Page 2 of Silent Comrade
A blink. Dark-mauve lids flipped down andback up to reveal that bright-blue stare again. “You? Break? Uh,doesn’t seem like it, no. You’re not super fragile.”Patpat.“At all. Look at you, all there. Um.” Her elfish featuresshifted into to a sweet, sheepish grin. He felt more than heard hergulp.
His face creaked with an unnatural movement.A smile? He fought the urge to puff out his chest and flex beneathher flapping appreciation, and instead stayed in character and kepthis shoulders hunched. As if he spent a lot of time thinking aboutsocially responsible art and had deep literary discussions overcoffee. Whatever that kind of dude was, Red tried to project thatappearance.
No question, if those short andsparkly—he squinted—lime-green nails ever dragged across his bare skin?He’d blow way more than his mission.
Stay professional, damn it.
The freaky sprite in front of him confusedhim. Granted, he had assumed the role of a fake fashion student forthe purpose of his mission, but even a straightlaced military dudelike Red knew a fashiondon’twhen he saw it. As anolder-than-typical-aged college student of twenty-six, maybe shewas creating her own new trend. Purple highlights glinted in thechestnut, chin-length hair that framed her pale, delicate neck. Asilver hoop winked on the side of her nose. Two more hoopsencircled the edge of an eyebrow.
The unbuttoned navy flannel shirt thatcovered her thigh-length floral knit dress seemed like more of anineties look, though he was literally no expert. Toughening up theensemble? Knee-high black tights and Doc Martens. Even with thethick-soled shoes, Britt only came up to mid-chest height onhim.
The entire incongruent package worked forher. It worked for him.
“Hello?” she asked.
Damn it, how long had he been staring? Hepeered down the hall. Fewer students hurried to classes now.
“I’m Britt McNeill,” she said, holding outher hand.
How shocking was her voice now? Low andmellow, her words sounded like bourbon tasted—caramel and smoky and tart, all at once. But with aneffervescent brightness that contradicted the dark elements in herappearance.
Her hand disappeared in his, and he reeledin the urge to clamp down, pull her closer, tuck her into hischest, and kill anyone who attacked her.Whoa, there,boy.
“Re—Al Neubert. Call me Al.” After onecarefully controlled shake of her delicate hand, he let go. Hadto.
A quick frown made the light glint off thesilver eyebrow hoop. “Okay. Al.” He resisted the urge to fidget asher gaze narrowed. “Um, so I gotta …” She jabbed a thumb over hershoulder.
“Me too.”
With a tilt to her head, she asked, “You’renew here?”
“Transfer from main campus in Savannah,” helied, the backstory flowing like he’d been born with this history.He took a breath in, out, in, out. “Granny is ill here in Atlantaso SCAD let me transfer midsemester.”
Ah yes, SCAD, Savannah College of Art andDesign, where he was pursuing his fake dream of getting a fine artsdegree so he could work in the fashion industry as a trendforecaster. Sadly, he couldn’t tell the difference betweenacid-wash and stone-wash, and God help him if he needed tocoordinate colors. Red and pink went together fine. Right?
His sum knowledge of fashion came from thecrash course his teammates, Gonzo and Stumpy, had put togetherbefore Red left the team compound four days ago. Plus, Red hadgrabbed a bunch of magazines at the local bookstore a few days agoto read while on stakeout. Cargo pants were out—who knew? World truly was coming to an end. If hepulled off this role, he should get an Oscar.
A sympathetic frown creased the skin betweenher dark brows. “Oh, that’s too bad about your granny. Hope shegets better. Ah.” She toyed with the hem of the flannel shirt.“Need help finding a class?”
No, because he could follow Britt to herclass, which magically happened to be the same class on his faketransfer papers. Funny how that worked. But he stayed in characterand uncrumpled the sheet so she could review the schedule he hadmemorized.
“Oh, that’s easy. Follow me. Hurry, or we’llbe late!” Theshushof skirt fabric brushing against hertights-clad thighs dried his mouth out in a hurry, but he followedher like a cooperative if not uninformed transfer student.
If Britt found out the truth about Red,she’d take one of those ridiculous Doc Martens and cram it wherefashion sits...
Chapter Two
Britt might not be a genius, but she knewwhen things fit and when they didn’t. When pieces put togetherworked well to create a cohesive look. Or when someone was tryingtoo hard to be effortless. Something about Al didn’t add up … likevelvet and tulle sewn together—it made nosense.
The way he carried himself, hunched andinsecure, ran contrary to the tight, hard muscles on his chest andhis quick reactions. Polyester-cotton-spandex-mix shirt, if herfingers told the truth, which meant the material should be fitted.What about the horizontal stripes on the shirt? For a guy going tofashion school, he should know better. What she’d give torestructure his … wardrobe. A flutter deep inside sent a wave ofheat through her chest.
Not a relationship. Nothing permanent. Noconnection. Nothing that could make her get hurt. Those were therules that made life uncomplicated, if not a little lonely. Whatabout enjoying something short-term? Could be fun to … makeover …Al.
She caught a glimpse of him out of thecorner of her eye as they hurried down the hall. His look cameacross as deliberately contrived. The boots were rugged butexpensive, and probably had never seen off-road terrain. Theglasses hid those warm hazel eyes, and the tan Oakley satchel had astrap that had no smooth wear on it. Hey, nothing against any pieceof clothing, but these items seemed more expensive than an averagecollege student could afford.
She swallowed a nasty acid taste. Somestudents here could easily afford the $40,000 tuition fee, plusliving expenses. Other students, like Britt, cobbled togetherfinancial aid, grants, the SCAD Challenge Scholarship, and loans topay for school. Usually it was clear which students were which.
She couldn’t put a finger on it, but Al’sensemble didn’t work.Quit playing critic. People could wearwhat they wanted, as long as they were comfortable and happy.
