I run up the stairs to the third floor where the door to my apartment is. It’s strange, knowing this is where I’m going to be living for the summer with three guys, one whom doesn’t like me, one that seems afraid of me, and one that seems conflicted on whether or not he wants to screw me. If he showed up right now, I’d probably let him, since his needy, hot touch seems to have the power to smother my emotions almost as good as standing on the balcony does. But he’s not here and right now I’m going to have to settle for the balcony.
I open the door, ready to dash across the living room to the sliding glass door, but slam to a halt when I spot Greyson in the kitchen with an array of baking ingredients on the counter and a red mixing bowl. He’s preparing to bake cookies or something, and “Demons” by Imagine Dragons is playing from an iPod. He’s fairly tall with blond hair and light blue eyes. He’s wearing a gray fitted shirt and with a black shirt over it, the buttons undone.
His head is tipped down as he studies an open recipe book, but he smiles up at me when I shut the front door. “Hey.”
I’ve only crossed paths with him at the university and a few times in my dorm room. We’ve never spoken and he’s always seemed content with that.
I force a stiff smile and whisk by the coffee table and the boxes in the middle of the floor and head toward my room, figuring out an alternative way to regain control over my thoughts and heart. As I pass by the kitchen island, his eyes land on my arms, at the scratches, which are swollen and raw.
“Jesus.” He rounds the counter and strides over to me. “What happened to your arms?”
“I got attacked by a cat,” I say, still moving for my bedroom, needing to be alone and escape the only way I know how.
He lightly grabs my arm, forcing me to stop right before I reach the hallway that has a bedroom and a bath to the right and another bedroom to the left, my bedroom, which I need to be in, right now.
“It must have been a really big f**king cat,” he states, examining the scratches, tracing a path up and down my arm with his fingers. “You should put some peroxide on them or you’re going to get an infection.”
“I will,” I reply, subtly wiggling my arm away from his grip and covering the scratches with my hand. “That’s actually where I was headed.”
He smiles, but looks conflicted. “Well let me know if you need anything.” He turns toward the kitchen and goes back to the stove. “Do you want to help me make brownies?”
I pause. “Seriously?”
He picks up a stick of butter and begins unwrapping it. “It’s just cooking, Violet. No need to get worked up.” The corners of his lips tug upward as I walk over to him, curious.
“Yeah, but what about Seth?” I ask, resting my elbows on the counter as he drops the stick of butter into the bowl.
“What about Seth?”
“Doesn’t it seem like he might not be a fan of you hanging out with me, since I’m a vixen and all.”
“Well, since I’m not really into vixens or women in general, I’m pretty sure he won’t mind.” He grins and it’s probably the happiest grin I’ve ever seen.
“That’s not what I mean,” I say. “I meant, because he seems to have an issue with me.”
“He just likes drama,” he explains, opening another stick of butter. “He’ll get over it once he realizes you’re not going to steal his thunder.”
“Steal his thunder?”
“Yeah, you being the very colorful person that you are.” He eyes me with a look that makes me feel light inside and I sort of want to hug him.
I slide down into the stool. “And colorful is a good thing, right?”
“Of course.” He stabs the stick of butter with the spoon. “Besides, you and I are going to be hanging out at work when I start my job at Moonlight Dining. It’s inevitable.”
“You’re going to be working at Moonlight Dining and Drinks?” I ask.
He nods. “Yeah, I start Tuesday.”
I’ve been trying not to think of the fact that I only have one job now and a lot more bills. Plus, the rush I get from dealing is no longer an option. My life is changing and I’m not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing. “Well, here’s a little tip: It gets really slow most nights and the tips suck.”
“That’s good to know. I’ll make sure to dazzle as many costumers as I can then. That way the tips that I get will make up for it. ” He grins at me. “I’m good at dazzling.”
“I’m sure you are.” I’m amused. “I think you and I could end up getting along, Greyson.”
“You think so?” he teases in a light tone as he sets the spoon down. “You know what I think would be the perfect new roommate bonding moment? Baking some brownies together.”
“I haven’t baked any brownies or anything really since I was six,” I admit.
He presses his hand to his heart and shakes his head. “Well, we need to change that. Granted, the best kind of bonding brownies are pot brownies, but I don’t have any pot.”
“Pot brownies?” I ask interestedly.
“Oh yes.” He picks up the bowl and heads to the corner of the kitchen. “My parents were very hippieish and used to make them.”
“And let you eat them?”
“No, but I started sneaking them when I was about fifteen and went through my teenage rebellious phase. I’m not going to lie, I still do it occasionally when I want to relax.”
“Did you wear dark clothing and write depressing poetry, too?”
“Yes, to the dark clothing.” He opens the microwave and puts the bowl inside. “But no to the poetry. I was more into lyrics and music.”
“Do you still write?” I ask. “Or play anything?”
He shakes his head as he closes the microwave door. “Nah, I may have been into it, but I wasn’t very good.” He presses buttons on the microwave and it clicks on. Then he turns around and reclines against the counter, facing me with his arms folded. “So what was your rebellious phase, Violet?”
I glance down at my dark clothes, hiding my tattoos. “I think I might still be going through it.”
“And who are you rebelling from?” he wonders.
“Myself.”
He laughs under his breath. “What about your parents? Did they hate—or do they still hate your rebellious phase?”
My heart drops into my stomach and I suddenly remember where I was headed before I got sidetracked with this conversation. “You know,” I say as calmly as I can as I get up off the stool. “If you really want to make pot brownies, I can help with that.”
His brows lift as the microwave beeps from behind him. “Oh really?”
I shrug, backing for my room. “It’s up to you. I’m just offering.”
He moves away from the counter and pops the microwave door open. “Well, I’m not going to pass up an offer.”
I smile my fake, shiny necklace smile, the one I plaster on my face when I need to look happy. “I’ll be right back.” I duck into my room and go over to the boxes stacked at the foot of the unmade queen-size bed. I rifle through them until I find the prescription bottle I keep my stash in. I’m surprised Preston didn’t ask for it back, but he was probably too hung over on ecstasy to even remember I had it. But I don’t doubt that he’ll eventually remember and come asking for it. It seems like I should care, but at the moment I don’t.
I return to the kitchen where Greyson is reading the recipe book again, muttering the lyrics of the song under his breath.
“I’m going to have to tweak this a little now,” he says with his finger on the page.
“Well, tweak away.” I toss him the prescription bottle and his eyes widen as he catches it.
“Holy shit,” he says as he twists the cap off and glances at the fairly good stash inside. “Where’d you get this?”
“I have connections.” My smile is still bright like a polished cubic zirconium as I start for my room.
“Wait, don’t you want any?” he calls out.
“Sure,” I reply. “But I have to take care of something first.”
He gives me a puzzled look, but I walk away, leaving him in the kitchen to bake his pot brownies. I won’t go back and join him, not just because pot makes me evil and crazy like alcohol, but because I’m not in the mood for company anymore.
When I get back to my room, I lock the door. Then I head over to the window beside the bed and slide it open. I pop the screen off, set it down on the bed, then swing my legs out. I settle in the windowsill, staring down at the three-story drop to the concrete. I think I’d be able to survive it, but it’s hard to say for sure. If I hit my head, my skull would probably crack and if I landed on my feet, I’d probably compress my spine. Bones would probably break and my blood would stain the concrete like my parents’ blood stained the carpet, walls, and comforter on the bed. The fall would hurt if I survived, but for the briefest moment during the fall, I’d feel at peace, knowing that it could all just end.
Chapter 12
Luke
I realize as soon as I turn my phone back on that I’ve messed up. There’s one missed call from Violet. I try to call her, but it goes straight to her voicemail. Normally, I wouldn’t think anything of it, but she looked so shocked when I asked for her number. I get the feeling she’s not used to having people to depend on.
I drive past the police station on my way back to the apartment, just to make sure she’s not waiting there and she’s not. I should be feeling good. I doubled my money. Everything should be great, yet I feel like shit. I can’t stop thinking about how surprised Violet looked when I gave her my number and wondering how she felt when I didn’t answer her call.
When I get back to the apartment, Seth’s sitting on the leather sofa with his feet kicked up on the table, blankets piled to the side of him as he watches a sitcom on the television. Greyson is lounging on the floor with his head resting on a throw pillow surrounded by the many boxes that still need to be unpacked. Violet’s standing in the kitchen pouring a glass of juice. She doesn’t look up at me as she puts the juice back in the fridge, grabs the glass, and heads for our room.
I step over Greyson and cut her off as she reaches the hallway, racking my brain for the best thing to say. “Hey.”
She puts the rim of the glass to her mouth. “Hey.” She guzzles a mouthful, avoiding looking at me.
I crack my muscles, nervous for reasons I barely understand and don’t like. “I’m sorry I completely forgot not to turn off my phone. When I go to games, I do that… and I wasn’t thinking.”
She stares at me with that detached look in her eyes, the one that I was first a little envious of, but now I just want to make it go away. I want to put a different look in her eyes, like the one that was there right after I kissed her. I want to make her look alive again.
She lowers the glass from her mouth. “It’s fine.” She starts to step past me and I brace my hand on the door frame, barricading her path.
“No, it’s not. I told you I would pick you up and I should have picked you up,” I say. “How did you even get home?”
She shrugs. “I walked.”
“But it’s hotter than hell.”
“It’s just a little heat. And I made it, so you can stop feeling bad.”
“Violet, I’m really sorry.” I sound so pitiful, but I don’t care. What I care about is fixing this—fixing us. And that realization is both liberating and f**king terrifying.
“I promise it’s okay.” She gives me a fake, plastered on smile, then ducks underneath my arm and goes into the room, shutting the door.
“What was that about?” Seth asks as he aims the remote at the television.
I shake my head and go to the fridge to get a beer. “I f**ked up.”
He grins cleverly. “Aren’t you always doing that?” he asks and Greyson snorts a laugh.
I pop the cap off the beer and roll my eyes. “Ha, ha, you two are f**king hilarious.” I go over and drop down on the recliner, kicking my boots off. “And why are you even laying around? The apartment’s a mess.”
“We were waiting around for you to come clean it up,” Seth says and Greyson laughs even harder. “Our own personal maid.”
“Well, that’s nice of you,” I say. “Use my weakness of liking things organized against me.”
Seth puts the remote on the arm of the chair and leaves the channel on the news. “Hey, you don’t have to clean. You could leave it messy.”
I look around at the boxes and balled up newspaper everywhere and shift my shoulders at the discomfort it brings me. “I’ll start taking care of it tonight.”
They both laugh at me and then we settle into this quiet rhythm, watching the news while guzzling beer. Seth eventually gets up and digs around in the cupboards for food, finally coming back with a brownie. He chomps on it as I watch the newscasters talk about every bad thing within a hundred-mile radius. I’m barely paying attention, thinking about how I should just go into the room and apologize to Violet again, make things right.
My mind begins to flood with ways to make it up to her, when suddenly I hear the reporter on the television say the name, “Hayes.” I snap back to reality for a moment and pay attention to the screen. The reporter quickly rattles off about the Cheyenne murder case being reopened after thirteen years and that if anyone has any question to call this number. The room gets really silent as I stare at the screen, even when it goes to a commercial. I only look away when Greyson gets up and stretches.