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propping me against his chest, his hands spanning my ribcage.
    We froze.
    My fingers clutched the soft black cotton at his waist, grasping for additional support. Pushing his hoodie upward. My knuckles skimmed warm, taunt muscles hidden underneath. His sharp inhalation pushed his chest harder into mine.
    Somewhere I felt a hammering, a construction drill cranked to life like it was trying to blast through concrete. And then suddenly, not a drill. A heart, beating out of control.
    His or mine?
    Love me.
    The words - crazy words - raced through my head. Love ME.
    We stared.
    There was wariness in his eyes. A look I understood, because I was that look. He expected me to push him away, but maybe there could be a different ending, a major plot twist, the kind that got under a character’s skin.
    Tangled them in knots.
    Our breath mixed. I entwined our fingers, slid his hand up along my sweater. He turned his face away – stock-still, as if afraid any movement would shatter the heat we were building. I cupped his hand to my breast. His chin angled to me then, a moan on his lips, breath warm and sweet on my cheek. A gentle pressure as he gave into the urge to touch, to feel.
    It was glorious until he jerked away from me. I stumbled at the loss of his body, but found my feet.
    Cursing, he punched a button and the doors swished open. The blast of fresh air made me shiver. He pulled me from the elevator. “Come on, let’s get you looked after.”
    His harsh tone got my back up. “I don’t need looking after.” I resisted, but my captor, wannabe savior took no notice of my ineffectual attempts at reclaiming ownership of my arm.
    â€œAre you from the psych ward? How’d you get out?” His expression shifted. Hardened. Concern, or maybe guilt had him avoiding my gaze. “How long were you in there? I saw you make two trips before I decided to check up on you. You can’t really hide in these elevators, you know.” He gave a hollow laugh. “Glass.”
    I tried to respond, but I couldn’t think. I’d been rejected. Shut down. Just like I knew would happen. We approached a semi-circular desk. Behind the counter sat a security guard with a grim expression.
    â€œLet me go,” I said. “Let go.” Finally, my body kicked in and my brain unstuck. I pulled away, stared into the guy’s startled eyes, watched his jaw clench.
    â€œDon’t,” he said. “I can help. Let me help you.”
    I bolted for the exit.
    And hoped never to see his urgent, gorgeous face again.

Chapter Seven
    â€œOwen, you better have that out of here before Mom gets home or you’ll be in big trouble.” Roach fired the warning as we stood behind the couch and observed Owen’s progress on the screen.
    He glanced from the controller. “Kyle let me borrow his PS3 for the night. I’m getting in as much gaming time as I can. As soon as I hear the garage door open, I’ll hide the evidence, have no fear.” His eyes slide to me. “Why’s she always around anyway? We’re not a refugee camp.”
    â€œLike I’d seek refuge here if the world was overrun with zombies or Wal-Mart greeters.” The little puke. And I’d been feeling sorry for him – a little boy denied his intrinsic right to play videogames and blow shit up. “You’re buddies with Jesus - you guys turn the other cheek, remember?” I grinned. “This place would be the first to go. Don’t forget, pollywog, I know all your gaming secrets.”
    â€œInfernal woman.” Owen sputtered, blasting the enemy away in a series of rapid rounds from his virtual AK-47.
    â€œCome on. Leave the kid to his carnage.” I pushed Roach toward the stairs. “I need more help with our deflowering project.” We headed for the stairs. Somewhere between the first and third step my thoughts returned to where they’d continually been hanging out for the last