Condemned

15 | Sam

I don't know what I am expecting when I walk out of work on Halloween night, but it certainly isn't Ian Tierney.

I've already missed out on all the "fun"—I thought—and was just hoping to go home and crash. It's only Monday, after all, and I have an eight o'clock class in the morning.

What is Ian doing here? And why does it seem like he's waiting for me? His silver Mercedes coupe is parked next to my Volkswagen. It's not just the taillight that makes it look sad in comparison.

He's leaning against the passenger side door with his ankles crossed and hands in his expensive hiking jacket. "You're a tough girl to pin down." He gives me a half-smile. It's enticing. And terrifying. This is all so easy for him, and I'm having trouble breathing through the shock.

"I'm not trying to be." It's my stupid, honest answer. Every cheerleader has my phone number. I'm either at practice, school, work, or my apartment, and they all follow predictable patterns.

Is he just saying that because I turned down one invitation, delivered by his best friend, less than an hour before the party was supposed to begin?

I realize, with a guy like Ian, a second chance is no guarantee, and yet here he is. If I overanalyze this right now, I might slip into a nervous breakdown. Instead, I push out an amicable numbness. It isn't hard to do in this seasonably cool weather. Or while I'm recovering from rejection's sting, the utter humiliation of it all, and another round of silent treatment at home. It'll be my armor. Whatever happens, happens. I shouldn't judge Ian too soon or jump to any conclusions.

"Where are you headed?" I ask since he's obviously going somewhere. He smells too good and is dressed too nice for me to believe otherwise.

"A bonfire with some of our teammates. Are you in?"

I look down at myself and lift my arms—black leggings, black polo shirt, black zip-up hoodie, and a cheap canvas purse carrying only the essentials. If I had some face paint, I could be a very unsexy ninja for Halloween. "What you see is what you get. I don't have a change of clothes. Or a coat..."

Ian waves off my concern and opens his car door. "You'd look fine in anything," he assures me. "It should be casual, and we'll keep you in a blanket close to the fire. How does that sound?" He sweeps his hand toward the passenger seat. "I don't intend to stay that long, anyway. I should have you back before the movie theater officially closes."

He says that, but . . . I've overheard some of the stories. And I know what "casual" means to most cheerleaders—miniskirt, exposed midriff, extreme pushup bra, enough makeup for Hollywood...

I'll probably be warmer than they are without a coat. And I suppose, if I can avoid that kind of attention for one night, all the better.

"Sounds harmless enough," I quip, and autopilot takes over. It's part of my numbness program. I take a seat and don't think much of it.

If other girls can go to these things and take care of themselves, then I can, too. Friday was a disaster and I'm never drinking again, of course. And that's probably half the battle...

"I'm not sure about that," he banters back. "But don't worry. I'll protect you."

He winks and revs out of his parking spot—fast, smooth, sleek, and pretty as a picture.

When it comes to Ian Tierney, I suppose that could be said about a lot of things.

***

We probably reach our destination in record time, but it still took a while—twenty-four minutes of small talk, to be exact.

At the trailhead, we go into the woods with just our phone flashlights, a blanket, and a couple of six-packs that I help carry. The hike goes on for another block of time.