Her eyes appeared to grow darker. Those eyes—like there were shadows moving underneath them. She said nothing.
He ran a hand through his hair and cleared his throat. Get a grip, man.
“So, you know Karen?” Of everything he could have asked, why had that question been the one to pop out? He could have asked where she had run off to, if she was okay, a hundred other questions that weren’t about whether or not she knew his girlfriend.
“I’ve … seen her before,” the girl answered cautiously.
Her voice had a musical lilt to it. He found himself moving closer without intending to. She smelled like flowers—lilac. The word popped into his head. It was intoxicating. He wanted to bury his face in her hair and breathe her in. Do more than just breathe her in.
His gaze ran over her face, stopping at the spot on her temple where, the day before, a small gash had leaked blood. Now only a tiny mark indicated she’d even been hurt.
He had a sudden vision of that poor lady: that form he’d seen hunched over the steering wheel. He’d never seen a dead person before.
“Why did you run away yesterday?” he asked, his throat dry as sandpaper.
She frowned. “Why do you care?”
Now, that was a good question. He chalked it up to guilt, for not making sure she was okay … but standing there so close he could feel her breath against his face, he knew it wasn’t guilt. Not at all.
“Why are you avoiding my question?” He inched closer. She tried to back away, but the railing kept her from going any farther. The space between them grew smaller; the smell of her, that insane smell of flowers, intensified. “Look, I was worried. The woman who was driving—”
“I didn’t know her,” she said quickly. “She was just giving me a ride. There was no reason to stick around. She—she just worked at my school.”
Luc exhaled. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath. “That’s so intense,” he said. “I’m really sorry you had to see that.”
She just stared at him wordlessly. He ran a hand through his hair. “Let’s try this again, okay? My name’s Lucas. What’s yours?” He extended his hand. “Can we do this? Can we start over?”
The girl stared at his hand as though she’d never seen one before. Then, thankfully, she laughed. Her laugh was deep and beautiful, like a low note on a piano. “Corinthe.”
He stared at her mouth and fought the intense desire to hear her whisper his name instead. Light from the paper lanterns hit the dangling crystals at her ears, and bright dots danced over her neck like tiny fireflies. She craned her neck to look past him and he almost reached up to run his fingers down the curve at her shoulder.
“Corinthe. Good. Great. Well, Corinthe, I’m glad you’re okay,” he said.
A look of puzzlement passed over her face. “Thank you,” she said stiffly, as though the words were unfamiliar. She moved a few steps away from him, and he panicked. He didn’t want her to disappear yet.
“Can I get you a drink? There’s—”
“No thanks. I’m fine.” She held up the beer she clearly hadn’t even taken a sip from, then turned and wrapped her free hand around the railing, tipping her head back to look up.
Luc moved next to her cautiously, worried she might suddenly run off again. “What are you looking at?” he asked.
“Stars.” She fell silent for a few moments. “It’s amazing you can still see the stars with all the smog, but you can.”
He didn’t need to look up to know which constellation would be overhead, which stars would be the brightest this time of year. “Do you have a favorite?”
She glanced at him for just a second. “No. How can you choose just one? They aren’t anything special alone. But together …” She swept her hand in a wide arc, but he kept his eyes locked on her face.
She was so beautiful.
For a few minutes, they stood in silence. Luc found, weirdly, that the lapse in conversation didn’t feel uncomfortable. He was actually enjoying standing next to her without speaking, listening to her quiet breaths, watching the light trace the outlines of her hair and her throat.
Corinthe spoke abruptly. “It wasn’t intense.”
“What?”
Corinthe turned to face him. “The accident. It wasn’t intense. And I’m not sorry I was there. Death is the balance to life.” She said it matter-of-factly, but he thought he saw a flicker of uncertainty cross her face. He had a sudden image of his mother—alone, kicking in an alley. At least, that was what his father had told him once, in a drunken stupor. Neither of them had brought it up again, and Luc was thankful for that. He shoved the thought away.
“You sound like you’ve been around death before,” he said.
She looked up at the stars again. “Yes, I have.”
He didn’t push her. But he wanted her to know he really understood, if she needed to talk.
“Look, Corinthe …” The words died on his lips as she turned toward him, her wide eyes darker than he remembered. Without really thinking, he lifted his hand and ran one finger over the spot where the cut had been.
Corinthe froze under his touch. For a second, he thought she was going to bolt. Their eyes met and an electric current ran through his whole body. He felt a humming in his ears as he leaned forward. He couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. The look in her eyes made it hard to think about anything except kissing her.
Then she jerked away and stumbled a few steps backward. She looked toward the water, where a faint green light buzzed in the distance.
“I need to go.” Her voice sounded hoarse. She brushed past him and started back toward the front deck.
“Wait!” Luc followed her blindly along the narrow walkway, where the music was louder. Even more people were packed onto the lower deck, and he had to push his way through the crowd to follow her. He didn’t know what he was doing, could think of nothing but being close to her again.
He followed her when she went down the steps into the cabin, past Lily, who was now ranting to some other girls about how she’d almost drowned in a hot tub in Vail. He’d heard that story at least a dozen times.
When Corinthe ducked under the gold rope blocking off the hallway to the bedrooms, he hesitated.
“We’re not supposed to—” he started, but she cut him off.
“You don’t have to follow me,” she said neutrally, with a quick glance over her shoulder.
Damn it. He was acting like an idiot. But he still ducked under the rope and went down the hall after her.
“So you didn’t say before exactly how you know this crowd,” he prompted.
Corinthe had stopped in front of a closed door. She didn’t answer him. She turned the handle and the door swung inward silently.
“Occupied,” a guy blurted out. In the darkness Luc made out that same faint glow again—a tiny pinprick of greenish light, humming and crackling as it made its way across the room.
Corinthe hit the light switch. Someone screamed. Luc froze. The images bombarded him like stills, like pictures lit up by a flash: one after the other, disjointed, senseless.
Karen.
Mike.
Together.
On the bed.
Mike’s hand slid out from underneath Karen’s black silk tank top. Her eyes were wide and her lips were swollen, as if she’d been kissing for a long time. Normally, her layered honey-brown hair was smooth and neat, but now it was tangled and wild.
“Luc!” Karen cried out. She looked from Mike to Luc and then back to Mike, who was now staring at Corinthe.
“What the hell are you doing?” Luc heard himself say. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. Even his voice sounded slow, distant.