Make Me Lose Control. Christie Ridgway

      The evidence of other teenagers, she was sure of it.

      With a push of her hand, London swung open the door and peered into the dark interior. Before, she’d only visited during the day. In the gloom she could barely make out the usual litter: empty cans of Red Bull, Snickers candy wrappers, cigarette butts, a few moldy copies of GamerNews and People magazine. Seating choices consisted of various mismatched cushions that leaked stuffing and had been tossed onto the ragged indoor/outdoor carpeting.

      Merely being around the debris of American kids made her feel closer to them. It was as if breathing in air they’d also shared could gain her entry into their world.

      Suddenly, a flashlight flicked on.

      On a breathless squeak, London jolted back, nearly falling. Regaining her balance, she saw the yellow circle of light jump along the walls as the figure wielding the instrument clambered to its feet.

      His feet.

      “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” a male voice said. Then the beam shifted, illuminating a face.

      Everything inside London went still: her heart, her breath, the coursing of the blood beneath her skin. She knew that face. That tall, lean body. It was a boy she’d seen around town, always with a pack of other kids, always in a casual pose, comfortable with himself.

      Who wouldn’t be comfortable with his tanned skin and his shock of dirty blond hair and with those very white teeth that seemed to be glowing like neon even in the darkness?

      London swallowed. “I’m not scared,” she said.

      She saw his head tilt, like a curious animal trying to figure out something new. “You have an accent.”

      Not hardly! At least, she didn’t want to have one. The British kids she’d run into once in a blue moon said she didn’t sound like them. When she’d gone to school—and it was true that Elsa had not always been consistent on getting her to class—she’d attended an all-girl American school with American teachers.

      Since she was twelve, she’d exclusively watched American television, determined to become what she considered the epitome of confidence and cool—the typical American teen.

      “Cat got your tongue, England?” the boy asked.

      “It’s London,” she was forced to admit. “It’s my name...and also where I’ve been living.” Since coming to Blue Arrow she’d been trying out different city names—US city names—to replace her own, as if selecting a new one would obliterate her otherness. But the minute Shay had started to explain that to her father today, it had seemed foolish. Babyish. Like believing in Santa or expecting visits from the Tooth Fairy.

      Elsa had cleared up those misconceptions right away, despite Opal’s protests.

      “Huh,” the handsome guy said now. “London...I like it.”

      Emboldened by the compliment—giddy!—she voiced a question of her own. “And you are...?”

      “Colton. Colton Halliday.”

      Colton Halliday. London repeated the name in her head. It sounded like the name of a cowboy or a Wild West gunslinger. Very American and maybe even a tiny bit dangerous.

      Though she didn’t feel afraid around him, she’d been truthful about that. Just warm and excited and like she was poised to begin the life she’d been waiting for. Until this moment, she’d been the victim of everyone else’s whims—her mother taking her to Europe, her father sending her to Blue Arrow Lake, Shay insisting on Gatsby and Shakespeare and that boring history book about Western civilization.

      Colton slid down the wall so he was seated again. He set the flashlight beside him so its beam washed up the dingy wall and cast half his face in light, half in shadow. “What are you doing out here?”

      She took one small step inside. “I live back that way.” She made a vague gesture. “You?”

      “Promise you won’t tell?” he asked, though he didn’t sound too worried either way.

      “Sure.”

      “We local kids, you know, full-timers on the mountain, we have a few places, hideouts I’d guess you’d call them, where we go to chill. This is one of them.”

      Hideouts. London nodded, pretending a teen-only retreat wasn’t completely beyond her previous sheltered—okay, freak—existence. “Just you tonight?”

      “I had to get away from the parental units for a little while. They can be a pain in the ass, right?”

      “Right.” London dug her toe into the worn carpeting. “My mother’s dead.” Her hand clapped over her mouth. What was wrong with her?

      “God.” He twitched, then was silent a moment. “God, I’m sorry.”

      “No. It’s okay. I...” Miserably embarrassed, she stepped back again.

      “Don’t go,” Colton said. “I shouldn’t have...”

      His discomfort only made her feel worse. “It’s okay.”

      “Come back in, I don’t bite. You probably need a little downtime, too.”

      Dueling desires warred within her. To go, to stay, to allow him to bite her. Goose bumps burst in hot prickles all over her skin at the thought. Biting! She’d never even been kissed. Yeah, at fifteen, she was unkissed.

      Total freak.

      “So, you go to school down the hill or something?”

      Down the hill encompassed every place that wasn’t the surrounding mountains. London had learned that from Shay. “No,” she said, coming inside so she could make her own slide along the wall. They were propped on opposite sides of the small structure, London situated closest to the still-open door. “I’m sort of being homeschooled at the moment. I have a live-in tutor.”

      Colton released a low whistle as he drew up his knees and draped his wrists over them. In the low illumination from the flashlight, she stared at his hands. They were long-fingered and bony-looking. Not like a skeleton, just...bony like a boy’s hands. Like a boy’s hands should be.

      “How’s that?” he asked. “A live-in tutor? No dozing off during class, I suppose.”

      “No.” If pressed, she’d probably admit she liked Shay. Yes, there was the dusting and the vacuuming and the Western civ book, but the woman had also been tolerant of her name experiments—which seemed even stupider now that Colton Halliday said he liked London.

      Shay paid attention, too. She was the only one to ever notice that when it came to bubbling test answers, London had a peculiar technique. The first time she’d turned in a score sheet, Shay had taken one look at the paper then tossed it back. “Love the long-stemmed rose,” she’d said drily, noting the pattern London had made with her No. 2. “Now put your efforts into answers, not illustrations.”

      “Finals are coming up at the high school,” Colton said. “That’s what my parents are on my case about. Studying. Hell, I can’t wait for summer.”

      “What will you do then?”

      “Hang with friends, swim, hike. I have a part-time job scooping ice cream, too. Gotta save for college...only a year away.”

      Meaning he was going to be a senior next year. That seemed way older than her.

      “What about you, England?”

      “I’m—” She stopped herself from blurting out fifteen.

      “Hey, I thought you liked London?”

      His grin glowed again, seeming to light up the whole room. “I like ‘England,’ too, since I came up with it. My special name for you.”

      Another riot of goose bumps bloomed over her body. “That’s