Ann Aguirre - Mortal Danger

You could ask, a little voice whispered.

Someone at Wedderburn, Mawer & Graf might be willing to talk, though that would reveal that I didn’t trust Kian. No way to tell how that would impact the game he was running on his boss about making me fall for him so I’d use my favors faster. Damn. It’s too much to decide about tonight. My life had turned from untenable to unfathomable in the space of a summer, and each step felt like walking across a high wire.

On impulse I searched Wedderburn, Mawer & Graf, just to see what came up. A glossy Web site provided very little information on what the company actually did. The mission statement was about as illuminating as the one in Blackbriar’s brochures. Our responsibility, professionally, is to leverage resources in order to orchestrate diverse opportunities. Our challenge is to proactively maintain information to allow us to innovate cutting-edge mindshare. Our goal is to seamlessly create new technologies to stay relevant in tomorrow’s world. Losing interest in figuring out if WM&G had any products or services, I clicked around the site. In time I found Kian’s name on one of the subpages. He was listed as a financial analyst and it gave his e-mail address. I almost added it to my laptop contacts, then I decided we probably shouldn’t use company servers.

The executives had pages all to themselves, especially the titular ones. I selected Karl Wedderburn and read his bio. In his picture, he looked like an elderly man, well-groomed mustache, and a thick head of white hair, but there was an unnerving look in his eyes, even in the photo. He looked older than the sixty years the picture gave him, and when I narrowed my eyes, it was like the pupils swallowed his irises, leaving only black holes where light should be.

“Creepy,” I whispered.

Restraining a shiver, I shut down my laptop entirely. It was possible that Kian’s talk about shadowy enemies and trusting no one had worked on me until I was suggestible, but there was just something not right about Karl Wedderburn; I could tell that much from that quick glimpse. And Kian’s at his mercy.

It took some effort, but I finished my homework and went to bed. I was just about to fall asleep when I realized I hadn’t thought to check for messages from Ryu or Vi. Tomorrow, I promised myself. First thing. I couldn’t let go of the first two real friends I ever made—and in some ways, my only link to normal life.

The next day at school, Jen was waiting for me at my locker. “I haven’t seen Allison this agitated since her hair got fried with knock-off straightening product.”

“Why?” I’d forgotten about firing the first shots at her yesterday. The revenge thing seemed almost petty in comparison to the deep water I was wading elsewhere. It wasn’t that I’d forgiven them, more that high school drama didn’t weigh heavily against life and death.

“Because you made her look like an idiot at lunch and, apparently, your boyfriend is so hot that she’s dying of jealousy.”

“I’m not sad about that,” I admitted.

She smiled. “I don’t blame you. She’s my least favorite person in our crowd. Brittany is pretty nice when you get her alone. It’s just … around other people, she feels like she has something to prove.”

“Genius.”

“I never said she was bright. In fact, that’s part of the problem. Her dad’s been telling her ‘it’s a good thing you’re pretty’ since she was ten. She thinks her brain is what keeps her skull from echoing. And she kinda … hates smart girls as a result.”

“Because she thinks she isn’t?” I didn’t want to learn more about my enemies. If I understood why Brittany acted this way, it would make it harder to bring about her downfall.

“She’s not as dumb as her dad makes her feel, but she’s not on your level. Now that you’re hot, too…” Jen shrugged. “Anyway, I’ve been told to ask you to sit with us today at lunch, but I think they’re planning something.”

“Allison and Brittany?”

She nodded. “I understand if you’d rather not deal with the drama.”

“I can handle it.” Besides, this was my way in. I felt reasonably sure I could parlay this invite into a permanent place at the table, provided I turned whatever prank they had planned back on them. If they thought I was the same beaten girl they’d abused last year … well. I smiled at Jen. “I’m looking forward to it, actually.”

Morning classes went quickly, especially since I started with AP Lit. Most of the girls stared at Colin, dreamy-eyed, but I listened to his lecture. He was good, offering insights I hadn’t considered on a poem I’d read many times before. The rest of my teachers suffered by comparison. Then it was time for the showdown at lunch.

Jen picked me up and walked with me to the cafeteria. We got food from the line and then went over to the Teflon table. They were such a fixture that they’d claimed it by scrawling on the top with Sharpies, and nobody else ever sat there, even if the whole crew was running late. This time I didn’t hesitate when I saw Cameron at the other end. I sat down beside Jen, careful to ignore him, even though my stomach was swirling like a toilet. The nausea came back, reminding me how I’d felt that day, so utterly helpless, and my mouth dry, my throat tasting of vomit.

Drawing from pure determination, I pasted on a smile and said, “Hey, Cam.”

Do people call him that? They do now.

“Cameron,” he corrected.

I opened my eyes wide as a couple of guys from the lacrosse team approached. “Seriously? You won’t let anyone shorten your name?”

“It’s because it sounds like ‘can,’” Russ Thomas said with a smirk. “As in ass and garbage.”

“Maybe you should call him Can. Because he is kind of an ass.” I paired that with a smile, making eye contact first with Russ and then with his friend Phillip.

A few more people showed up in time to hear Russ say, “I love that. After what you did to my car, bro, I will call you Can.”

“What did he do?” I asked.

Russ wore a disgusted look. “Barfed all over it. Bitch can’t hold his liquor.”

“That’s … surprising.” With a twitch of my shoulder, I dismissed Cameron Dean and listened to Russ ramble about the lacrosse team’s chances at the championship this year.

I cared minuscule amounts about that, but his attention kept Brittany and Allison from talking to me because every time they tried to start whatever drama they’d planned, he aimed a disgruntled look in their direction and said, “Christ, you can talk to her about how awesome her hair is later.”

Which was incredibly offensive, as girls did talk about issues more important than hair and makeup, but since it served my purposes, I didn’t call him on it. Not like I’m being myself with these imbeciles anyway. So if the pretense made me a little sick to my stomach, it was understandable.

As break ended, I said to Russ, “We have the next class together, don’t we?”

Sadly he had to think about it. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Want to walk me? I’d like to hear more about lacrosse.” I capped my smile, giving just enough warmth to show interest in the sport, not Russ.

Since I have a boyfriend. Who might’ve killed the last girl who rejected him.

“A budding fan, huh? Absolutely.”

Davina watched us go, wearing an expression I couldn’t interpret. Once we left the others, I pitched my voice low. “What’s the deal with Can?”

He snickered at the nickname. “What do you mean?”

“He seems a little … sensitive.” I said it like it was a dirty word. To most guys it seemed to be.