I want all of her.
My head throbs. Ignoring the self-disgust boiling into my chest, I shove my hand into my pants and pull out my hard dick. A few quick strokes—Nell’s body twisting and writhing under mine, her breath hot on my neck, her tight cunt gripping my shaft—and I come, spurting all over my hand and stomach.
A burn fills my throat. I wipe my hand on my pants and squeeze my eyes shut.
I could walk away from everything. The book, the town, the job, the school, my students, the photojournalism community. Henry. Nell.
Hell, I could even walk away from being Darius Hawke. I could escape to an island where no one knows or cares who I am. Spend my days in a fishing boat out on the ocean. Find a pretty girl. Read, drink, eat, run, swim, hike, fuck. There are far worse lives.
But if I turn my back on everything and everyone now, I’d be no better than Conrad Hawke, who cuts people off with a steel blade before throwing them away.
Maybe I’m not.
No.
I’m not like my father. I’ll never be like him.
My base, immoral attraction to a girl I’ve known her whole life can’t be the reason I walk away.
But if I stay…
I tell myself I’m not looking for an excuse. Nothing can justify what I’ve done to her already. I’ve broken her trust, her father’s trust, any decency I had left.
I trust you with me.
I need to leave. End it right now. Get us both out of danger.
I’m running into a battle, bullets flying and ricocheting off bombed-out buildings. My camera is up, shutter snapping lightning fast. I’m blinded by sweat and dirt. Every instinct, every cell in my body is pushing me forward, toward the fighting, the bodies crumpling to the ground, the screams, the blood.
Never once have I run away. No matter how great the danger. No matter how close the possibility of my own death.
CHAPTER 33
Nell
I feel like I’m reentering the atmosphere after a dizzying ascent into the stars. The landing is rough, a jarring return to reality, but the weekend at Volkov Bay becomes part of my bones—unearthly and exhilarating in memory.
My father returns from his conference on Sunday evening. We have another stilted, tense conversation about my college applications, which ends with him warning me he won’t give me any financial support if I decide not to attend Evergreen.
“All the more reason for me to go somewhere else,” I reply. The words surprise me as much as they surprise him.
My father looks at me as if he doesn’t recognize me anymore. I know the feeling. I’m not sure I recognize myself anymore either—at least, not the girl I’ve been for most of my life.
I don’t want to hurt my father. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I know what pain feels like. I’d never want to be the cause of it.
But ever since I saw Darius Hawke standing outside the house three months ago, a tight, closed part of me started to open. I can’t lock it up again. I don’t want to. It’s like the wardrobe in Narnia, Alice’s fall down the rabbit hole, or Dumbledore’s pensieve. Once you go through it, you can never return to the way you were before.
I don’t want to return either. I’m still scared, but my fear is no longer a dead end. It’s a tunnel I can walk through. A locked door that has a key. Even though I don’t know what’s on the other side, I’m not going to run away. I’m no longer going to hide.
Finals week starts on Monday, so there are no regular classes. I don’t see Darius anywhere on campus.
Ms. Meadows asks about my entry for the Student Art Competition, which takes place on Thursday night. I promise her I’ll bring it to the installation crew before the opening.
Despite my desire to submit a work that actually says something important, I’ve had no time to create anything new. Instead, I’ll have to make a print of one of my flower or insect photos.
On Tuesday after school, as I’m collecting books from my locker, I spot a tall, blond man heading toward the art room. He waves, changing course to approach me.
“Hey, Nell.”
“Hi, Patrick. I didn’t know you were back in town already.”
“I figured I’d better get the lay of the land.” He shrugs and smiles. “I’m not used to having so much prep time, so I want to make the most of it.”
“Prep time for judging the art competition?” I ask.
“No, for the job.”
“Your photo essay about coastal wildlife?”
“Yeah, I’ll get that done over the holiday break before I come back here.”
“Here?” I shake my head in growing confusion. “You mean Grenville?”
“I mean, here.” He points to the ground as if he’s talking about the high school.
“You’re working here? At Monarch High?”
“Yeah, I…” He studies me for a second before something appears in his eyes—a combination of surprise and concern. “Oh, shit. You don’t know.”
My heart suddenly plummets. “Know what?”
“I’m sorry.” He scratches the back of his neck, moving aside to let a cluster of students pass him. “I mean, I knew the administration was keeping it confidential until finals are over, but I assumed Darius had told you already.”
“Told me what?”
Patrick takes my arm and guides me closer to the lockers. He hesitates for a second, then says, “He’s not renewing his contract for next semester.”
“What?”
“I’m taking over for him.” His forehead creases. “The administration approved his contract renewal a couple of weeks ago, but he hadn’t signed it. Yesterday, he asked me if I’d be interested in taking over the job. Since I’m here anyway, and he spoke so highly of the experience, I agreed to give it a shot.”
My heart is pounding so hard I almost can’t hear him. I shake my head, as if that will make his words evaporate.
“Nell?” He frowns. “I’m sorry. Hannah Meadows says it won’t be a problem because they’d intended to start a new lesson plan next semester anyway, so the transition should be easy. She’s sending out an email to the parents and students after finals. But I really thought he’d have told you, of all people.”
Patrick knows. Not everything, of course—no one else can know everything—but he’s sensed the invisible, unbreakable force that connects me and Darius.
Maybe other people have too—Ms. Meadows, Fern, my father. But Patrick isn’t judging or condemning it. His understanding is almost painful.
“He probably didn’t want to tell you until it was a done deal,” he says. “I just signed the contract a couple of hours ago so—”
“What…what is he going to do?” The question is strained. “Where is he going?”
“He’s going back to freelancing.” He attempts a casual shrug. “Probably, uh, just human interest stories.”
“Patrick.” I grab the front of his shirt. An ache spreads through my chest. “Where is he going?”
“He took an assignment with the Washington Post.” He puts his hand over mine, as if to stop me from shaking him. “He’s going to Afghanistan.”