Page 42 of Follows with Intent

At the door, Nico turned and planted a hand on Jadon’s chest. Dense. Warm—to his chilly fingers, in fact, almost hot. He gave a tiny push and said, “Thank you for dinner.”

One of Jadon’s eyebrows went up, but he said, “You’re welcome.”

“And thank you for being worried about me.”

“Of course.”

Nico shivered, and he wasn’t sure if it was the cold or the words, the way he had said them like he meant them. Of course.

“I’m going to go inside now,” Nico said, fumbling the door open with his free hand. “And I’m going to say goodnight to you right here.”

“I’d like to walk you to your room.”

“I’m giving my paper after lunch, around one. If you want to come.”

“Don’t be silly; I’ll go upstairs with you and make sure you get into your room.” A hint of a smirk. “I’m not going to try anything.”

“I’ve heard that before,” Nico said as he slipped through the door.

That brought a laugh. “Excuse me?”

“Goodnight,” Nico sang softly.

Jadon did a big production: arms across his chest, a pointedly unhappy look straight at Nico. Nico gave him a little finger wave. Jadon just doubled down, arms tightening, scowl deepening. Fighting a laugh, Nico blew him a kiss and headed for the stairs.

He caught himself thinking, as he took the steps two at a time, of how it had felt, his head resting against Jadon’s thigh. He shook that off, but on the next step, he caught himself thinking about strong fingers moving over his hair. The way it had felt when Jadon laughed, and the sound rippled from one body to another. It’s been a long time, Nico told himself. You’re going through a dry spell. Touch, anybody’s touch, is going to feel amazing because it’s been so long. He caught himself thinking of how Jadon had felt under his hand, of the rise and fall of his chest. Absolutely not, he told himself. And, with a kind of bumbling adolescent indecision, he thought maybe he should jack off.

When he reached his floor, the lights were off except for the lone EXIT sign at the end of the hall. Nico hadn’t known the lights turned off; he’d been vaguely aware, the last couple nights, of a strip of light under the door, like in a hotel. Someone bumped a switch, he guessed. Or the custodial crew had someone new on it, someone who didn’t know the dorm was in use during fall break. Nico reached for his phone to turn on his flashlight.

The EXIT sign shed a faint red glow, and something passed beneath it—only an impression of black against black, texture, like velvet rubbed the wrong way.

“Hello?” Nico said.

Nothing. The red glow of the sign was undisturbed now. Your imagination, Nico told himself. You’re tired. Your eyes are tired.

The whisper of a sole against carpet.

That had not been his imagination.

For one paralyzing moment, he was back in the sub-basement at Wroxall, the smell of damp, raw stone, the aching heaviness of his body as he fought the drugs, the disorientation as he woke to darkness. A serial killer who called himself the Keeper of Bees had kidnapped Nico. It had been easy for him; Nico had made it easy for him, because Nico had liked him, trusted him, had maybe even thought the relationship was going somewhere. He remembered the crushing silence, the way it had caved in on him until he wanted to scream just to hear something.

And then the moment broke, and Nico turned, trying to find the door to the stairs in the dark. He found the thin paneling. The whisper of steps came again, faster. Running. Nico’s hands slid over the door, trying to find the handle. The running steps were louder now, closer, closing in on him. A white fog of panic filled Nico’s head. Where the fuck was the handle?

Then the door swung open, and in the stairwell lights, Jadon stood there. He seemed to take in Nico, and he said, “What’s—”

And then his face changed, and he yanked Nico toward him. Nico stumbled down several steps, catching himself against the railing, as Jadon shot past him into the hall. Jadon’s shout rang out—“Stop right there!”—and racing footsteps hammered away. A door slammed, and it sounded like a gunshot. Adrenaline spiked, waves of pins and needles rolling over Nico, and too late he tried to remember all the self-defense he’d learned. He worked the keys through his fingers into an improvised weapon. He was shaking so badly that he leaned against the rail to keep himself upright.

It was hard to say how much time passed. Nico stayed where he was, under the dim glow of the stairwell’s emergency lights, until the door at the top of the stairs swung open again. Panic dug its claws into his guts for an instant. And then it was Jadon, his face contorted with fury.

“He got away.”

12

Jadon

He’d gotten away.

Again.

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