Free Killing Ruby Rose by Jessie Humphries Page A

Martinez knows it. If he finds proof of my strange stalking habits, he’ll argue that the LeMarq shooting was not, in fact, “legally justified.” He’ll claim that I had malice aforethought, intent, and motive—and that it was murder in the first degree.
Disaster 4: My mom cheated on my dad—with the one man in a position to take me down!
Mess 5: Mom’s campaign opponent, Bill Brandon, is on a witch hunt to destroy the whole Rose family, and he doesn’t mind using me to do it.
Catastrophe 6: I am a killer.
     
    “Ruby!” A voice jerked my nose out of my notebook. “Hey, Ruby.”
    I looked up to find a half-naked Liam Slater jogging toward me through the sand with a surfboard under his arm.
    This had to be some kind of psychotic delusion. Like my subconscious desires had fought to the surface. Or maybe I’d watched one too many episodes of vampire shows with shirtless immortals.
    “I was hoping I’d see you here today,” Liam said, a little out of breath. His unzipped wet suit hung dangerously low on his waist, exposing the muscular V-line in his hips that most girls would pay good money to see. His shaggy hair dripped salt water over his bronzed and chiseled eight-pack. Suddenly, I had a new problem—
     
Crisis 7: Acting like a total idiot in front of Liam Slater.
     
    “I never heard back from you,” he said as he sat down next to me. “Are you OK?”
    “You hoped to see me? What made you think I’d be here?” I asked, semiviolently shutting my notebook like it contained national secrets.
    “I’ve seen you out here before,” he clarified. “My boys and I hit this spot before school occasionally for a session, and I’ve seen you here a few times deep in thought . I just never got the guts to actually come over and talk before.”
    “Really?”
    “Really what ?” he asked with a half smile.
    “Really, you surf here? Really, you’ve seen me here? Really, you didn’t have the guts to talk to me ?” I was shocked by all three implications. Sure, I could be shortsighted and socially unplugged sometimes, but I couldn’t have missed him.
    He laughed, and I couldn’t help but notice his perfectly straight white teeth against his sun-kissed face.
    “I know we’ve goofed around in class, and said ‘hey’ in the halls and stuff, but you’re sort of intimidating,” he said. I could have sworn the sun came out just to do that shiny, sparkly thing off his teeth.
    “I don’t think intimidating is the right word,” I said. “Maybe unrelatable … my therapist says I’m unrelatable.” Why was I telling him I had a therapist?
    “Oh … kay, unrelatable, unreachable, unattainable, sure.” He looked over at me with raised eyebrows and a suppressed laugh. Seriously, dudes shouldn’t have such long eyelashes. “You hit your head pretty hard yesterday. I hope you’re OK.”
    “Did I?” I asked. I honestly didn’t remember. Physical pain hardly ever bothered me. I’d gotten good at ignoring bumps and bruises.
    “Right here,” he said, reaching up to stroke my hair where my head had hit the floor. Now that he was touching it, that spot felt tender. But in this moment, I thanked the injury for giving me a rare moment of physical contact. Mom hadn’t hugged me in years, and Dad’s physical expressions of love (since I’d become a teen) consisted of sparring matches and pats on the head. In general, I’d always been pretty successful at keeping people within carefully controlled parameters. Even Alana had to hammer past my aversion to touch—what Dr. T said was part of my autophobia , or fear of abandonment. Which of course got ten times worse when my father was murdered.
    But this uninvited touch from Liam? I didn’t hate it.
    “It doesn’t hurt,” I said, eyes down, blood pressure up.
    “That’s good.” It took him a few strung-out beats before he lowered his hand. “Listen, I wanted to tell you something.”
    “OK, shoot,” I said awkwardly. Not my best choice of