Read Locked (The Heaven's Gate Trilogy) for Free Online

take for granted and to which everyone else succumbed.  He’d been
through a lot and was on his own.  He had to come across as in charge.
    Michael suddenly
stiffened.  A group of boys came careening around the corner, crashing into the
lockers next to mine.  Michael deftly maneuvered me out of the way, somehow
managing to get me past the crowd without ever touching me.
    “C’mon, let’s get you on
the way home.”
    Swinging my backpack, I
looked over my shoulder at the knot of fighting boys.  On the edge of the
crowd, I saw my tormentor from the bus.  He was not paying attention to the
fight.  Instead he was looking straight at me, pointing me out to one of his
friends.  The friend was tall and dark and seemed to be staring after Michael
and me with a smirk.  He didn’t stop looking even when I started to blush. 
Instinctively, my hand flew up to my neck, smoothing my hair.  I checked behind
me, hoping that maybe the smirk was meant for someone else, but nobody else was
there.  Before Michael could usher me out of the school, I looked back over my
shoulder.  Both of them were gone.
    We wound through the
hallways, Michael unerringly charting a path through the chaos and crowds until
we emerged into the low light of the afternoon.  I blinked at the light and
breathed in the crisp air, for the first time really cherishing the freedom
that my new school seemed to promise.
    I turned to Michael and
drew in my breath.  The sinking winter sun was hanging low on the horizon, its
glow catching Michael’s hair and making it look like it was kissed by flames.
    He caught me staring and
grinned.
    I flushed, my gaze
dropping to my shoes as I fumbled for something to say.  “Um, I guess I’ll see
you tomorrow.”
    “Why, are you staying
after school?”
    I looked up, confused by
his question.  He was looking at me with amusement, almost laughing at my
awkwardness.  I flushed more deeply before answering him.
    “Uh, no.  But my bus is
over there,” I said, gesturing weakly behind me.
    “You prefer spitballs and
vomit in a yellow tube of tin to a ride home with me?” he said, mockingly
stabbing himself through the heart.  “Carmichael, you really know how to hurt a
guy.”
    “No!” I said, too
eagerly.  “I mean, I didn’t know…”
    “Right this way,” he
said.  Winking, he turned on his heel, tossing his car keys in the air and
catching them deftly with one hand as he strode away, leaving me to scramble
after him.
    As we wound our way
through the parking lot, he slowed his stride, allowing me to catch up.
    “You’re in the teacher’s
lot,” I commented, surprised.
    “If my life of crime is
too much for you, Hope, you can always take the bus,” he said, his voice
dripping with sarcasm.
    “Oh, no.  No judgment
here,” I said quickly, thanking the heavens for a ride home.
    “Here we go,” he said,
pulling up short, then gesturing broadly to the side before making a sweeping
bow.  “Mademoiselle, your chariot awaits.”
    He’d stopped in front of
a car so sleek and slung so low to the ground it reminded me of a bullet.  That
is, it would have reminded me of a bullet if it actually looked like it had any
speed.  This thing looked decrepit.  The panels were a dull grey, except for a
few patches where the steel body had been replaced with pieces taken from other
cars.  The driver’s side mirror was held on my duct tape and a pair of fuzzy
dice hung from the rear view mirror.
    “Uh, thanks?” I said,
unable to suppress the questioning tone.
    He swept his long, lean
body upright, shielding me from the sun as he shrugged and held out his arms in
a gesture of feigned hurt.  “Again, Carmichael, I am not picking up the right
tone of appreciation, here.”
    “Oh, I appreciate it. 
I’m just wondering if this death trap has seat belts.”
    He ran his hand along the
hood as he walked around to the passenger side.  “Old cars didn’t have
seatbelts.  It’s exempted.”
    “Really?” I