Inescapable (The Premonition Series) (3 page)

“Uh, no, just Alfred,” he says, mirroring my smile.

“Well, I think that, since we’re going to be friends, and since I’m going to insist that you call me Evie instead of Genevieve, it would be sweet if I could call you by something less formal than Alfred…like Freddie?” I ask, hoping that he won’t object to the nickname.

“Yeah, that’s fine…that’s good…Freddie,” he grins at me, seeming in a daze.

“Okay, we had better go and join our groups,” I say, looking around.

My group appears about ready to leave, but before I join them, I assess Freddie critically. He looks like he’s ready to go on a march with a fascist dictator, not a nature walk to a lake. His white oxford shirt is tightly buttoned at the collar and tucked into a pair of khaki shorts, which is being held up by a navy blue belt. Impulsively, I unbutton the top button of Freddie’s oxford shirt. Then, I muss up the perfectly straight, side-parted hairstyle he is sporting because it looks like Lego hair, like he had snapped it on his head this morning before going out.

“There,” I breathe. “That’s better. Now, untuck your shirt and I’ll see you at the lake.” He walks away from me smiling and untucking his shirt, which is amazingly unwrinkled for having been shoved in his shorts.

As I walk slowly over to my group, I study the face of our handsome group leader as he stands in the same position by the door. When I near him, his eyes lock with mine while his expression darkens into a frown.

It is me! I
think anxiously,
He hates me! Maybe he only likes blonds.
Nervously, I play with a strand of my hair and scan the crowd ahead of me, trying to find a tall person to stand behind—one that will shield my 5’9” frame from his line of sight. I locate an extremely tall male and tuck myself behind him.

You’re being a coward and completely irrational,
I think, trying to rally my fragile ego.
You must be misreading something. He doesn’t hate you; he doesn’t even know you. Maybe he’s having a bad day, or maybe you remind, him of someone he does hate.

The distinctive fluttering in my stomach flares up again, making me feel like I’m being propelled lightly forward in the direction of the exit—
his
direction. Peeking out from around the wall of male I’ve strategically maneuvered behind, I see him coming toward me.
Shoot! Here he comes!
I think, bracing myself.

In seconds, I’m face to face with the most stunningly beautiful person I’ve ever met. Well, maybe not “face to face” as he is at least five inches taller than me. He’s standing so close to me, that I have to crane my neck to see his eyes; they’re green and almost gray around the edges of his irises.

Leaning in closely to my ear, his breath stirs my hair as he says softly, “This is not your group, and it is time for you to leave now.”

His voice sounds like silk, but there is something very wrong with it. It’s echoing and shifting within my mind, making it seem to go on, like whispering hisses that linger even after his lips stop moving and his breath no longer tickles my hair. A small shiver of fear slips down my spine as every hair on the nape of my neck stands straight up in that moment. Stepping back and looking at his exquisite face, I see an air of expectation in his eyes.

“How do you know I have the wrong group? Have we met?” I ask, quirking my eyebrow, not even attempting to conceal the irritation in my voice.

Confusion briefly clouds his eyes as he processes my response. He seems surprised at my reaction to his directive.
He’s probably used to getting his own way. I bet women line up for a chance to please him.

“What is your name?” he asks in a soft, urgent tone, leaning near my ear again. I stiffen again because his voice is making that hissing sound once more.

My eyes narrow, “What’s yours? Mephistopheles?” I counter. “And, what’s with your voice anyway? It’s making my skin crawl,” I ask, rubbing my arms absently in an attempt to alleviate the goose bumps.
His voice is more than annoying; it’s insulting. It’s making my brain feel itchy, but I can’t scratch it through my skull.

I am gratified to see that I have startled him; he hides it well, but there had been a definite widening of his eyes and pupil dilation. If I hadn’t been so focused on his eyes, I might have missed it. His face is losing its menacing expression as it’s becoming devoid of emotion. It bothers me because without some indication of his emotion, it is hard to tell what he’s thinking. I glance around in frustration, seeing that we are rapidly gaining the attention of the rest of the group. In fact, the cute blond he had been talking with earlier is assessing me as one does a rival on an opposing team.

When my eyes return to his, he says, “I simply want to check to see if you are on my list.” His tone is smooth and clear, with no creepy undercurrent woven into it. “What is your name?” he asks me, before waving his clipboard back and forth as if to corroborate his statement.

“Evie,” I reply in a near whisper, noticing that we are definitely the objects of scrutiny from the rest of the freshmen in the group.

He peruses the list of names on his clipboard like a bouncer at an exclusive club. I watch him with cautious fascination, knowing full well that he won’t locate an Evie on the roster, and wait to see his reaction. As his head dips low over the list, his dark hair slips down over one eyebrow. My hand wants to brush his hair back into place, to feel the texture of it. How strange—just a moment ago he was creeping me out and now I want to run my fingers through his hair.
Maybe I’m schizophrenic,
I think warily as the flutters in my stomach dance wildly.

Looking up from scanning the printout, a smug smile graces his lips as he says, “I am sorry, there does not appear to be an Evie anywhere on my list. You must be in a different group after all.”

No, there is definitely no creepy in his voice now. It’s just the voice one expects from someone this appealing
—
strong and kind of sexy.

“That’s because my name’s Genevieve Claremont, and I am on your list, about half way down in the second column,” I counter quietly. He locates my name easily. “But my friends call me Evie…” I continue with a hint of a smile that trails off, along with my voice as I become aware that he is again frowning at me.

“So you
are…Genevieve,”
he replies with polite coolness, while tucking the clipboard under his arm. “We should go now; we’re holding up the group.”

He turns then and walks to the front of the crowd of students. Soon, everyone begins to file out of the auditorium. I follow them into the waning sunlight, shuffling toward the back of my group while praying that this will all be over soon.

CHAPTER 3

Arden Lake

I have heard it said that if you stay in one place long enough, the whole world would eventually pass by you. I’m not sure if I buy that, but if you have four miles to walk to a lake, while stuck behind a bunch of teenage girls, you will hear quite enough gossip about the place you are in, not to mention the people who reside there, to make that world quite interesting. I have already learned quite enough about Reed Wellington, my beautiful sophomore guide with a penchant for rudeness.

According to Christy, the brunette with the sling-back sandals, Reed is on the Crestwood lacrosse team. He is not affiliated with any fraternity house on campus, but he sometimes attends the parties at the Delt house. He doesn’t have a girlfriend on campus, but it’s generally thought that he has a hometown girl because he’s
way
too hot not to have someone. He has a house just outside of town, but he didn’t grow up there, he was originally from somewhere “out east.” His family is very wealthy, with residences scattered around the globe, but no one knows much about them—they never seem to visit.

I listen intently to the Reed fan club as they dredge up tidbits of salacious gossip and toss it around like one would an urban legend. The girl with the sandals encrusted with Swarovski crystals heard that Reed’s family was responsible for most of the improvements made to the new science wing at Crestwood. She adds that the Dean is constantly trying to get Reed to be an ambassador for the school.

I snort when I hear this.
Ambassador of what, ill will?
I think as I plod along.

No sooner had I thought that then I feel a nudge in my side as the tree-like person next to me jabs his elbow into my ribs. I look up to see the guy I had hidden behind earlier in the auditorium looking down on me.

“Shoot,” he says with a twang in his voice that instantly gives away his southern roots, “if they keep goin’ on like this all day, I might be in danger of proposin’ to Reed by the end of this walk…and I don’t even fancy men, if y’all know what I mean.”

Grinning at me with two boyish dimples, his warm brown eyes dance. “My name’s Russell, by the way, and before ya ask, I’m from North Carolina, near Asheville,” he informs me.

Clutching my side where there is sure to be a bruise from his well-placed elbow, I laugh at his statement. “North Carolina, huh? What brings you this far north? Let me guess, you just want to experience a Michigan winter?” I ask, seeing him cringe at my sarcasm.

“Ya mean they weren’t messin’ with me when they said y’all get piles of that cold, white stuff that falls out of the sky?” he asks with a twinkle in his eye. “Where’s that recruiter?” he demands, looking around in faux anger.

“I’m afraid I’m not messin’ with you in the least. So, you were recruited to come to Crestwood?” I ask.

“Yeah, football scholarship. Couldn’t have come here otherwise. I got a full ride, and I get to play ball, too. What’s a little snow compared to that?” he asks innocently.

“Let’s see if you can still make that statement in four months, when football is over for the season, and you’re freezing while walking to class,” I say with a wry smile.

“Well, Red, that sounds just a bit pessimistic to me, and I didn’t have ya pegged as a doubter, but I’ll take ya up on yer wager,” Russell says.

“Red?” I ask in surprise.

“Well, ya haven’t exactly blurted out yer name, and ya have all that hair—I thought it was brown when we were in the Sage Center, but now that we’re outside and the sun’s shinin’ on it, I can see that it’s more red—kinda fiery—ah dang, I don’t know—it’s pretty, that’s all,” Russell stammers as a blush stains his cheeks.

“Ah…thanks, I’m Evie,” I reply, feeling a blush creeping into my own cheeks. “We have something in common,” I go on, trying to lessen the awkwardness of the moment. “I’m here on scholarship, too. Full ride academic, couldn’t have come here otherwise,” I say, trying to mimic his drawl and failing miserably.

“Yer the whole package, fittie and smart. Now, I knew there was somethin’ special ‘bout ya, Red. I have a nose for these things,” he smiles, pointing to his nose, which is slightly crooked as if it had been broken once or twice, but reset so that it just adds character to his face.

I’m definitely blushing now from his compliment.
“Fittie,” that’s like extreme hotness.
I never think of myself that way.
He must be a playa or something.

Beneath the clear blue autumn sky, Arden Lake appears around the bend in the road. Following the path that winds its way near the cattails at the edge of the water, I catch a glimpse of the snowy white tents in the distance. They grace a small inlet where the water meets the sky in a hazy blending of shapes and colors. The barbeque appears to be in full swing and the aroma as we near the tents is nothing short of mouthwatering.

“I can’t believe we finally made it,” Russell says, as we get closer to the tents. “Walkin’ behind those girls is like herdin’ cats, ya know. It’s pointless to try to hurry ‘em,” he jokes, and I laugh at the mental picture that represents. “Now when I heard the gal talkin’ ‘bout a barbeque, I have to admit I was a bit skeptical, ‘cuz after all, this is the north and y’all may be unaccustomed to the finer points of the grill. But, I’m feelin’ more and more optimistic the closer we get.” His smile is infectious and I grin back. “Can I buy ya supper?” he asks.

“Uh, sure, but I think it’s provided by the school, so maybe I’ll buy you dinner,” I say wryly.

“Wicked, it’s a date,” he says, taking my hand and hurrying me along the path.

Making it to the first tent, the grandeur of it amazes me. Snowy-white linens veil the tables. The chairs are also covered in white linen, which are tied with black satin sashes. Elaborate flower centerpieces adorn the tables and, in the middle of the tent, a large crystal chandelier hangs radiantly over our heads.

Russell gives a low whistle, “Y’all put a new spin on the word
barbecue,”
he says as he places one of his large hands on the small of my back, leading me toward the line of banquet tables. Handing me a plate, we walk together through the maze of food.

When our plates are full, we shuffle past several tables of diners, toward the back of the tent where there is still available seating. As we near a table that is crammed with athletic looking guys, I hear them trading insults with one another as they scarf down enough food to feed a small village.

One of them, noticing Russell and me, lets out a loud wolf whistle. “Hey, Russell, where’re you going?” Russell ignores him as he ushers me by the rowdy table. “Who’s your friend with the legs?” he calls after us as we continue on. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

Smirking over his shoulder, Russell calls back, “Naw, Mason, she’s much too clever for ya.”

Blushing, I scan the tables ahead for a couple of empty chairs. “Friends of yours?” I ask Russell with a raise of my eyebrow. “Do you want to sit with them? I can find somewhere else to sit.”

“Naw,” he says swiftly.

“No, they’re not friends, or no, you don’t want to sit with them?” I ask, continuing to follow him away from the other table.

“No,” he says, “I don’t wanna sit with them, but they’re my crew. Well, some of ‘em are, anyway. Mason is on the team, along with a few of the other guys. The rest are from the dorm, Brady Hall. We’ve been chillin’ together most of the summer, since we had to be here for trainin’ camp. I could use a night off from them, if ya know what I mean.”

Spotting Freddie a few tables ahead of us, sitting alone, I call out to him as we approach. “Freddie! Hey, can we sit here with you?” I ask in relief at finally finding a seat.

As I set my plate down on the table next to where Freddie is sitting, I begin to pull the chair out when it is tugged out of my hand by Russell, who holds it out for me. “Wow,” I say in surprise, “a true southern gentlemen. You’re mother must be proud.”

“Yeah, she and my Auntie Emily worked on me for a while, tryin’ to get me to learn some manners, and eventually I caught on when I found out they weren’t gonna let me eat ‘til everyone was seated, and they wouldn’t sit down ‘til I pulled out their chairs for them. When yer fifteen, in the middle of a growth spurt, and havin’ just finished a gruelin’ practice, y’all will do just ‘bout anythin’ to get to the food,” Russell says with a laugh.

I laugh too, trying to imagine him at fifteen. He was probably tall and lanky with sharp elbows.
He’s not lanky anymore,
I think as I covertly assess him. His large frame is filling out the chair, making the chair look delicate by comparison. He looks rugged and maybe a little dangerous, but his dimples offset his powerful physique, making the total package very attractive.

“You’re Russell Marx,” Freddie says next to me as he addresses my dinner companion. “You’re the new quarterback the Chargers just recruited!” he goes on excitedly, and I remember my manners just then.

“I’m sorry, Russell, this is Freddie Standish. Freddie, well, it seems you already know this is Russell,” I explain.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the king of the ‘Hail Mary’ or something like that?” Freddie says to Russell.

“Yeah, well, yes and no. I had a great receiver on my high school team by the name of Wes Larson. Now, Wes was the fastest runner in four counties, and he had hands that could catch any slop I threw. I just had to launch the ball down the field, and damn if that kid didn’t just fly to the other end of the field to get it. Ya see, there’re really only two things ya need for a Hail Mary to be effective: one, ya need a fast receiver, and two, one of these.” As he says this, he pulls out a small metal medallion from his pocket; it’s a Mary medallion.

“See here,” Russell goes on, “in order for the Hail Mary to work properly, ya have to have her on yer side,” he says grinning, showing all of his perfectly straight, white teeth. “This one was a gift from my team.”

I must have a strange look on my face because Russell adds, “Don’t tell me yer an atheist, Red.”

“No, I’m not an atheist,” I reply quietly—my head is spinning.

I have the strangest feeling now. It’s like I’ve met Russell somewhere before——like I know him——but not just know him——it’s something more. He smiles at me, and I feel it again, it’s a distant sort of recognition. Maybe I had read something on the Crestwood website about him, but that doesn’t seem to be it. I think about it through dessert and well into our discussion about the next day’s registration.

I relax in my seat, listening contentedly to Russell and Freddie talk about the football team’s chances this season. Looking over at one of the tent flaps, I notice that the sun is just about to set. “It’s getting dark outside,” I say. “Does anyone know how we’re supposed to get home from here? Are we walking back?”

“No,” Freddie says as he gets up from his seat. “I think they chartered some buses for us to ride back. I heard them pulling up outside when we were getting dessert.”

I start to stand, picking up my bag, and find my chair being drawn back from the table for me. “Thank you,” I say to Russell, trying not to stare into his face, which is becoming more attractive to me by the second. “I think I’ll go and see if I can locate the bathroom before we leave.”

“I’ll go save some seats on the bus for us. I’ll see you over there,” Freddie says, nodding his head in the direction of the front of the tent.

“Thanks, Freddie.” I watch him walk away in that direction.

“The bathroom’s not a bad call, I’ll go with ya, Red,” Russell says.

We walk over to one of the tent flaps near the back of the tent and out into the twilight. We are very near the water now, and the breeze carries with it a balmy scent that is a mixture of the water plants that surround the lake and the water itself. Following the path away from the lake, we locate a small brick building that serves as a public restroom. When I come back out, I see Russell waiting for me a short distance away, on the path back to the lake.

“You waited for me,” I say, a bit in surprise.

“Well, yeah,” he grins, “we can’t have ya walkin’ alone out here at night in such a shady part of town. There could be any number of Crestwood gang bangers ‘round here just waitin’ to jump out at ya from the brush,” Russell says outlandishly.

Sweeping his arm around in a wide, arching motion, he seems to be highlighting the fact that we are completely alone out here. Sensing that his argument is flimsy at best, he flashes his dimples at me and says, “Now, c’mon. The buses are fixin’ to leave without us, and then I’ll be forced to defend ya all the way back to the dorms.” Taking my hand in his, we begin strolling back toward the tents.

“Do they teach charm in the south, or do you just come by it naturally?” I ask him, feeling warmth radiating from his body.

“Why, do ya find me charmin’?” he asks, stopping before we reach the tent to smile down at me again.

About to answer him, I feel a fluttering sensation in my stomach again. Looking around at once, I notice a figure materializing out of the shadows of the large willow tree. Startled, I shy nearer to Russell.

When the figure becomes recognizable as Reed walking toward us out of the darkness of the trees, I grudgingly admit to myself that he has an incredibly sexy way of walking—it’s effortless, fluid.
I wonder if he knows how attractive he is just walking,
I think, watching him near Russell and me. Some guys adopt a swagger to look more like players, but this is no swagger; this is raw, aggressive power that is restrained just enough for me to admire the strength it takes to control it.