At Any Price(66)

Jon took a swing at Adam. But Adam shoved him away before his fist could connect. And that idiot landed on his back, staring up at Adam with open-mouthed shock.

Adam took a step forward. “And a bully. And I really hate bullies,” he said, his eyes glittering dangerously.

I pushed to my feet, managing to grab his arm. “Adam, please let’s go.”

He didn’t respond, his arm stiff with rage. He pulled me forward with him. “Adam,” I said, moving in front of him. The look on his face—that chill glint in his eyes actually made me go cold inside, made me wonder what he could be capable of. I pushed against his chest. “Please, it’s over.”

But he surged forward again and as I stepped backward, I stumbled. He caught me, wrapping his arms around me. Jon scurried up from the ground, taking advantage of Adam’s distraction to hightail it to his door, slamming it shut and latching it loudly.

Adam stared at the door as if deciding what to do. “Adam, please. It’s over. Thank you for helping me.” I went up on my tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek—after bracing my hands to balance on his strong shoulders.

His arms relaxed and he finally looked down at me, troubled. “He hurt you,” he said.

“Not much. It’s fine.”

He shook his head. “It’s not fine.”

“Well, you scared him so badly I’m sure he’ll shit his pants the next time he sees me.”

“He won’t be seeing you again because you won’t be going anywhere near him,” he said through clenched teeth.

I took a step backward deciding not to mention the regular study group. It was true, I’d never be coming over to Jon’s again. I resolved to talk the others in the study group into finding another location for our sessions.

Adam cursed when I trembled in his arms. “You’re not okay, Emilia.” He guided me toward his car. I could tell by the way he held me that he was tense, a fist still clenched tightly at his side.

“I’m sorry you had to come all the way up here from Newport,” I said as a means to change the subject, lest he get an idea in his head to pound down Jon’s door and finish the job.

“I was just in Irvine.”

“It’s after nine. Why am I not surprised that you were still at work?”

He helped me to the car. “You okay? You feel sick?”

“No. I think I’ll be okay.”

“Because if you puke on my interior, I’m gonna make you clean it with a Q-tip.”

I snorted.

“You need me to grab anything out of your car?”

“Yes. My backpack and my books, please? I’m so behind on my studying.” I handed him my keys so he could lock up my car.

Inside his car, I fell back against the headrest, grateful that the top was down and I could swallow gulps of fresh night air. It helped stave off the nausea.

“You haven’t retaken this test yet?” he muttered when he set the books on the floor beside my feet. “If you keep putting it off you’ll never get it done.” I shot him a sharp glance, wondering how he knew that the MCAT was a retake for me. No one knew that besides my inner circle—not even my mom! Had Heath let it slip? I let my head loll back against the headrest, my thoughts swimming. I vowed to rip Heath a new one for that slip the next time I saw him.

Adam was quiet the entire way home. We listened to Alison Moyet of Yaz begging her lover not to walk away from love. I suddenly felt a wave of melancholy wash over me as the golden lights of Orange’s antique streetlamps passed us by. I didn’t like to be saved. I usually saved myself, but here I was, letting Adam swoop in and take care of things. And the worst part? I found myself enjoying it.

When he parked, the thunderous booms of the nightly Disneyland fireworks sounded in the distance, heralding the time as shortly after nine-thirty. Adam helped me out of the car, taking my bag and things in his other hand. “I can walk by myself just fine.”

He guided me up the steps nevertheless and when we got into the apartment, the first thing I saw was the clock—almost ten, and I had to be at work at midnight.

I sighed and sat down, putting my head in my hands. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I have work in two hours.”

“You can’t go.”

“I’ll make some coffee. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re not going. Call in sick.”

I shook my head. “I can’t blow off a shift—I need the money.”

He walked over to my phone and picked it up, flipping through my list of important numbers. It wasn’t hard to find—it was labeled “work,” after all. He dialed the number without another word. “Yes, hello, this is Adam Drake, a friend of Mia’s. I wanted to let you know that she isn’t feeling well this evening and can’t make her shift. Yes. Yes I will. Thank you.”