Crossing the Line (Pushing the Limits #1.1)

Crossing the Line (Pushing the Limits #1.1) Page 5

I fold my arms over my chest, not liking the thought of anyone screwing with Lila. “What are you saying?”

She shrugs and smiles at the same time, making it clear she doesn’t believe the words. “Maybe I have a stalker.”

Maybe? Knowing what to do to help calm her nerves, I hold out my hand. “Start talking, because I’m not leaving until I know you’re safe.”

Lila

When Josh first died, my parents got close, but as time has worn on, they’ve grown apart. The worst moments are when my entire family is in the same room. With the people I should love the most surrounding me, I feel the most alone.

~ Lincoln

Lincoln assesses the orange Post-it note on the oven meant to remind me to turn it off as he stirs milk over the stove top. From the second he knotted my fingers with his in the living room and led me into the kitchen, I’ve found it impossible to tear my eyes away from him.

He grew—stunningly so. Taller. Thicker. His blue eyes are aged beyond his years, but when he smiles at me he becomes carefree and eighteen.

“That’s it?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I respond. I downloaded everything, except he’s not humiliating me with condescending looks or a lecture about overactive imaginations. I spilled about the scratching on the windows last night, the sound of shoes against the pavement tonight, and the shadow walking toward me and the sound of his breath.

The police didn’t take me seriously, but the way Lincoln’s shoulder blades tense, I can tell he believes me. “Why?” I ask.

“Why what?” He empties the steaming liquid into a mug.

“Why do you believe me?”

Lincoln slides the mug into my hands. His finger accidently skims mine. Electricity! A fantastic chill runs through me that reaches the tips of my toes.

“You don’t like liars and you’re not big into hypocrites,” he answers.

Those were my words to him a few months ago when my sort-of friend, Grace, tormented Echo. Lincoln and I share a knowing smile and stare into each other’s eyes. The world fades away and it’s just me and him and a fragrant cup of hot chocolate in the palm of my hand. Lincoln breaks the link and withdraws his fingers. I’d give anything for him to touch me again. But first...

“You have some explaining to do,” I say. “As to why you didn’t graduate.”

He turns away and washes the pot in the sink. “Let’s figure out your problem first. Then we’ll handle mine.” The water beats against the pot. “Are you still mad at me?”

My finger circles the rim of the mug. Hurt—yes. Angry—”No.” How can I be mad at a guy who drove ten hours to see me and returned after I rejected him? “So you believe me? That someone was outside?”

“I heard you scream. No one’s imagination works that well.”

He grabs a dish towel and dries off the pot before placing it back on the hook on the wall. Lincoln’s so efficient, especially for a guy who “bends rules.” With a scrape against the tile floor, he pulls out the chair next to mine and angles it so he’s facing me. “Just so we’re clear, a stalker suggests multiple run-ins over a period of time. I think this is more of a prank.”

The skin between my eyes squishes together. “A prank? Really?”

Lincoln relaxes into the chair, his long legs kicked out, an arm resting on the table. I feel like a dwarf next to him. He drums his fingers once against the table, causing me to focus on his hands. The skin is tough, rougher than the hands of most of the guys I’ve dated. It’s not an imperfection, but a reminder of how he dangles from rock walls.

I wonder if he’d ever let me watch him climb or if he’d teach me. My stomach tickles as if fuzzy bunnies are jumping around. Would he catch me with those strong hands if I fell?

“You’re the CSI dictionary,” he answers. “Didn’t an episode talk about how stalkers have patterns or some crap like that?”

“You started watching CSI?” I’m grinning from ear to ear, and his cheeks redden in response. The big, strong rock-climbing guy folds his hands across his chest and switches his gaze to the floor. It’s my favorite show ever, and I’ve written a few letters to him detailing certain episodes.

He sloppily shrugs one shoulder. “I caught a few shows here and there.”

I don’t know why, but the fact that he showed interest in something I like creates giddiness. I swirl the hot chocolate in my mug and blow on it in order to hide the glee. “What makes you think it’s a prank?”

“You said it yourself. If someone wanted to hurt you, you’d be hurt. Your parents are gone, and I’d bet someone thinks it would be funny to scare you.”

My forehead furrows with the idea that anyone would want to freak me out. “Why?” I ask again.

“Because people can be stupid.”

True. Tired of thinking about it, I change the subject. “Hot chocolate?”

“I made it for Meg every night after she found out she was pregnant. It seemed to help calm her down when she’d get all worked up.”

Translation? He believes I’m about to crack. My heart beats a little faster when I replay the image of the shadow walking toward me. Maybe he’s not wrong. “Has she held the baby yet?”

Lincoln subtly shakes his head. “I keep wondering how jacked up the kid will become because his mother can’t get her shit together.”

The way his blue eyes darken into hurt causes a sharp pain in my chest. I reach out and claim one of the hands resting against his crossed arms. Lincoln weaves his with mine and we hold hands on the table, both of us staring at our combined fingers. God, his hands are warm—strong—and I swallow as I imagine him caressing my face.

“How’s Echo?” he asks.

“Good. She’s in Kansas or Iowa or someplace.” Not here with me, and that sucks. She no longer needs me now that she has... “She’s with Noah.”

“So she’s moved on,” he says almost as a whisper.

From me? Yes. But she hasn’t moved on the way Lincoln suggests. Sadness envelops me like a cloud. I’ve witnessed Echo grieve for her brother. Hell, I’m still grieving for Aires. He was like my older brother too. “She’s living. Not forgetting.”

Lincoln removes his hand to rub his face. I leave my hand on the table for a second, hoping he’ll wrap his back around mine. When he lowers it into his lap instead, I curl my arm into my own body—hating the rejection, missing his warmth. But I’m not mad at him. I can see I’ve lost him to memory. Echo has done this mental retreat several times herself.

We lapse into silence, I guess both of us processing the past couple of hours. The silence feels comfortable, like an old quilt, and I revel in it. But then my eyes dart to him. What if he’s not comfortable? What if the written connection in our letters is all we possess? What if we don’t ignite a real life spark?

What does it matter since he lied to me? We need to talk about it, but not now. Not when I’ve barely slept in almost two days and my mind’s a disoriented mess. He could explain basic addition and I’d drool like an idiot.

Sleep—I crave it, but can I have it? My thoughts shift back to the idea of someone pranking me. “Who would want to scare me?”

“You tell me.” He kneads his eyes, and for the first time I notice the dark circles beneath them. He’s tired and as I sip the warm drink, I realize my exhaustion is contagious.

“I have no idea.” And the unknown terrifies me.

Lincoln

It’s crazy how you brought up feeling alone. I feel alone a lot. Oddly enough, I feel the most alone when I’m in a room full of people. Everyone I know is changing. Echo’s distant. Grace wants new friends. Even Natalie is spreading her wings.

To be fair, I’m changing too. At times I feel like my skin is too tight on me. All the time, I fight the urge to cut my hair and buy new clothes. I mean, who exactly am I going to change into? I’m still me, but not.

~ Lila

Lila’s fingernail taps repeatedly against the table, like a machine gun firing off multiple rounds. “I’m too tired to deal with this now.” She slams her hand on the table, silencing any more discussion on her possible prankster.

She stands and I follow, wondering if the park ranger will allow me back into the camp. Otherwise, I’m screwed. “Can I come back in the morning?” Then I remember what time it is. “Late morning? Afternoon?”

Lila freezes the same way Meg does anytime she’s near the baby. Hell, Lila hates me.

“Will you stay? I told the police you would. You told the police you would. If you leave that would be like breaking the law or something, so you have to stay.”

I raise an eyebrow at her logic—or lack of logic—but there’s no way I’m blowing this opportunity. “I’ll stay.”

“Good. Because you have to.”

Lila leads me back into the living room and mumbles for me to stay put. Her footsteps are light down the hallway. The one-story house is the size of a mansion and decorated like one of Mom’s Better Homes and Gardens magazines. Nice and breakable shit—everywhere. After several abrupt sounds that indicate Lila must have accepted a wrestling match with an alligator, she reappears with blankets and a pillow.

“Do you mind sleeping on the couch?” she asks.

I’d sleep on nails in order to be near her. “No.”

She hands me the ingredients for a temporary bed.

“Thanks,” I say.

“You’re welcome.” Lila’s fingers draw toward the hem of her tank top, and I remind myself to breathe when I catch sight of the sun-kissed skin of her flat stomach. In seconds, she pulls at the hem and her belly button disappears.

“Well, good night,” she says while tucking her golden hair behind her ear.

“‘Night,” I respond. Should I hug her? Kiss her? Shake her hand? Get on my knees and start begging for forgiveness?

She shifts her footing but stays in place. “The bathroom is down the hall.”

“All right.”

“You can take a shower if you want.”

“Thanks,” I answer.

“You’re welcome.”

And we’ve already had this conversation. Lila sniffs as if her allergies bother her, and she lowers her head. I want to comfort her, but I have no clue how to tread on this territory. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t want to be alone,” she whispers. “Not even alone in a room. Isn’t that pathetic?”

“You could never be pathetic,” I say. Not the girl I’ve come to love from the letters. The girl who defended her best friend, even though taking that stand cost her other friendships. The girl who tells me exactly what she thinks of me, even when the truth hurts. The girl who dreams of being more—the girl who dreams of Florida.

Her lower lip trembles. “If you think that, then you don’t know me very well.”

I know her better than she realizes. I know the letters she writes to me late at night are more emotional than the ones written during the day, as if a lack of sleep inhibits reasoning. I ditch the blankets and pillow on the arm of the couch and plop myself onto the cushions. “Come here.”