Page 6 of The Misfit

I reach out with the nonsticky hand and gently trail a fingertip over her full bottom lip. I’m consumed with the need to touch her, to trace her features so I never forget what she looks like. A part of me wonders if I’m already drunk off my ass and this is a dream.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

She tucks her lip in slightly, and when it looks like she’s going to pull away, I frown. “You don’t want to be touched?”

She shakes her head, and strands of hair fly into her face. “It’s not that. I just … I don’t know when you washed your hands last, and I have this problem with germs, and dirt, and well, people in general.”

“Problem?”

She nods. “Yes, it’s called OCD.”

OCD? Obsessive-compulsive disorder?

“Oh shit. I’m sorry.” I step back, giving her space even though my brain and body want the opposite. Besides her gloves, nothing makes her stand out compared to other girls.

My steps back don’t really give her space, not when she follows my movement and we get closer, our chests brushing against each other. The noise inside my head quiets. The heat of her skin and energy ground me in a way I’ve never experienced before.

“I know what you’re thinking, so just save it. I’m not defective or anything. I’m working on it. Exposing myself to the things I fear most in hopes that I come out stronger on the other side.” Her tone is defensive, but I can make out the anxiety bubbling underneath her words in the way her voice trembles and her gaze darts away.

Who made her think she was defective? And why does she feel the need to defend herself?

Anger zips down my spine because I want to do everything I can to prove nothing is wrong with her. That it’s everyone else. Reaching for her hands, I gently grasp them and bring them up to the light. The slick gloves smell sweet and powdery.

“I don’t …”

Without warning, the door behind me opens, and the light from the kitchen spills into the pantry.

Fucking fuck.

My anxiety returns with a vengeance, but it’s diluted with the desire to protect her. I spin around and block her body from view. The need to defend her lessens when I find Drew standing there, resting his forearm against the doorframe and not some random asshole.

“You’re definitely weird, but notthisweird. What the fuck are you doing in the closet?”

Closet?I snatch the first thing my fingers touch off the shelf—a bag of chips—thank fuck. “It’s not a closet, dummy. It’s a pantry, and I’m hungry. Jail does that to a man.”

He laughs, and I shove him out the door, keeping my new friend out of sight. As I step out of the pantry and reach to pull the door closed, I pause. My gaze finds hers again, and I hold it. Those brown orbs of hers glitter with curiosity.Fuck me.

I don’t have the heart to tell her she shouldn’t be interested in a guy like me. I should, because that’s the right thing to do, but I don’t. I’m sure she already knows all there is to know about me.Playboy. Trust fund brat. Misfit.

If she doesn’t, all she has to do is ask around. Hopefully, she doesn’t. Hopefully, she will forget about me and this entire conversation.

No.That’s not what I want. What I want is to stay and get to know her. Tell her how normal she is and that it’s everyone else who’s fucked up, but if I did that … I would be tarnishing my perfectly disreputable reputation.

So even if I want to stay, I’ll go. Lee Sterling doesn’t hide in pantries while the party rages on around him.

Heisthe party. The heart of it.

As I pull the door closed, I realize it’s her—she’s the fascinating one. She’s the mystery I think I might be compelled to solve before it’s all said and done.

THREE

salem

The library smellslike old paper and sweat.Or is that me?I can’t remember if I put deodorant on this morning or not. Oh, the things that can trigger a panic attack on a random afternoon. I adjust my gloves for the fourth time in as many minutes, smoothing the rubbery textured nitrile over my knuckles until they sit just right. The edges must align perfectly with my wrist bones, or I’ll have to start over. It’s a vicious cycle, a never-ending one, really.

I focus on my breathing, ensuring each breath is measured.

It’s fine. Everything is fine. And if it isn’t, then it will find a way to be.

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