Ivory White : A House of Misfits Standalone Read online

  The label on the bottle peeked out from between his fingers. Rotten Apple: Poisoning Guaranteed.

  I recoiled.

  His lips were slick when he finally pulled the bottle away. The tip of his tongue slipped out to grab some of the glistening moisture on his lower lip.

  “Door’s over there,” he said, pointing somewhere behind me, but his eyes never left mine.

  A pang of guilt assailed me. I had better manners than this.

  Now wasn’t the time for manners.

  I broke our eye contact first, rotating to find the door he pointed at. It was a side door and probably led out into some seedy alley.

  I started toward it, wondering for the millionth time tonight what I was going to do, and fresh, hot tears pricked the backs of my eyes.

  I should just go home. There was nowhere else to go. To hide.

  “Hey!” a deep voice shouted from behind, and for the second time that day, a large, heavy hand slammed down on my shoulder.

  3

  Neo

  * * *

  She looked like someone who’d just stepped out of a storybook. Nothing about her belonged here in my world.

  Even though her clothes were casual, they were far too upscale for this place. The fabric was delicate and soft just like her limbs and the way she walked. Her round blue eyes scoured every inch of the place as though she had never been anywhere like this before.

  And the hood. The royal-blue hood pulled up over her head was like a cloak, shrouding her in mystery and concealing so much more than just her features.

  When I finally got a glimpse of her creamy white skin, I had to force myself not to react. She didn’t look like anyone from my world either. Not her heart-shaped face, perfectly formed chin, or red-rose lips formed in a bow. A few strands of hair so dark lay against her cheek, and I could only think of black velvet.

  That mouth, though. The standoffish, almost haughty way she looked at me, it didn’t really match. Like the storybook she stepped out of had a beautiful cover and artwork, but the interior words were aggressive and messy.

  She’s scared.

  It became more and more apparent the longer I sat beside her. She felt backed into a corner, into this bar, which was clearly out of her comfort zone. I understood that. I could even make allowances for her aloof, unfriendly behavior.

  I was interested. Definitely intrigued.

  Intrigued as I was, though, I wouldn’t be insulted.

  “Door’s over there.” I directed, watching every nuance in her expression. She was the kind of book you had to read between the lines. You had to infer what the words didn’t say to really understand.

  An inkling of regret shone behind her eyes. For a split second, I thought those bow-shaped lips would part and an apology might spill out. Instead, her gaze pulled away, and even though weariness clung to her more heavily than that hood draped over her head, she straightened and turned.

  With her hand tucked into her pocket, she started toward the door. The set of her shoulders bothered me. They were proud and straight, but they also seemed to strain to remain that way. As if they were struggling under the weight of whatever stress she carried.

  Whatever I might have done was interrupted immediately by a man rising off his barstool. He moved so quickly it fell back, cracking off the floor with a sharp bang.

  “Hey!” he roared, clapping his hand down on the narrow shoulder of the retreating girl.

  Her body sagged, then jackknifed up. A shriek peeled out of her throat as she jolted away, spinning with wide, fearful eyes.

  I stood immediately, abandoning the beer I’d been leisurely chugging.

  “Give it back!” the man spat, his words slightly slurred.

  “What?” she asked, gazing at him nervously.

  The hand still stuffed in her pocket shook under the fabric.

  “You took my wallet, and I want it back!”

  “I would never!” She gasped, horror overtaking the fear on her face.

  “Listen here, you little liar.” The man took a menacing step toward her.

  She shifted back, but the voice that emanated out of the hood was cool and authoritative. “How dare you imply that I am lying? Lying is beneath me.”

  Amusement made my lips purse.

  “But stealing isn’t.”

  “This is ridiculous,” she muttered and turned to go.

  His hand was seemingly very large when it wrapped around her upper arm to jerk her back. She cried out, and the hand that had been hidden in her pocket flung out. She had some sort of bandage wrapped around her fingers.

  “Let go! Please!” Her voice was strained.

  I took a step forward.

  “What’s going on here?” A new voice entered the mix.

  Fig.

  Just great.

  Officer Paul Fig, of course, would be here. And of course he would see it as his duty to “keep the peace” even while he was off duty.

  “This wench just stole my wallet right out of my pocket!” The drunken man accused.

  She gasped again.

  Fig looked between the two and pursed his lips. “Ma’am, did you take this man’s wallet?”

  “No!”

  “Check her pockets, then!”

  “My word should be enough,” she declared.

  Everyone within earshot laughed. She definitely wasn’t from around here.

  Fig stepped closer. “Empty your pockets, ma’am.”

  She was utterly still for long moments as if she couldn’t believe he actually wanted to check her pockets.

  The drunk man was impatient and lunged like he would do it for her. She leaped back, knocking into a nearby table and lifting her arms to protect herself from whatever he was about to do.

  I frowned.

  “I’ll handle this,” Fig said, inserting himself between the girl and the drunkard.

  “Your pockets,” the officer said again.

  Straightening, she let out a wobbly sigh and reached into her pocket. “There’s nothing,” she declared.

  Fig gestured to the other one.

  The hand without the weird wrapping slipped in. Everything about her changed. Her body nearly screamed with tension like she was a live wire about to explode.

  “Ma’am.” Fig pressed.

  Slowly, her hand withdrew. The flash of a money clip caught my eye.

  “Ah-ha!” the drunk man wailed. “I knew it! That wench is nothing but a thief!”

  Her head was bowed, totally concealed by the hood she wore. Any facial expression was hidden by the shadow of the cloak. Everything about her screamed out in heavy confusion as she stared down at the clip lying against her very pale, very delicate-looking palm.

  “But I didn’t take this,” she said, astonishment pitching her voice higher.

  “I want her arrested. I’m pressing charges!”

  She gasped, and her chin flew up. Some of her deathly white skin flashed. “No! Here!” She tossed the clip back like it was infected with an incurable disease and turned to flee.

  The money clip slapped against the floor, and the drunk man bellowed in protest. “Get her!”

  Fig lunged, capturing her arms from behind and towing her back. “You really want to press charges?”

  “Abso-fuckin-lutely.”

  Beside me, Fletch shifted from foot to foot. Nervous energy spilled off him. I glanced his way, then back at the unfolding drama.

  “I didn’t do it!”

  “It was in your pocket, ma’am. We all witnessed it,” Fig said as though he were a true professional.

  He wasn’t.

  “Then someone else put it there!” she cried.

  “We can sort this out at the station.”

  “The station?” she questioned, looking over her shoulder.

  Fig produced a pair of handcuffs from his jacket. Of course he would carry them even when he was off duty. “You’re under arrest for theft—”

  A strangled sound erupted from her, and she spun
, dislodging one of her wrists from his hold. “You can’t arrest me! I didn’t do anything.”

  “Anything you say can and—”

  “This is ridiculous. I told you I didn’t take that… that wallet. Who did this?” In a whirlwind of fluster, she shoved the hood back from her head to stare around the room.

  A collective beat of silence passed.

  She was even more beautiful than I’d thought. Definitely a storybook beauty. Unreal almost.

  Black hair, perfect white skin, red lips, and eyes as blue as the summer sky. Her cheekbones were well defined, her chin graceful, and her straight nose dainty.

  If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear I was staring at a walking, breathing princess.

  “Who did this?” she demanded again, breaking the spell she’d cast over us all.

  Fletch hopped from one foot to the other and sidled closer to me.

  Oh shit.

  “You!” The princess accused, pointing at my friend. “Did you steal that and frame me? Did you put that in my pocket when you knocked into me?”

  Fletcher made a sound and shook his head adamantly. “No. No way.”

  “Fletcher,” Fig intoned.

  Fletch slinked into my side a little more.

  “Leave the kid alone, Fig. He’s just been sitting here with me.”

  Blue eyes burned into my face for long seconds, accusing me of being a traitor. How I could be a traitor to someone I didn’t even know was beyond me. But damn, if I didn’t feel a peck of guilt.

  “It was him!” she declared, turning back to Fig. “I didn’t do it. He did.”

  “Yeah? Well, my shit was in your pocket. I’m pressing charges,” the drunk man swore.

  “We can work out the rest at the station.” Fig grabbed her other wrist, twisted her arm behind her, and slapped the cuffs on without a second thought.

  “You can’t arrest me!” she cried.

  Fig started in on reciting her rights, and the bell over the door rang.

  The fussing princess stilled and looked across the room.

  A large man in a brown jacket with the collar turned up stood in the doorway, his face shadowed by a hat and his hands stuffed into his pockets.

  He glanced in our direction, and energy crackled through the air.

  She slumped, and all the fight left her. “Fine. Take me to jail.”

  Fig led her toward the side door, practically dragging her tiny, fatigued body.

  “Fig!” I called out, feeling several sets of eyes settle on me. “Is this really necessary?”

  “Should I take Fletch down to the station instead?”

  I said nothing and he made a gruff sound, punctuating my silence. “Stay out of this, Neo. The last thing you need is me looking at you longer than I should.”

  Fuck.

  And just like that, the woman who didn’t belong in my world, the woman whose looks only existed in storybooks, was hauled out of sight.

  4

  Ivory

  * * *

  I’d fallen into a nightmare and couldn’t wake up.

  It was the only explanation for this. Taking in a deep, soothing breath, I told myself that soon, I would wake up in my cushy, precisely decorated high-rise and look out over Central Park with an expertly brewed latte against my perfectly manicured fingertips as the city came alive.

  I could skip my run this morning. I could lounge in my Dior sleep set and soak in a hot bath before having my driver and bodyguard escort me to the company.

  Calmness washed over me with the internal affirmations, and a smile filled the lower half of my face. Slowly, my eyes blinked open, the nightmare I’d been having giving way to—

  Screech!

  I blinked.

  I blinked again.

  I’d been dreaming. I was awake now. So why was I sitting in a jail cell?

  A low whimper vibrated the back of my throat as I gazed around. This wasn’t a nightmare. It was reality.

  Ivory White in the slammer. Imagine that splashed across the headlines.

  Wearily, I rubbed my temples, trying to massage away the tension.

  Stepmother would need a week at the spa to recover after hearing about this. The entire company was probably up in arms, wondering where I was. Poor Charles. He would have no direction at all without me.

  This place was beyond wretched. The floors were dirty old tile that was cracked in some places. None of the walls were soundproof, so I’d been listening to all the officers out front tease each other and complain about the coffee since I’d been left here to rot. The man in the cell on the other side of mine smelled like urine, and he kept singing the same song over and over and over again.

  It was a god-awful song, and he only knew three lines.

  Down the short hallway, someone else kept running their hands along the bars. I didn’t know if they hoped the sound was annoying to the officers or if they just didn’t have anything better to do.

  I sat with my knees curled into my chest on what I was sure was considered a cot. Frankly, I thought the floor would be more comfortable, but there were bugs on the floor. I’d counted three so far.

  Ever since I’d been deposited here, I’d waited for them to come back and get me. I’d waited for the chance to sort out this misunderstanding. I was beginning to think they’d forgotten about me.

  I would have made a fuss, but the truth was I had nowhere else to go.

  The second I’d seen that intimidating lumberjack-size man in the door of the bar, everything came crashing back. I was on the run. I was alone. Afraid.

  Jail seemed like the safe option.

  At least when I was standing in that bar. Now that I was sitting here?

  I wondered if I would ever feel safe again.

  “You ready to make that call yet?” A voice floated through the bars I was caged behind. A female officer stood there, staring like she was bored.

  Apparently, when you got arrested, you got one phone call for help. Normally, I wouldn’t even need a phone call because my team of lawyers would have descended like a murder of angry crows.

  But not today. Today, I was supposed to not exist. Today, I was told not to trust anyone. My bodyguard had basically turned a blind eye to my attempted murder, and no one had even found me yet.

  The longer I sat there, the more scarily clear this all became. Someone close to me was responsible for this.

  Someone wanted me dead.

  Who? Why?

  “Miss,” the woman spat. “I said it’s time to make your call.”

  I knew a lot of people. But there was no one to call because I was unsure of them all.

  “You don’t want to make a call? You can sit in here the entire night until the public defender arrives in the morning.”

  “Public defender?”

  The woman made a face. “Yeah, the lawyer that takes cases for free for people like you who can’t afford anyone.” After a pause, she said, “You will have to tell him your name. He’ll need it for court.”

  “But he’s a stranger!” I insisted. How could I just tell all my personal information to someone I didn’t even know?

  They might be more trustworthy than the people you do know.

  “Not my problem,”

  The man in the cell over started to cry. It was a low keening sound.

  “See ya in the morning.” The woman turned to walk away, the keys hanging off her belt jingling.

  Panic assailed me. “Wait!” I said, unfolding from the cot so fast that the world around me spun. “I want to make that call.”

  5

  Neo

  * * *

  The sound of a familiar ringtone floated to where I worked.

  “Yo! Neo!” A voice competed with it. “Phone!”

  Dropping the can I was holding, I swiped my palms down the front of my jeans as I went to snatch it off the table. The number was unknown. I almost didn’t answer, but something I couldn’t identify made my color-splattered finger swipe to accept the call. “Y
eah?”

  Silence.

  “Hello?” I said again.

  The only thing I could hear was muffled background noise and the sound of someone crying.

  My pulse kicked up. “Virginia?”

  Still nothing.

  I pulled the phone away from my ear to stare at the screen. The phone was still connected. The call hadn’t dropped.

  Impatience and worry made me angry, and a rude sound erupted out of my throat. Just as I was about to hang up, a light sniffle floated down my ear canal.

  One finger quickly plugged my opposite ear, and I turned away from my friends. “Hello?”

  “I-is this Neo?”

  I frowned. “Who is this?”

  “Um, you gave me your number earlier tonight,” she replied.

  A vision of her velvety hair and rosy lips swam in the back of my mind. “I thought you said you would never call,”

  “I’m desperate.”

  At least she was honest.

  “So you aren’t calling for a date?”

  “I was h-hoping you could come and get me.”

  “Where?”

  “Jail.”

  Surprise made me straighten. “You’re seriously still in jail?”

  I thought I heard a catch in her voice and a quick intake of breath. “They said I had to spend the night until a stranger came tomorrow…”

  “Why don’t you call a friend? A relative?”

  “Your number was in my pocket.”

  “Hurry up!” someone snapped irritably in the background. The distant wailing seemed to grow louder.

  My stomach churned uncomfortably at the thought of a storybook girl sitting in a grim cell.

  “Can you come?” Her voice was vulnerable and small. I pictured her red lips pouting and her creamy skin stained with tears.

  This woman intrigued me. Insulted me. And now she needed me.

  “I thought I was toxic to someone like you,” I practically snarled.

  “I apologize for what I said. It’s been a very trying day.”

  Words. She probably didn’t even mean them. She just wanted something. I wasn’t about to get involved with someone like her… the devil dressed like heaven.