Page 6 of Silent Comrade
Jenna ran a hand over her hair and tugged onanother strand, recovering quickly as she batted her eyelashes atRed. “She’s, uh, more of a charity case here. Doesn’t know howlucky she is.”
“I see it quite the opposite.” He tried tostep around, but Jenna clutched at his arm.
“So, can I give you my number?”
He pried her fingers off his arm andgrinned, jaw tightening. “Sure, you can give me your number.” Hiswords dropped like lead sinkers in a stagnant pond.
The crew around Jenna gasped.
Not that he’d ever call. Ever thepeacemaker, Red allowed her to type her info into his phone. Tookforever, what with him needing to follow Britt.
Hurrying out of the classroom, he scanned upand down the halls. A glint of purple hair disappeared around acorner, providing him direction and purpose. Doing his level bestto appear hunched and tentative while maintaining relentlessforward progress, he wove between the students and followedBritt.
Anything else out of place here? Damn it, hehadn’t reassessed before bulldozing down the hall. He wasdistracted.
Of course, he knew that Britt had anotherclass. He knew her entire schedule. Knew her patterns—erratic at times, but she did have some structure toher day. God knew how that woman got so much done allhelter-skelter during each twenty-four hours.
Catching up with her outside the next room,he called out, “Britt?”
Her back stiffened. When she spun around,the shimmer of a tear made her bright blue eyes glow. A tiny andimaginary knife twisted in his chest. He wanted to hold her,protect her. He couldn’t afford to be blinded by emotion.Distractions meant death in his line of work.
Chapter Four
If it wouldn’t have gotten her kicked out ofschool, Britt would have gladly sacrificed a few knuckles to shutup Jenna. That old-money suburban princess wasn’t worth the risk ofpersonal injury. But still, her words hurt.
Here Britt stood, Al bearing down on her.She put her armor on quickly. She tried to do a quick exercise thetherapist had taught her to ground herself and reduce her swirlingemotions.
He called out, “Britt?”
Okay. Exercise over. Did this overgrown BoyScout give up? Anyone could see that she didn’t want to chat.Before she could answer, his warm hand touched her shoulder andturned her, sure and steady, but relentless all the same. Beforeshe could hide her feelings, he saw her face. Damn it.
“Yes?” Too bright. Too perky. He’d betternot comment.
Forced happiness was all she had to workwith right this minute. That, and a solid dose of citalopram. ThankGod she had learned several years ago never to skip a dose of theanxiety medication.
He paused and tilted his head, staring ather behind those glasses like he was studying a map or planning arecipe. She didn’t have time for reflective introspection or deepthoughts. She had real work to do before the semester ended, and itdidn’t involve Al. She sighed audibly.
His nostrils flared. Pupils dilated. Heleaned forward with his head tilted, like he was listeningcarefully. Weird.
“So, um…” She pointed to the room.
Waving his schedule, he shrugged. “Metoo.”
Same class. What were the chances? Well, hewas a transfer student in a similar major.
They entered the class, but this time he satright next to her.
All throughout class, she observed him.Okay, not directly, because that would be creepy and rude. Chalk itup to curiosity and the McNeill sisters’ most unmarketable skill:identifying when something didn’t add up. Britt used that skill toguide her fashion choices, not that it had gotten her any jobs ormoney. Well, she had gotten the coveted SCAD Challenge Scholarshipwith her design, so that counted for something.
She watched Al.
Sure, he took notes on his new-appearingtablet. If she didn’t know better, he was jotting down gibberishwhile staring at the room. Could be his Grandma being ill had himdistracted. Maybe he didn’t dig the Contemporary Issues in FashionMerchandising class. The lecture topic todaywasdry.
Then there was the jumping.
Not jumping, exactly. More like, any noiseno matter how small had him whipping his head around and focusingon the source of the sound. Was he startled? Not exactly. The guy’smovements remained measured, deliberate. Every action had apurpose, unlike Britt who doodled fashion designs on her Sketchpadapp during class. No. His response to sound was more … hyperalert.Could be he was neurodivergent and sounds bothered him. That mademore sense.
What didn’t make sense? The whole time hewas not listening but responding to sounds, Britt had the uncannyback-of-the-neck sense that he was concentrating on her. His bigframe, crammed into the seat and slouched over the computer,remained rotated slightly toward her. Like he was monitoring her.Which was ridiculous, right?
