She flicks a glance over at me and narrows her eyes. I narrow mine right back, a silent dare to mess with me. She rolls her eyes and stands with a flourish, making sure to run those gold-tipped talons over her body before walking across the room and sitting down beside another unsuspecting man.
“Well, well, well,” she drawls to him. “Ain’t you something?”
Berkeley makes a choked sound and I swing a glance back his way.
“What are you laughing at?” I ask, even though my lips are twitching, too.
“Pop Rocks,” he whispers, grinning. “Who knew?”
We’re both sitting on the bench, leaned back, our shoulders shaking in silent laughter. Humor crinkles the edges of those beautiful eyes, and I’m suddenly sad I’ll probably never see this man again. I know it’s crazy. We’ve only shared a few words in not much more than an hour, but I’m the kid so often trapped between worlds, split in two and finding my place. On rare occasion, you come across someone who just gets you, and you don’t have to figure out your place. Wherever you are is okay.
I think he could be a “wherever you are” person.
His laughter fades, too, and I don’t know how long we stare at one another, but the seconds stretch into a perfect tension. Not uncomfortable at all. It’s a just-right tautness that draws between us and sends fireflies over my tingling skin, lighting me up.
“Did your daddy know you were protesting today, Lennix?” Mr. Paul asks.
His pointed question shatters the tension and scatters the fireflies. Berkeley blinks, looks away, and folds his arms over his chest. Mr. Paul flicks a suspicious, avuncular glance between Berkeley T-shirt and me.
Wow. I think calling my elementary school teacher a cock blocker goes a little far since I’m barely flirting with this stranger, but still . . . did he have to bring up my “daddy?”
“Uh, he knew I was speaking today, yes, sir,” I reply.
Not exactly what he asked, and the look he gives me says he knows it.
“Will your father be upset that you protested?” Berkeley T-shirt asks.
“Probably.” I release a not-so-long-suffering sigh. “He’s super-protective since . . .” Since my mom disappeared.
She left like she had a dozen times before, off to a protest in Seattle, and then . . . nothing. And ever since, my father has tried to roll me in bubble wrap and cotton, but I’m not having it. He’s right. This world is not a safe place, but playing it safe all the time is not how I make that better.
“Sorry about your mom,” Berkeley says.
I glance up to find sympathy darkening his eyes to forest green. I’d forgotten he would have heard me talk about her today.
“Thanks.” I swallow the hurt and helplessness that lodge in my throat when I think about Mama. “Anyway, my father’s really protective now. This will probably get me grounded for weeks.”
Man. Way to sound like a twelve-year-old in front of the finest man you’ve ever encountered in real life.
“Grounded?” His dark eyebrows sky rocket. “Exactly how old is the Girl Who Chases Stars?”
Well, so much for the short-lived not-flirtation we’ve been enjoying. He’s probably like us. Someone behind bars who shouldn’t be. I seriously doubt he wants messing around with an underage girl to land him here for good.
Smart guy.
Resigned, I drag out the one word I know will shut this down. “Seventeen.”
3
Maxim
Seven-fucking-teen?
She’s jailbait. And I’m literally already in jail.
While I’ve been wondering if it would be too awkward now that we’re both out of handcuffs to ask her out, she’s been sitting over there completely underage.
Shit and double shit. I’d be arrested again for the things I was imagining while she sat across from me. She doesn’t look seventeen. Someone should pop a warning label on this girl.
It’s not her appearance. It’s the things she said at the protest. It’s the gravity in her eyes when she looks at you. I don’t know how to name the color of her eyes—have no idea what I should call them. No way are they just gray. They are silver eyes. Not just the color, but the metal. Tough and tried and smelted beyond her years into this indescribable hue. Metal and mettle.
“You’re, um . . . very mature for your age,” I finally manage, surreptitiously inserting an extra inch between us on the bench.
“My godmother says I’m an old soul.”
At least something is of age.
Jesus, the girl’s not even a freshman in college and I’m getting my master’s. I may be a lot of things, but a perv isn’t one of them, at least under typical circumstances.
The Girl Who Chases Stars is not typical circumstances. She is atypical. Unusual. File this under “won’t find another like this one.” I bet those high school idiots have no idea how to handle her. A part of me really hopes they don’t.
“It’s not fair,” she says, tilting her head slightly and sending a river of dark, pin-straight hair swinging behind her. “You know both of my names, and I don’t know yours. I’ve literally been calling you by your T-shirt in my head for the last hour.”
I hesitate, hopefully not long enough for her to notice. I’ll never see this girl again. Hell, I probably won’t see any of the people in this holding cell again, but they’ve left a crater-like impression on me. Her most of all. I’m ashamed of my last name—ashamed of my father and how he’s like every other entitled son of a bitch who has stolen from them, disregarded their rights, and diminished their humanity. Cade is a name that opens doors and closes deals, but I want nothing to do with it today.
“Maxim.”
“Like the Gladiator movie?”
“That was Maximus.”
“Still. It means ‘the greatest,’ right? That’s a lot to live up to.”
“Let’s just say my parents had high hopes.”
“Had?” she probes, those indefinably gray eyes searching my face. This kid is so not a kid.
She’s a kid, asshole. Remember that or get comfortable behind bars.
“I think I’m kind of a disappointment,” I admit, forcing my mouth into a casual grin at the sympathy in her eyes. “It’s okay. They’ve disappointed me, too. It’s a family trait.”
“I’m sure they’re proud of you,” she insists. “I mean, if my kid traveled from California to Arizona protesting for indigenous people, I’d make bumper stickers with his face on them.”
Yeah, about that . . .
“Lennix Moon,” one of the cops who booked us yells. He opens the barred door and gestures for her to go out into the corridor.
“Well, that’s me.” She laughs and casts an if-I’m-not-mistaken wistful glance my way.
“Yet another name?”
“Middle name.” She stands up and smooths the golden skirt. “Lennix Moon Hunter. Quite a mouthful, huh?”
I’m still scrubbing my mind of the dirty thoughts I had about her mouth before I found out she was seventeen. Out of the question.
“Well goodbye and good luck.” I extend my hand for a parting handshake.
When she takes it, her fingers feel small and sure in mine. Our skin conducts a charge between our palms. That volt hits me somewhere between my chest and my stomach. I wonder if I’m imagining it, but when I look up, her eyes fix to that one point of connection. She glances up, a mixture of curiosity and pleasure right there to match mine.