Kathy Reichs - Seizure

A headache formed. Pounded my frontal lobe. I felt dizzy, like the room was spinning.

Alabama? Whitney? Kit had pummeled me with a deadly one-two.

“Don’t worry, darling.” Whitney, Queen of Saying the Wrong Thing. “You still have time to finish your debut. With a little luck, we can advance you to this season’s cohort.”

“This season?” I could barely form words.

“I’ll handle everything,” she chirped. “I’ll speak to the women’s committee after tomorrow’s gala. Remember, you have a brunch in the morning.”

“Tomorrow,” I stammered, my mind numb. The idea of living with Whitney was beyond horrifying. “Brunch. Yes.”

“Good.” Kit tried for levity. “You can remind your friends that you’re still grounded.”

“I don’t have friends at cotillion.”

“Tell that to whoever keeps ringing the house phone.”

His comment puzzled me. “No one calls me on the landline.”

“There are three new entries on the caller ID. Someone named Marlo Bates. I never said you couldn’t use the phone, but remember, you’re supposed to be under house arrest.”

The name jolted me fully alert. Marlo had gotten our phone number. How? Why? Yesterday’s encounter at the manuscript library had clearly been no fluke.

Those guys were tracking me.

“I’ll tell him,” I said, hiding my alarm.

“Don’t worry, sugar.” Whitney’s face was scrunched in earnestness. “This move will be good for all of us. You’ll see that one day.”

You are not my mother!

I pushed back from the table.

“May I be excused?” Glacial.

Screw permission. I bolted up the stairs.

“THE NERVE OF that bitch!”

My hand still gripped the doorknob. “What’s best for me? Piss off!”

“She walked all over you,” Chance said matter-of-factly. “Stop being such a pushover.”

“Be quiet.” I snapped the lock on my bedroom door. “What would you know?”

“I was bored. I eavesdropped. Dinner sounded delightful.” Checking my hands. “No plate for me, it seems.”

Chance was stretched out on my bed, idly thumbing through an old US Weekly . Coop was snoring at his feet.

Turncoat.

“There’s a box of granola bars on my dresser,” I huffed. “Go nuts.”

“Stick up for yourself.” Chance continued with the unsolicited advice. “It’s the same with Madison and her clique.”

“Who are you to instruct me? You’re an escaped mental patient.”

Chance’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “I know what I’m talking about. And even as a wanted lunatic, I’m still more popular than you.”

Sad but true. I’d learned that much at the yacht club.

“Mind your own business.” I walked to my bathroom and grabbed my toothbrush. “I’m doing fine, thanks.”

But I wasn’t.

As I brushed, my anxiety level remained sky-high.

Why was Marlo calling? Was he the one stalking us in the Studebaker?

And don’t forget my personal problems. Alabama. Cohabitating with Whitney. And, of course, the Tripod. I really needed Chance bringing that up.

“You’re worried.” Chance swung his legs over the side of the bed. “But I can help you handle the spoiled brats.”

I finished flossing and grabbed my facial scrub. “They don’t intimidate me.”

They did.

By flirting with Jason, I’d tweaked Madison in front of her lackeys. Next time, she’d be out for blood.

Chance watched me from the bedroom. “If you remain an easy target, they’ll keep coming at you.”

I splashed water on my face. “Maybe I’ll just blow the whole thing off.”

Right.

If I hoped to fight Kit’s proposed relocation, now wasn’t the time to make waves. Severing ties to Charleston was a bad idea. Plus, I needed reasons to get out of the house, and cotillion was a can’t-miss excuse.

Ugh .

“Skipping events is not a solution.” Chance tracked me with his eyes as I moved to my desk. “Those girls won’t disappear.”

“Maybe I will,” I muttered. “You heard Kit.”

On impulse, I googled the town of Muscle Shoals, Alabama. The results did nothing to improve my mood.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“What?” Chance hopped from the bed to read over my shoulder.

“Worse and worse,” I moaned. “I can’t buy a break.”

“Yikes. There was a chemical weapons facility there?” Chance chuckled. “At least they closed it. I’m sure most of the nerve gas has gone inert. Almost all.”

The humor escaped me.

I crossed to my closet, closed the door, and grabbed a tank top and shorts. Thinking better of it, I changed into sweats.

Chance whistled when I reemerged. “Nice swag. But perhaps too much ankle?”

“Sleeping on my floor is a privilege, you know. There’s space in the garage.”

Chance raised both hands in mock surrender. “Just point me to my patch.”

“Over there.” I indicated a gap between my bed and the far wall. “You won’t be visible from the doorway.”

Chance saluted.

“If Kit sees you,” I said sweetly as I handed him a pillow, “you broke through the window and attacked me.”

“Nice.” Chance slithered into the tight space. “No one can fault your graciousness.”

I turned off the lamp and crawled into bed. Then I lay still, listening in the dark.

Chance was three feet away. I couldn’t believe how surreal events had become. Ridiculously, I regretted choosing to wear sweats to bed.

Get a grip, Tory. This is no time for puppy love .

But it wasn’t that easy. I’d crushed on Chance all last year, and feelings like that are hard to squash. They tended to pop up at inconvenient times. Like now.

Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t stop thinking about how close Chance was. How easy it would be to get a lot closer.

Fantasies began cycling in my head, each more scandalous than the one before.

My cheeks burned.

Disturbed by how shallow I was being, I reminded myself of his many betrayals. Chance had toyed with my emotions, playing head games to throw me off track. He’d lied to my face repeatedly, had even pointed a gun at my head.

His mind fractured that night. Don’t forget he’s not well .

Yet, even damaged, Chance had a magnetism that no one else could match. Lying in my bed, listening to him breathe, I could feel the pull.

Chance’s voice broke the silence. “You can’t dodge Madison forever.”

“Watch me.”

“Interesting. I never pegged you for a coward.”

That touched a nerve. “If you’re such an expert , tell me what you’d do.”

I heard fumbling at my bedside, then the lamp flicked on.

“There’s only one way to deal with a bully.” Chance was sitting up, looking right at me, his dark eyes reflecting the lamplight. “No fear.”

“No fear?” I cocked my head. “That’s it? That’s your big advice?”

Mocking phrases popped to mind, but I held my tongue. Once more, I wondered at the absurdity of the escaped mental patient Chance Claybourne crashing on my bedroom floor, giving me life advice. What a world.

“Bullies are inherently insecure,” Chance continued. “They attack those they perceive as weak, so that by humiliating them they can feel better about themselves. But bullies always run from a fair fight.”

“Okay, Dr. Phil. So what am I supposed to do?”

“You want those bitches off your back?” Chance fist-slammed his palm. “Give as good as you get. Don’t retreat. Attack.”