Rachel Vincent - My Soul to Keep

Would Sophie notice something was wrong? Would his teachers? His parents were still out of town….

“Yeah.” Nash shoved the last bite of his cafeteria hamburger into his mouth and picked up his own soda. “I’ll be there right after the last bell.”

But Scott’s stash would not.

“You still have what I gave you?” Doug glanced anxiously between Nash and Scott, having caught on to the subject.

“What you sold me,” Scott corrected.

“Whatever.” Doug finally removed his hand from Emma’s thigh and leaned closer to Scott. I chewed, pretending not to listen while Sophie and Emma exchanged rare twin looks of confusion. “I need to buy it back, but I can replace it this weekend.”

Scott squirted a mustard packet on his hamburger. “I thought you were gonna have more today?”

Doug shook his head. “Didn’t pan out. Sell me yours. I’ll pay extra.”

“No way.” Scott shook his head and picked up his burger. Sophie and Emma weren’t even pretending to eat anymore.

“But you can have a hit after school with Hudson—” he nodded in Nash’s direction “—if you give me your guy’s name and number.”

Doug’s jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed. “I already gave you his name, and there is no number. But I’m gonna see him this weekend for sure. I can get you another one then, if you pay up front.”

Nash stiffened next to me, and I knew he was thinking what I was thinking. Everett. This weekend. That was our best chance.

“Same as last time?” Scott asked, and my stomach twisted in on itself as Emma glanced at me, brows arched in question.

“Yeah,” Doug said, and Sophie rolled her eyes, glossy pink fingernails digging into the skin of her apple.

“I’m bored,” she whined. “You guys are like walking sedatives.”

“You got something more interesting to talk about?” Scott snapped, dipping a limp French fry in ketchup. “And don’t say the Winter Carnival.”

Sophie pouted, gesturing with her apple. “It’s on Saturday, and you guys promised you’d help with the booths this afternoon.” They all had their afternoons free, since football season had ended with a loss to the new Texas state AA champions.

“I’m not feelin’ it, Soph.” Scott raised one brow and his frown grew into a lecherous grin. “But maybe you could convince me…” He pushed his tray across the table and leaned back, watching her expectantly.

Sophie went from shrew to succubus in less than a second, straddling Scott so boldly that I glanced around, sure there would be a teacher stomping toward us from somewhere, intent on peeling her off.

But no teacher came. The two on duty were busy trying to confiscate a cell phone from some senior rumored to be showing off naked pictures of his girlfriend.

Sophie performed like a trained seal, and I was humiliated for her—because she didn’t have the sense to be—but I couldn’t look away from my cousin’s spectacle. Until Scott’s hand inched down from her waist toward the back of her overpriced jeans.

“Sophie, that’s enough. Sit down before you get suspended.”

The look she shot me could have frozen Satan’s crotch, but she slithered off her boyfriend’s lap, licking her lips like she could still taste him, while Doug, Scott, and the rest of the team watched her like she’d just danced around a pole. I shot Nash a “why the hell do you hang out with these jackholes” look, but he was unavailable to receive my withering glance. Because he was watching my cousin. But Emma was watching me, I told you so written clearly in her expression.

I frowned and elbowed Nash while Sophie reapplied her lipstick with a compact mirror. “So…” She snapped the compact closed and dropped it into her purse. “Any volunteers?”

“I’m in,” Scott said, and I understood that Sophie’s show was actually a preview of things to come. Was that how she got everything she wanted? “You guys got a couple of hours to spare this afternoon?” Scott glanced around the table for more volunteers.

Nash nodded, but Emma leaned around Doug to answer for us both. “Kaylee and I have to work.”

“Oh, well.” Sophie shrugged, and the bitch was back.

“We’ll miss you…” her mouth said, but as usual, her eyes said something entirely different.

When the bell rang, everyone got up to dump their trays, but Nash and I headed into the quad against the flow of smoke-scented traffic into the building, his cold fingers intertwined with mine. When the late bell rang eight minutes later, we sneaked around the outside of the school—the gym side, where there were no windows—and into the parking lot, ducking to run between the cars until we spotted Scott’s. Fortunately, he’d parked out of view from the building exit.

The top was up on Scott’s shiny, metallic-blue convertible, and through the rear window I saw nothing but a spotless interior; the car was so clean he probably made Sophie take off her shoes before getting in. On the back passenger’s side floorboard sat a large green duffel bag. “It’s either in there, or in the trunk,” I whispered, though there was no one else around to hear us.

Nash dug in his left pocket and pulled out Scott’s key. “Then let’s get this over with.” He slid the key into the lock—presumably to avoid the telltale thump of the automatic lock disengaging—and glanced toward the building to make sure we were alone.

With the driver’s door open, he reached through to unlock the back door, then pulled it open and gestured toward the rear seat. “Be my guest.”

Rolling my eyes, I crawled into the backseat and tugged the bag into my lap. My heart thumped as I unzipped it, and I was suddenly sure Scott had put the balloon in his trunk. But there it was, a solid black balloon, next to a football and on top of a pair of green gym shorts, which weren’t exactly fresh. I pulled the balloon out with both hands and gasped at the chill that sank immediately through my fingers. The balloon was so cold ice should have glazed its surface, flaking off to melt on my skin.

Yet, other than the temperature and the weighted black plastic clasp holding it closed, the balloon felt just like any other latex party balloon. It was only half-inflated and I wondered how full it had been, and how much of the contents Scott had already inhaled. When I squeezed it gently, my fingers dimpled the surface and the rubber seemed to grow even colder.

“It’s cold,” I whispered, without taking my eyes off the balloon. “Freezing…”

Nash nodded. “There’s a reason they call it frost. Don’t you remember what Avari did to that office when he got pissed?”

I did remember. When the hellion had gotten mad, a lacy sheet of ice had spread across the desk beneath him and onto the floor, inching toward our feet, surging faster every time his anger peaked.

“Okay, zip the bag up and let’s g—”

“Hudson?” A booming voice called from across the parking lot, and my blood ran as cold as the balloon.

Coach Rundell, the head football coach.

Nash waved his hand downward, inches from my head, and I dropped onto the backseat, bent in half over the balloon. On the way down, I glimpsed the coach between Scott’s leather headrests. The middle-aged former jock stomped toward us from the double gym doors, his soft bulk confined by a slick green-and-white workout suit, bulging at the zipper.

“You’re not allowed in the parking lot during the school day, Hudson,” the coach barked. “You know that.” That ridiculous rule was supposed to stop kids from sneaking cigarettes or making out in backseats, and to prevent the occasional car break-in. Which we were committing, at that very moment.

Panicked now, as the cold from the balloon leached through my shirt and into my stomach, I craned my neck to see Nash digging frantically in his hip pocket. “Sorry, coach. I left my book in here this morning, and I need it for class.”