A Blind Eye by Julie Daines Page B

“Hello?”
    I knew that voice. It was Deepthroat, or whatever his real name was. The tall guy. I didn’t respond.
    â€œChristian Morris,” he said with satisfaction, like now that I’d called him, his life was complete.
    Betrayed by the caller ID. “Leave Scarlett alone,” I said, and hung up. As if that would do any good. Maybe I should’ve said pretty please . I stashed my phone back in my pocket. Idiots. Still, my hands were shaking.
    I glanced toward the dressing room door and wished I hadn’t. Some lady wearing a pair of jeans that were way too tight was admiring her reflection in the full-size mirror. I looked away quickly, only to find myself staring at a rack of what Scarlett would call skivvies . I lowered my eyes to the vacant chair beside me. There was a stack of magazines. I leafed through them—they were all women’s stuff. I groaned and tossed them away.
    How could it take so long? It’s not like she was looking at herself in the mirror. Another lady approached the changing rooms with a stack of clothing. I almost smiled at her, just trying to be friendly. But I didn’t. Strange kid hanging around outside the dressing room, watching the women come and go? Kinda creepy.
    I rested my head in my hands and studied the orange-gold carpet. I spent the next forever trying to decide if the grayish stain between my feet looked more like a gun or a machete. Either one would’ve satisfied my growing desire to kill myself rather than sit here a minute longer.
    Scarlett finally emerged from the dressing room wearing an outfit consisting of a long black sweater thing and new grungy jeans that hugged her legs all the way to her ankles. A long, thin belt with silver studs looped twice around her hips.
    â€œWell? How’d I do?” she asked.
    My mouth went dry. She’d managed to turn her punk look into something . . . hot. I mean, she was good looking before, but . . .
    Collette cleared her throat.
    Eyes up top, Morris , I reminded myself. “You look very cool.”
    â€œThank you,” she said in a voice that implied she already knew she looked good.
    Who taught her that ? I wanted to know. Colette in the changing room? Or her platonic roommate, Simon?
    After getting some sweats for sleeping and a pair of useful shoes—black and gray plaid canvas slip-ons—we were ready to pay. I couldn’t convince her to get a jacket.
    â€œI like to wear yours.”
    â€œWhy?” I asked. “It drowns you.”
    â€œI like the way it smells.”
    Hopefully, that meant clean laundry smell. I actually couldn’t remember when I washed it last, and it could’ve just as easily smelled like BO.
    Colette rang up the clothes, and I paid with a wad of my dad’s cash. I didn’t want to use the credit card because I thought Connor could trace it. I’d ditched them in Hood River, and there was no way they could find me here. I wanted to keep it that way. For all they knew, we could be in Idaho.
    Colette handed me our bags and finally—freedom. Whether Scarlett intended to or not, she had at last gotten revenge on me for leaving her on the highway. Note to self: Do not take a girl shopping ever again.
    Scarlett, on the other hand, smiled bigger than ever, so maybe it had been worth it. She walked with a bounce, but that could’ve been because I carried her combat boots in one of the bags hanging on my arm.
    We passed the skating rink located in the center of the mall, and Scarlett stopped. “Feels cold. What’s that sound?”
    I started to explain but then figured, why not? “Scarlett, I’m taking you ice skating.”

Chapter Six
    Christian vs. Modern Art
    The skating rink occupied the main courtyard of the bottom floor of the mall. A bridge, frosty blue to look like a walkway of ice, connected the two hallways on the second story above the center of the rink. Iron trestles crisscrossed the ceiling of the