Limerence: A Dark Romance (Fated Fixation Book 1)
Limerence: Chapter 9

I don’t sleep a wink Friday night.

Or Saturday.

Logically, I know Adrian’s unlikely to burst into my room, clad in a ski-mask in the middle of the night to finish me off, but the shadows branching across my dorm walls at 3 AM say differently.

On Sunday, I manage a fitful nap after barricading the door with my desk, which gives me just enough energy to brainstorm.

What I need is a game plan, no matter how pathetically slim my choices might seem.

Option one: I could go to the police and accuse Adrian of Mickey’s murder. The problem is, I don’t have the journal, and now that Adrian knows I’m aware of what’s inside, he could be destroying it as we speak.

And even if I could walk into the Cedarsville Police Department with the journal in-hand tomorrow, those small-town cops clearly don’t stand a chance against a goliath like the Ellis family. Exhibit A’s already lost her job.

If I’m going to try to take Adrian down officially, I need the big guns. The FBI, the CIA, Homeland Security – someone who won’t balk at his last name.

Of course, getting one of those organizations to investigate a single, closed suicide case on nothing but the word of an eighteen-year-old girl?

Still a work in progress.

Option two is less nuclear but far more personally detrimental – leave Lionswood. Pack up and finish out the rest of senior year at the local public high school in Mobile. Give up my dreams of securing a spot at Pratt Institute. Maybe give up art school completely.

I’d be sabotaging everything I’ve spent the last four years working for but…

I’d be alive.

I’d have a future.

Which is more than I might have if I stay here, a sitting duck for Adrian to shoot the moment the mood strikes him.

You’ve just become the most interesting thing on campus, Poppy Davis. His words continue to haunt me long after our encounter’s over. If my ability to breathe hinges on how interesting I am, I’m certainly doomed.

Right now, Adrian is an uncontrolled variable. Dangerous and unpredictable – a winning combination.

And that’s why I decide to spend the rest of my Sunday night researching as much as I can about the Ellis heir. If I’m going to come up with a game plan that’s not hopeless, I need to know what I’m dealing with.

I need facts. Numbers. Information with more credibility than campus rumors.

So, I drink more coffee than any adult should reasonably consume within a twenty-four-hour period, grab my laptop, and get to work.

Unfortunately, my research yields depressing results: Adrian’s family is only more powerful and more connected than I thought. Generational wealth accumulated through just about every booming industry. More than one article speculates they may be the world’s richest family, with net worth estimates that make my jaw drop – and do nothing to ease my growing paranoia.

But outside of Forbes and Time Magazine, the Ellis family seems to do a very good job of keeping themselves out of the press. No outrageous scandals or weird political views smeared all over the internet.

Very little social media presence at all, actually.

Adrian’s father, Edward Ellis, is probably the most public of the family, but it’s all fluff pieces about his business acumen and photo-ops that depict him shaking hands with other titans of industry.

Mary Ellis, Adrian’s mom, is even more elusive. She spends her free-time hosting charity events, and has only ever done one interview – some Us Weekly exclusive about her loving, thirty-year marriage to Edward and how motherhood has been her single greatest joy in life.

I wonder if she knows what her “single greatest joy” spends his time doing.

There are a few dated paparazzi photos of Adrian as a rosy-cheeked pre-teen, as well as a few articles naming him a child prodigy and a “promising legacy” to the Ellis family.

And the only legacy.

He has no siblings, making him the sole inheritor of his family’s fortune once his parents die. The Ellis family isn’t too fond of multiple children, it seems. Edward Ellis was an only child, too. So was his mother. And his grandfather.

Nobody to fight over the inheritance with, I guess.

Eventually, I log off as the sun starts to creep above the horizon, more dejected than ever. Unless I’m planning to topple the Ellis empire with evidence of twelve-year-old Adrian’s unflattering haircut and acne, I’m back to square one.

***

I wear paranoia like a second skin.

The good news is that College Preparations – the one class we do share – has been canceled this week. Professor Kane is out of town. So, as long as I keep my head down, there should be no reason for my path to cross with Adrian’s.

However, I’m not able to completely escape him, considering Adrian’s party is all anyone wants to talk about.

Monday’s lunch is particularly brutal, but I’ve snagged one of the empty tables by the dumpster. The smell of decomposing chickpeas and pasta salad is a small price to pay for staying out of the fray.

“I don’t remember anything,” Penelope whines to Sophie and Ava, two tables down. “Too many party favors.”

“Yeah, you and half the guests,” Ava snorts.

“As if you didn’t spend most of the night in some corner with whats-her-face from the chess team.”

Ava smirks. “Okay, well, Cara was teaching me to play chess. Very intense game, you know.”

Penelope rolls her eyes and turns to Sophie, who’s mixing up a green juice. “Where did you run off to, Soph? I didn’t see you most of the night.”

Sophie takes a long swig of her juice before she responds. “Oh, I was with Adrian.”

Penelope and Ava perk up – and so do I.

“Why didn’t you say something before?” Penelope gasps, leaning into the redhead. “Tell us everything.”

“Oh, it’s not a big deal.” Sophie gives a casual shrug of her shoulders, but everything in her tone suggests it is a big deal. “I mean, I might’ve spent a few minutes conversing with Roddy Locke, but really, Adrian and I just spent the whole night together. He was practically glued to my side.”

Well, if that were true, it would’ve made my life a lot easier.

Penelope and Ava beg for more details, but Sophie claims she can’t kiss and tell with a coy smile. Her friends collapse into shocked giggles, and for a moment, I’m struck with pity.

She has no idea what kind of person she’s actually fawning over.

But then I remember that Sophie has done nothing but socially ostracize me, and the moment passes.

A couple of laughing lacrosse players pass by my table and I jerk my water out of the way reflexively, but there are no accidents this time.

In fact, Freddy Rook pauses mid-stride to greet me with a nod and say, “Hey, Poppy” before continuing to his table.

I practically choke on a bite of pasta salad but manage back a hoarse, “Hey, Freddy.”

It’s a simple acknowledgment – one I’ve seen hundreds of times – but it’s an acknowledgment of me, which feels weirder than it probably should.

My surprise is only dampened by the cafeteria doors opening and the last person I want to see gliding in.

The response to Adrian’s presence seems particularly rowdy today, and as my classmates crowd him, I can’t help but look – really look – at him.

I’m not sure what I’m searching for.

Some big, blocky tattoo hiding underneath his shirt collar that says: “I’m A Killer”? A hidden knife in his loafers?

I can’t say, but there are no more physical signs to indicate that he’s a murderer today than he was last week. His Windsor knot would put the Dean’s to shame. His white dress shirt looks freshly ironed. Not a dark curl out of place.

There’s not a thing out of place and yet…

He’s been fooling people for…God knows how long. Just because my entire world view’s shifted doesn’t mean anyone else’s has.

So I turn away, attempting my best impression of a ghost trying to disappear through the floorboards.

Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure my stomach drops through those same floorboards when I catch Adrian’s gaze – and he begins striding confidently in my direction.

No, no, do not come over here.

I’m like a deer in headlights, unable to flee as he splays his fingers over the chair across from mine. “Is this seat taken?”

He’s smiling.

He’s smiling at me.

He’s smiling at me like we’re friends. Like he didn’t wrap his hands around my neck and almost kill me a few nights ago.

And now he’s cornering me in full view of everyone else.

“Would you go away if I said yes?” I retort more sharply than intended. I can’t help it. I don’t do well being cornered.

His smile only broadens as he pulls the chair out with a screech, and my skin crawls for two reasons: not only is a killer trying to eat lunch with me, but every eye in the cafeteria’s now watching us.

“Who is Adrian sitting with?”

“Wait. Is she new? I’m not sure I’ve seen her before…”

“Maybe he’s trying to make Sophie jealous.”

This is the opposite of invisible. I am too visible.

The whispers are everywhere, but one sharp voice rings out above the others. “Adrian,” Sophie calls. “We made room for you. Sit with me.” She wears a smile, but it’s pulled tight around the edges.

Adrian lazily glances Sophie’s way. “Maybe next time. I’m good here.”

There is a level of shock that ripples through the lunchroom, but Adrian just bites into his apple – the only form of lunch he has – unbothered by all the curious eyes.

I try to tell myself that all this attention is a good thing – a security blanket. He can’t kill me with two-hundred eye-witnesses in the room.

Which is why I have no problem leaning forward and hissing, “What the fuck do you want?” I keep my voice low to avoid prying ears.

His smile curls into a smirk. “Well, you got me thinking the other night. About how I need a little more honesty in my life.”

I stiffen. “Are you sure you know the definition of the word?”

I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

I’m usually better at controlling my mouth and what comes out of it, but something about Adrian has me firing off like a loose cannon – which is a dangerous problem to have in front of a murderer.

Adrian just keeps smiling, though. “I’m a quick learner.”

One of his hands darts out and I tense, tightening my grip on the sterling silver fork that came with my lunch – but he doesn’t go for my throat, just a flimsy napkin flying away.

“Someone’s jumpy.” He arches an eyebrow at me, the movement as effortlessly graceful as the rest of him. I have the fleeting urge to fling a marinated grape tomato at him, if only to prove his shirt stains like the rest of us. “I’m not going to hurt you, you know. I told you that at the party.”

“Actually, you didn’t say that. You said you weren’t going to kill me. Right now.”

He takes another bite of his apple and shrugs loosely. “Exactly. So don’t give me a reason to change my mind.”

How comforting, I want to say, but don’t. There’s no telling how many sarcastic quips I can get in before he does change his mind. He’s unpredictable. A stick of dynamite bound to blow anytime.

“Do you still draw?”

“What?” The question is so sudden, so unexpected that the silver fork I was wielding like a weapon slips from my grip.

“You won second place in a county-wide art contest in sixth grade,” he explains and then leans in close like he’s telling me a secret. “Between me and you, though? Yours was the best. Should’ve gotten first.”

My throat is bone dry. “How do you know that?”

I haven’t thought about that art contest or the graphite still-life that earned me a shiny, blue second place ribbon since, well, sixth grade.

“I told you on Friday. You’re the most interesting thing on campus,” he answers easily. “So, I did my research. I wanted to learn more about you.”

“You wanted to know how much of a threat I am,” I correct.

Funny. We spent our weekends the same way.

I see a flash of teeth when he smiles. “Well, that goes without saying.”

He doesn’t need to tell me what conclusions he drew from his research – however extensive – because we both know I’m not a threat.

I have no money, no connections, no resources at my disposal.

Hell, I don’t even have friends to confide in.

If he knows about some random art contest that took place years ago, what else does he know?

Could he know that I –

No.

My blood turns to ice.

No, there’s no way.

Still, I search his face for any indication otherwise.

“You didn’t answer my question. Do you still draw? You don’t have any art classes on your schedule this year.”

I’m not sure why it feels like I’m giving up some deep, dark secret when I nod and say, “I do. I just didn’t have the time in my schedule.”

“Good. I want to see your art.”

A disbelieving laugh escapes me. “What?”

Of all the things I expected to come out of his mouth, that request was not it.

He just blinks at me. “I want to see your art.”

“Why?” I ask, though what I want to say is: A couple of nights ago, I was sure you were going to kill me, and now you’re asking to see my art. Like we’re friendly. Like I would ever willingly walk into a room and be alone with you again.

“Because I’m curious,” he replies. “You rifled through my personal effects. Don’t I get the same privilege?” He says it casually, but there’s an edge to his tone that makes me hesitate saying no.

“I don’t have it with me,” I say lamely. “And it’s…it’s not the kind of thing I show people.”

That last part isn’t an excuse. I can’t remember the last time I pulled out my sketchbook and let someone besides Ms. Hanson flip through the pages, and I have zero desire to start with Adrian Ellis.

“Well, that’s not entirely true. You showed it to the entire county in sixth grade. Even got judged for it.”

“That was a long time ago,” I stammer. “Not anymore. I don’t show anyone anymore.”

“Why? Are you drawing pornography? Experimenting with the nude figure?”

My face heats. “What? No. I just don’t like showing off my art.”

“I’d make a great model, you know. I can sit perfectly still.” He takes another bite of his apple and winks at me. “And I’m not shy. You can dress me up or down as you’d like. Whatever your artistic vision calls for.”

My mouth flounders open, speechless.

Is he…flirting with me?

If this were any other context, any other man, I’d assume so.

But he’s looking at me the same way he did Friday night – like he’s curious. And I don’t think it has anything to do with sex.

I think he’s curious about me.

He’s prodding me to see how I’ll react, to see if I’ll turn flustered and beet-red or lash out angrily.

It’s that realization that has me straightening in my chair, my cheeks cooling. “You can hijack my lunch hour, but I’m not showing you my art. You’ll have to stay curious.” It comes out a lot steadier than expected.

He sighs like he’s disappointed. “And here I was hoping we could be friends,” he says mockingly.

I scoff. “You don’t want to be friends with me.”

His eyes narrow, his voice lowers. “Right now, I don’t know what I want to do with you, Poppy. You know something you’re not supposed to know.”

I swallow. “I won’t tell an –”

“And here I thought we were being honest with each other,” he cuts in, a dangerous edge to his words. “It’d be so disappointing if you started lying to me now.”

I clamp my mouth shut and wring my hands in my lap.

He can’t do anything to me here. We’re in public.

But I’m not alive because of a crowded lunch room or prying eyes. God knows, if Adrian reached across the table and snapped my neck right now, half these kids would probably say I slipped and fell.

And the only reason he hasn’t is because he’s curious.

I suck in a deep breath. “I’ll indulge your curiosity. You can see my art.” The edge of his mouth begins to curve upward. “But you need to indulge my curiosity, too. I want to know why you did it.”

It could be my imagination, but I swear I see surprise flash across his face – so quick I almost miss it.

I meet his stare head-on and do my best to avoid wavering under the suffocating weight of those empty eyes.

“And if I tell you I didn’t have a reason? That there was no ‘why’?”

“I wouldn’t believe you.”

“And why not?”

“Because you don’t strike me as the kind of person who does anything without a reason.”

“You’re right. I’m not.”

“So why? Why Mickey?”

He leans back in his chair, smile fading. “I don’t want to talk about Mickey. I don’t replace Mickey interesting. I replace you interesting.”

“Well, you don’t have to answer,” I tell him, “Just like I don’t have to show you my art.”

I can’t discern the look he gives me as the bell rings, and students begin dumping their trash and filing out of the cafeteria.

He stands up. “Tonight. You indulge my curiosity, I’ll indulge yours.”

His face catches the light of the cafe’s blue and green stained-glass windows, and for a moment, I’m struck by just how beautiful he is. It’s only a moment though – a single terrible, appalling moment.

And then he’s heading in the opposite direction before I can process the repercussions of what I’ve just signed up for: more alone time with Adrian Ellis.