by Smoke , Lucy
Abel is waiting beside the car, resting his hips and ass against the driver's side door, ignoring the other cars that have to slowly curve around him. He doesn't even have his hazards on. Then again, it's not like campus police are going to arrest him or even give him a ticket. To do so would probably be to end their careers. Everyone chooses survival over the law.
"Hey." He lifts his hand over his head, but I notice how his chin turns, and he peeks over his sunglasses to Rylie before returning to meet my gaze.
"What are you doing here?" I ask.
"Need your help with something."
"Oh?"
Abel turns his head towards Rylie instead of answering right away. Even through his sunglasses, I can see him look her up and down. Even though she’s always been the one to warn me away from the Sick Boys, she scowls openly at him.
"I'm gonna head in," Rylie says abruptly.
"Yeah, sure. See you later," I reply as she gives Abel a wide berth, keeping her gaze glued to the front door of our dorm as she hurries away. Abel watches her go too, his lips curling down into a frown that doesn't disappear until she's gone, and he can refocus on me as I come to stand right in front of him.
“I don’t think your friend likes me much,” he comments before I can say anything.
“Yeah, well, you’re an asshole.” I deadpan before moving closer. "What do you really want, Abel?" I ask. "No bullshit."
He removes his sunglasses. "No bullshit," he repeats with a grin. "I need a woman's touch."
"Don't you have girlfriends for that?" I arch a brow.
"What are you talking about, princess?" Abel rounds the front of his car and stops at the passenger side door, propping it open. "You know there's no one else but you."
What a fucking liar. Still, my lips twitch in amusement as I follow him and head around the Mustang, stopping once more before him. "I'm not getting in your car until you tell me what you need me for."
"Fine," he caves. "We're going to pick out furniture."
"Furniture?"
He barks out a laugh before pointing to my face. "You look like I just asked you to go shovel shit with me. What’s wrong with furniture shopping?”
"What college kid goes to pick out furniture?" I scowl. It's a fucking trap. I know it. There's no other explanation for such an utterly random request.
"I thought we already established this," he says, shifting on his feet as he digs his hands into his pockets and leans towards me. "We're not normal college kids." The way he makes the word 'kids' sound is so obviously sarcastic that I know he intends to make me laugh, but I don't find any amusement. It's true, after all. I know that better than most. Normal isn’t exactly our forte—because normal college kids don’t kill their rapists, and they don’t bury the body and hide the evidence like they’ve done it a million times before.
Confusion ripples through me, and I take a step back only to be stopped when Abel darts his hand out and latches onto my wrist. I glare at him. "Watch it," I snap, tugging back. He releases me quickly and holds his hands up in the facsimile of surrender. I know better. He is not to be trusted—none of these motherfuckers are.
"I'm prepping for a new arrival," he says, and after an extended pause, he sighs. "A sister, actually." Abel's eyes move to the open door and then back to me. "I don't know shit about what chicks like, but I've got to get this room ready. I figured you'd be willing to help me."
"I didn't know you had a sister," I say.
"Yeah, well..." He turns his head and scans the front of the dorm lawn before turning back to me and smiles ruefully. "She's kind of new to the family."
My suspicion still hasn't waned. I cross my arms over my chest and stare at him. "Well, you came to the wrong person. Do I really look like the type of chick who knows what a rich, pretty girl wants in her room?"
"Hey!" His lips twitch, and he grins. "Who said she was a rich, pretty girl?"
"If she's related to you, then I'd bet that's exactly what she is."
"I'll fucking take that bet," he challenges, taking a step towards me. "So, are you in or not?"
"Ugh." I toss my bag behind the front seat and shove him back a step. "Fine. Let's go. It's not like I've got anything better to do today."
He whoops once and then waits for me to get in before closing the door behind me and darting back towards the driver's side. Fact is, I've got another reason for saying yes. I wait until the Mustang steers out onto the main road before I start talking.
"So," I begin, "I noticed you and Brax weren't at the party this past weekend..." I lean back in the seat and turn my head away, gazing at the passing scenery in pseudo-interest. "I thought you were the ones who wanted me there."
Abel's chuckle fills the interior of the car. "We did," he agrees. "Never said we'd be there, though."
I grunt as I shift in my seat. He’s right. “Asshole,” I mutter in response. “So, where the hell were you?”
He taps his mouth with a finger. “Ah, that’s a secret, princess. Sick Boys interest only.”
“Boys club,” I mutter.
This time when he looks at me, his smile turns sad. “Sorry, Ava,” he says, and I hate that his expression makes me believe him. “If I could tell you, I would, but not just yet.”
“Dean,” I guess, but I’m not surprised when he doesn’t answer. It’s obvious I’m right. I huff out a breath and settle into the seat.
“You know you have him all tied up in knots,” Abel tells me as he turns onto the next street. “He’s a fucking mess because you’re all over the place.”
I shrug. “Not really my problem.”
He barks out a dry laugh, his head jerking back with the sound. “Bullshit,” he says with a more genuine smile. “You like him panting after you like a pussy-whipped puppy.”
“The day Dean acts like he’s pussy-whipped is the day the world ends,” I reply, rolling my eyes.
“Well then,” he starts, “better start searching for a bunker because there’s no doubt, he’s pussy-whipped. You’ve got him all sorts of fucked up—raging at Hansom for letting you fight without telling him. Cock blocking every motherfucker who thinks they can get with you—”
I snort, cutting him off. “Not interested,” I say with a wave of my hand.
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t interested parties,” he hedges.
A scowl overtakes my face. “I don’t want to fucking talk about interested parties.”
He shrugs. “Alright, princess. Then just sit back and relax. We’ll be there soon.”
I don’t want to listen to him. I’m already regretting getting into his fucking car. It’s clear he won’t give me any more information, though he has made it obvious that it has to do with Dean. I warned him. I told Dean what keeping shit from me was going to do, but I’m not all that surprised that he didn’t listen. No one ever does.
Abel’s smile doesn’t leave his face, not even when we get on the freeway and head up towards the nearest city. It’s clear where he’s going, and it means we’ll be in the car for a while. So, I lay my head back, close my eyes, and let the roar of the wind—and eventually, when he gets bored of the silence, the radio—take me away.
Nearly an hour later, we’re pulling off one of the exits and turning down a busy four lane street with shops and strip malls on either side. We bypass most of them, turning into the parking lot for a large department store—not exactly something I’d seen back in Plexton.
“Alright,” I say as Abel parks, and we get out. “So, what’s this really about? Is Dean asking you to keep track of me, and you had errands to run?” I narrow my eyes on the back of his head as Abel steps forward and pulls the front doors open for me, and we head into the building.
“What makes you say that?” he asks.
“I’m not stupid.” Inside the building looks like a warehouse. The ceilings are tall and made of glass. Wide metal beams criss cross all over the store, hanging lights closer to the people milling about the giant space cluttered with
couches, beds, and other knickknacks. I’m curious. This is my first time actually in a furniture store. My old room at the trailer didn’t have shit like this, I think as I pass a delicate-looking vanity and sweep my hands across the front of it.
“I never accused you of being stupid,” Abel says, reminding me of my last comment.
I shake my head and point towards the main hull of the building. “What does your sister like?” I ask.
Abel shrugs and then pauses as a woman clad in a black skirt that looks like it might rip if she bends over walks around the corner. “I don't know what girls like. Just pick out shit you think would look good in a room. Money’s no object.” He moves towards his new prey.
I scowl. “Is it ever with you and the others?”
He grins but doesn’t respond as the woman spots him. I see the change in her—it’s the same change I’ve seen before when girls at their parties suddenly capture the guys’ attention or are fortified enough with liquid courage to try and force themselves into their line of sight. Her shoulders roll back as her breasts push out against her now-straining business top tucked into the pencil skirt. Her hips sway side to side, and she doesn’t look away as she zeroes right in on Abel.
I pantomime vomiting. “Ugh. Just … come get me when you’re fucking done,” I say, turning and walking off.
“Or when the fucking’s done,” he calls back.
Barf, I think as I wander off. I don't know what Abel has planned for the saleswoman, and I don't want to know. I can already guess.
The furniture store has a plethora of aisles, and along each one of them are the same pieces, all in varying shades of colors and styles. Dressers and lounges. Beds and nightstands. For some reason, I find myself moving towards the fun stuff. The shit that I'd seen in teenagers' rooms on television. Big ass bean bag chairs and bookshelves and big colorful lamps. Fuzzy rugs—the kind that actually don't make me think of shag carpet and the 80s. I don't know what kind of person Abel's sister is like, but I doubt she'd appreciate any of my choices. Whatever the case, though, I expect he can just as easily replace anything she doesn't like.
I don't know how long I'm left to my own devices, but through the overhead glass, the sky is starting to turn pink and red by the time Abel finds me again.
"Hey, find anything good?" he asks as he ambles my way.
I shrug and point to a few things. "Is this something you think she'd like?" I ask.
Abel barely glances at it before he waves his hand to a man at the end of the aisle. "Do you like it?" he asks instead.
"It's not for me," I point out.
He eyes me, and then as the man approaches us, he points to the piece I'd just been talking about. "I want this," he says. "And anything she's touched in the last few hours."
The man's mouth gapes open. "Sir?" He darts a look at me, his lips curling down as he takes in my appearance. Unlike Abel, I'm not dressed in top dollar brands and smelling like someone shat a gold brick.
Abel pulls out his wallet and withdraws a couple of cards. "Put it on this," he says. "And deliver everything to the address written there."
"I'm sorry, sir, but how are we to know what this young woman has touched?" he asks, even as his hands reach for the cards Abel holds out to him. "Ma'am. Did you have anyone—"
"Don't bother," Abel interrupts. He holds fast to the cards, and the salesman pauses, eyes widening as Abel leans forward and glares at him. "I don't care how you do it," he snaps. "Review the security tapes. I want everything she touched. Do you understand?"
I stare at him, shocked. How can he know what I've touched or haven't touched? I try to think back. I hadn't even been thinking. Even I couldn't remember.
He ignores me. "Do you understand?" he repeats to the man.
The man audibly gulps and nods his head shakily, but it isn't until he looks down at the name on the card that his face goes completely white. "Yes, sir. Of course, sir. We'll review the tapes, Mr. Frazier. Thank you so much for shopping with us."
Abel finally releases the cards before turning and throwing an arm over my shoulders. "Come on," he says. "I'm starved."
I eye him from my periphery as he marches me towards the front of the store. "Abel," I snap. "What the fuck was that?"
Crystal blue eyes meet mine as Abel shoots me a rogue-ish grin. "That was me making that man's fucking day," he says with confidence. "They work off commission."
"How do you know that?" I ask.
He laughs. My whole body responds to the sound—it's so honest and open that even as he pushes open the doors and ushers me through, I don't stop him. I'm too caught up in that laugh of his. "God, you're so goddamn refreshing, princess, you know that?"
A scowl overtakes my face. "Stop it," I snap, shrugging his arm off as I head for the Mustang.
"Why do you think I brought you here?" he calls back. I pause as I reach the back end of the car and turn.
"I don't fucking know," I snap. "I never know what any of you are thinking." I'm just constantly caught up in the storm that are the Sick Boys.
He points up to the sign hanging over the front doors of the building. I'd ignored it before, not really caring, but now my eyes are drawn up to it. My lips part. He smirks as my entire face goes slack. Frazier Furniture. He owns the fucking place.
My eyes dart back to him and narrow accusingly. Abel stops in front of me and touches my nose with a grin. "Don't look like that, princess," he says. "It's not like I hid it. Besides, it's only one in the dozens of other businesses my family owns."
I don't know what to say, so I say the first thing that comes to mind. "You're an ass," I mutter as I turn towards the passenger side.
He shrugs as if the statement means nothing to him. It probably doesn't. "Yeah, but you like me anyway."
We slide into the interior of the car, and as soon as the engine turns over, the radio comes to life. I stare at him, wondering if he's right. He doesn't treat me like I'm fucking delicate, and since that initial meeting, he hasn't tried to fuck me. Yet, still, I feel comfortable getting into a car with him. Is that what liking someone feels like? I'm not sure. I liked Micki, but she'd been a friend—the only friend I'd ever had. Rylie's a roommate, and I've gotten used to her presence, but I'm still not sure if I like anyone—much less one of the Sick Boys.
Dean's image comes to mind. I certainly know I don't like him. No. Whatever I feel for Dean Carter is too extreme to be labeled as mere like. But for the guys that surround him? The closest descriptor I can give them is how they make me feel. They're easy to be around. They make me feel comfortable.
If I'm not too careful, that feeling will turn into something more. Something like the sense of … belonging. And that is, by far, the most dangerous feeling a girl like me can have.
14
Avalon
I run. I’m a runner. Dean knows that. I proved it that night at the beach house. Whenever shit gets to be too much, I take off. I did it with Patricia a few times, but there’d been no other place for me to run to. I’d always ended up right back with her. I do the same thing with him.
First, it was just Abel and that stupid shopping trip. Then it was Braxton waiting outside of my dorm, prepped and waiting to take me anywhere I wanted to go. And when it’s neither of them, it’s him.
It’s dumb. I should’ve never caved at the party—it’s only encouraging him. Making him think he has a chance. What’s worse is that even if I can lie to him, it’s harder trying to mask the truth to myself. Everyone has an addiction—I’ve known that forever. Only mine is changing. At first, it was just adrenaline. The rush of getting as close to death as possible, letting the danger seep into my veins and drag me—the real me—to the surface used to be enough. It’s not anymore. And fucker that he is, Dean knows it. It’s why he’s having me followed around. He’s not allowing me to get out and get rid of the buildup that's happening inside me.
I haven’t been back to the watering hole. I can’t go to the warehouse now. I need something to take the
edge off. A punch to the gut. A kick in the face. A dive off a cliff. Anything to make me feel like I’m not crawling out of my skin. He’s smart. He knows it. And he’s only giving me one out—him.
Which is why I show up early for my first test of exam week. Even the professor seems stunned by my appearance in the classroom doorway almost thirty minutes before the test is scheduled to start. But I checked the school classroom registry, and I know that we've got the space for a full two and a half hours—nearly twice as long as our regular class period—and if I stay in the dorm room trying to study any longer, I'll lose my fucking mind.
I’ve got nothing better to do. I can’t go out without one of them finding me. Patricia still hasn’t answered my calls, and I’m concerned. There had been blood on the carpet when I’d gone back to Plexton, and I don’t know if it was hers or someone else’s. I’ve known her to go on several week-long binges, and when I was in Plexton, I used to live for those weeks—having the trailer all to myself was like a mini-vacation.
For the first time, I’d come home to a clean house. Though I could never truly get the scent of vomit, blood, drugs, and booze out of the carpet and walls from the years it had taken to seep in—I’d been able to air it out, and the stench had lessened. Eventually, she’d always come back, and something would happen. She’d invite some guys over, they’d get into a fight. Break bones. Spew their disgusting blood all over the coffee table and carpet that I’d just scrubbed. It would always eventually find its way back, though. She’d drop a bottle and step on it—blood wasn’t uncommon in our house.
Maybe it’s my hazy memory; it just seemed like it’d been so much worse when I’d gone back after Dean and I fought. Perhaps that was just because I’ve gotten used to not coming home to those smells anymore. Perhaps it was because I’m slowly growing accustomed to the relative normalcy of Eastpoint versus Patricia’s trailer in Plexton. This is getting ridiculous, though. A few days had turned into a week. A week had turned into two and then more. Time keeps slipping by, and each unanswered call—all of which just go to voicemail—only serves to piss me off and leave a sense of dread caked on the inside of my stomach.
