Free The Ward by Jordana Frankel Page B

clothes.
    Voices at the door stop me short.
    “Why did you bring her here ?” It comes out as a hiss. A girl. An angry girl by the sound of it.
    I stifle a groan. Only a girlfriend would be over at four in the morning, pissed that another girl was naked in his bathtub.
    How could I not have known?
    Derek says something in reply, but his voice is too low to pick out the words. I should get closer.
    Careful not to make too much noise, I crouch in front of the door.
    “I can see it plain as day, Derek,” she says. “I know what it looks like, remember?”
    “You’re paranoid.” Derek pauses just as I’m about to twist the brass doorknob. Instead of risking it, I stay close to the tile, craning my neck so that I can hear under the door. “She’s just a friend, Kitaneh. Barely that. I’m her bookie, no different from any of the other guys.”
    My stomach bottoms out, worse than cruising off the side of a building, because that’s a feeling I actually enjoy. I always knew I never really had a chance with Derek, but to hear him say it like this . . . it makes me want to puke.
    “There are rules,” the girl, Kitaneh, says.
    I’m sure she’s talking about bookies and racers not mixing affairs—no one would like that, but it doesn’t matter. He’s just said I’m “barely” even a friend. My neck is starting to hurt and the voices sound like they’re moving farther away, so I reach up for the door handle—I want to see this girl. When I peek out, I catch a glimpse.
    Once more, I’m sick to my stomach.
    She’s beautiful .
    See, I never wanted to be five foot ten, have buttery-yellow hair like Aven’s or the kind of baby blues that turn guys into puddles. I never wanted to be pale-skinned, though I could have done with a few less freckles. What I have wanted was to be able to run a hand through my hair once in my life, and not always have my own personal spiral skyscrapers on my head. I’ve wanted my body, small and dense, to be small and willowy. My eyes to be dark, but still interesting.
    I’ve wanted to look like myself, just different.
    So, basically . . . her.
    It’s pretty awful, coming face-to-face with the person who is your version of perfection. Which means Derek didn’t bring me here because he likes me, he just felt bad.
    I swallow the realization like swallowing needles —I never stood a chance .
    I don’t want to go out there. See him. But I know my priorities: Aven. Officer Cory.
    Giving in to that silly, stupid feeling I get when Derek’s around is not on the list.
    If only feelings listened to a list.

8
    W hen I step out of the bathroom, I harden myself before seeing Derek. But I stop walking. Gasp. Too easily distracted by the fact that he lives in a bloody palace: oriental rugs, a brass chandelier, instruments that I don’t even think we have names for anymore. So what if it’s all a bit threadbare? You don’t come by this stuff mint.
    He glances up from his spot on a red velvet sofa-looking thing. “How are you feeling?” he asks, eager, and I follow his gaze. It rests for a slow moment on each limb and each scrape, inspecting my injuries.
    His looking at me like this makes me feel naked. Even with his hair mussed and tattered clothes—he’s still a mess from the rescue—it don’t matter. I go lock-lipped and awkward. No idea what to say . . .
    Normally, I’d fake it. Act comfortable, play around. Be one of the guys. That’s when I was the premier dragster. A winner. Right now, I’ve never felt more like a little girl, even when I was a little girl—beaten down, saved by a silly white knight from a mess I couldn’t get myself out of.
    “Good,” I say, because it’s all I can think of, though I’m fully aware how ridiculous it sounds.
    He scowls. Even that looks good on him. Somehow, knowing that he’s got a girlfriend has actually made me want him more .
    “You can tell me that you feel like death, Ren. I’m not your competition.” He doesn’t even give me