She just manages it.”
“Surprised I’ve never seen you before. I used to go there every week.”
I remembered what Denise had said about the Monday prescriptions. “I’m at school on Mondays. For one more week anyway.”
Ethan nodded. After I’d paid for the coffees I turned and caught him staring at me with the same odd look on his face before he quickly glanced away.
“Here, I’ll carry one,” he offered.
I loaded one on top of the other and lifted them easily in my good hand. “I’ve got it,” I said, heading for the door.