Bookmarks & Burnouts

Chapter5

Quinn

I barely make it to the library before my legs start to feel unsteady.

The bruise under my eye throbs in time with my pulse. My ribs ache every time I take a deeper breath. I drop into my usual back-corner chair, pull out a notebook I have no real intention of writing in, and try to make myself as small as possible. If I look busy enough, maybe the rest of the day will just… pass.

It doesn’t.

A large shadow falls across the table.

I know who it is before I even look up. The air changes when Silas Crowe is near — heavier, charged, like the moment before a storm decides whether or not to break. I keep my eyes on the blank page for as long as I can, but eventually I have no choice.

I lift my head.

He’s standing right in front of me, close enough that I have to tip my chin up to meet his gaze. The black cutoff shirt he’s wearing does absolutely nothing to hide the hard lines of muscle in his arms and chest. Intricate tattoos wrap around both biceps and disappear under the fabric, dark and detailed against his skin. He looks like he was built to take up space, to fill doorways, to make people move out of his way without being asked.

I try very hard not to notice how unbelievably attractive he is.

I fail.

“Keller.”

His voice is low and rough. My name in his mouth sounds different than it does when anyone else says it.

I force my own voice to stay steady. “What do you want?”

He studies me for a second too long. His bright green eyes flick — just once — to the bruise under my eye before coming back to my eyes. Something dark moves behind his expression, but it’s gone before I can name it.

“We’re partners,” he says. “I need your number. So we can figure out when to work on this thing.”

The request is so unexpected that for a moment I just stare at him.

He wants my number.

Silas “Havoc” Crowe wants my phone number.

Heat crawls up my neck. I reach into the front pocket of my backpack and pull out the old flip phone I’ve had for years. It’s scratched and outdated and suddenly feels like the most embarrassing object I own. I can feel him watching as I open it and rattle off the number in a flat, quiet voice.

He types it into his phone without comment.

When he looks up again he’s closer than he was before. Close enough that I can see the individual shades of green in his eyes. Close enough that I notice the small silver hoop at the side of his lip and the way his black hair falls across his forehead. My stomach does something complicated and unwanted.

I stay completely still.

He stares at me for another beat, something unreadable passing over his face. Then he takes a sudden step back like he’s been burned.

“I’ll text you,” he mutters.

Before I can say anything — not that I had anything ready — he turns and walks out of the library.

I sit there with my cheap flip phone still open in my hand, heart hammering against my bruised ribs, and try to remember how to breathe normally.

Partners.

With him.

This is going to be so much worse than I thought.

I stay in the library until the librarian starts turning off the overhead lights one section at a time. She gives me a pointed look over the top of her glasses. I pack up without arguing.

The walk home feels longer than usual. Every step reminds me of the ache in my ribs and the dull throb under my eye. I keep replaying the library in my head — the way Silas had stood over me, the low sound of his voice saying my name, the sudden step back like I’d done something to him. None of it makes sense. I don’t want it to make sense.

By the time I reach the house the living room windows are glowing. Television light flickers against the thin curtains. I don’t risk the front door. I go around the side, push my bedroom window up just far enough, and climb through the way I’ve done a hundred times before. The landing is soft. I ease the window mostly shut and lock it from the inside.

The room is dark and quiet. I drop my backpack on the floor and sit on the edge of the bed without turning on the light. My stomach twists hard enough to hurt. I never stopped for food. I was too busy thinking about Silas Crowe’s tattoos and muscles. Now the only things in the house are whatever Cheryl and Randy haven’t already eaten or ruined, and the thought of walking into the living room makes my skin crawl.

I press a hand against my empty stomach and consider climbing back out the window. The diner might still be open. Or the gas station. Anywhere that isn’t here.

My flip phone buzzes on the mattress beside me.

I freeze.

No one texts me. Ever.

I pick it up and flip it open. The tiny screen glows in the dark.

Unknown number: This is Silas. We need to set a time to work on the project.

I stare at the message for a long time, thumb hovering over the keys. My heart is doing something unsteady and stupid in my chest.

He’s actually texting me.

I type back with careful, small movements.

Me: Okay. When works for you?

I send it before I can overthink the wording, then sit there in the dark with the phone warm in my hand, stomach empty, ribs aching, waiting to see if he’ll answer.

The reply comes faster than I expect.

Silas: Tomorrow after school. Where?

I stare at the message. My stomach is still empty and twisting, but the bigger problem is suddenly the word where.

My house is out of the question. The idea of Silas Crowe standing in that living room, seeing Cheryl passed out or Randy’s eyes on me, makes me feel sick in a completely different way.

Me: Not my house.

There’s a longer pause this time.

Silas: Why not?

I bite my lip. There’s no good answer that doesn’t sound like a red flag.

Me: It just won’t work. Can we do it somewhere else?

Silas: Clubhouse is too loud. You’ll hate it.

I already knew that. The Ironhaven clubhouse is the last place someone like me belongs.

Me: Library then?

The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Silas: I’m not hanging out in the library like a f*****g nerd.

I actually huff a quiet breath through my nose. Of course he won’t.

Me: Then where? We have to work somewhere.

Another pause. I can almost feel him scowling at his phone.

Silas: Diner on 5th. The one that’s open late. After your shift or whatever.

I blink. He somehow knows I work at a diner? Or maybe he just assumed. Either way, the suggestion is… practical. Public. Neutral.

Me: Okay. Tomorrow. 5:30?

Silas: Fine.

And just like that, the conversation is over. No goodbye. No extra words. The screen goes dark in my hand.

I set the phone down on the mattress and wrap my arms around my middle. My stomach growls loud enough to make me wince. Tomorrow I’ll have to face him across a sticky diner table and pretend the way he looked at me in the library didn’t scramble something important in my chest.

One problem at a time.

First: food.

Then: surviving Silas Crowe.