Page 12 of Intrepid

No? The shiver morphed into a shudder—not the good kind.

“In this class you will be introduced to statistical techniques and quantitative reasoning and methodology for examining crimes.” Below us, the prof prattled on about the many advantages of modern technology and the advancements of forensic investigation since he’d first started out. Blah blah blah. “The case studies we’ll be using throughout this course will be those that affect our city, which include racial profiling and human trafficking. According to the FBI, agents worked over two hundred cases of human trafficking in Michigan last year …” The prof’s voice trailed off to the thoughts spinning in my head, and a disturbing realization hit me in all of my half-sleep stupor.

“Did you follow me?” I asked over my shoulder, keeping my eyes forward.

“I wanted to see you again.” His breath scattered across my neck, giving some proximity to how close he’d leaned forward.

“Why?”

“It’s only natural. When two people experience a mutual trauma. Together. They form a sort of bond with one another.”

“Bond.” I’d be lying if I said his words had no effect on me. The sound of his voice over the professor’s sent my mind to the gutter and had me crossing my legs, imagining a different kind of bonding experience.

Something shiny dangled in my periphery, and I twisted to see my bracelet. “Thought you might want this back. Found it on the foot peg of my bike.”

I swiped it from him, and the relief of having it back had me locking my lips to keep from squealing like a pig in a shit bath, completely overshadowing the suspicion that he’d followed me. “How the hell …”

“Might want to have that clasp looked at. I was going to return it to you last night, but you’d already gone inside.”

“Thank you. Truly. I searched all morning for it. And I’m glad to know your being here was more than traumatic bonding.”

“So you didn’t think about me last night?”

Of course I had. In fact, because I hadn’t slept much, at all, I really couldn’t stop thinking about him. Every time the gunshot went off, I’d hear his voice telling me it’d be okay. “Did you?”

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”

“You don’t even know me,” I volleyed back.

“I want to.”

Not to sound self-deprecating, but his interest in me made no sense. And it wasn’t as if he knew who my father was, or how much money I had, for that to be the basis of his curiosity. Hell, one look at my apartment had probably put the brakes on any plans to mug me the night before. Call me cynical, but I just couldn’t bring myself to accept that our little survival stunt together had had that profound of an effect on him. “I can’t. Trust me when I say, I’m not your type.”

“What’s my type, Sera?” A tickle at my shoulder alerted me to his brushing my hair to the side, exposing my neck.

I shifted in my seat, growing uncomfortable with his persistence, and shoved the capped end of the pen into my mouth. “I don’t know. Not me,” I said around the half-chewed plastic.

“Why not?” he whispered in my ear, and it wasn’t so much his words as their pulsating effect that traveled all the way down to my bones.

A splintered crack sounded at the split of the pen where I’d bitten down too hard, and I set the instrument off to the side.

I wanted to tell him that I’d had some shitty experiences with assholes, and more baggage than a jumbo jet during the holidays. Bad at love didn’t begin to describe my affinity for train wreck relationships. Completely clueless and prone to disaster seemed to fit better, and I sure as hell didn’t trust myself jumping into another at that point in my life.

“The answer’s no. I’m sorry. Look, I—” I turned around to find the seat empty behind me.

The girl to my left slid a confused glance my way. For a moment, I swore I’d lost my mind and imagined him, but his cologne lingered on the air, telling me he’d actually been there.

And I had to believe he’d followed me from my apartment that morning.

3

Sera

Shit. I was so going to be late. My Thursday classes typically ended at eleven, which ordinarily gave me a half hour to get home, change, and walk to Mama D’s, the popular coffee shop where I’d scored a job through Simone. She didn’t work there herself, but she’d apparently been drinking Mama D’s famous coffee since she was old enough to fill her sippy cup, or so she claimed. Simone also knew the owner, Deirdre, the real Mama D, whose house brew and egg sandwiches were as much a staple in the city as Telway sliders and Lafayette’s Coney dogs.

Rain drizzled just enough to coat my hair and skin, adding a cold bite with the September winds beating against my face. The acrid scent of sulfur hit me like a rotten egg buffet, as I passed the steaming manholes lined along the street.

I hustled down the block, tugging my Chucks at the heels to keep them from sliding off, since I hadn’t had enough time to actually tie them, and ducked beneath the scaffolding. If my asshole prof hadn’t taken her sweet ass time explaining the assignment to us, I might’ve skated out of class on time. As it was, I’d be lucky to get to work twenty minutes late.