Stone Cold Queen: Sick Boys Book 2

by Smoke , Lucy

  Shoveling the thoughts out of my head, I take one of the test packets, and though the professor eyes me, she doesn't tell me to leave and come back later. I head towards the back of the exam hall and take a seat in the last row. It's kind of funny how much easier college is compared to high school. High school teachers will do and say almost anything to convince you of how difficult college will be—how uncompromising professors will be. It's all bullshit. High school teachers have to hold themselves to a higher standard, but college professors actually show their humanity. They walk in with bags under their eyes and coffees clutched in their fists just like the rest of us.

  Thirty minutes later, I'm already a good portion of the way through the test when the door opens, and a familiar burn touches my face. I lift my head and pause when Dean's eyes meet mine. He stares back at me for several long moments before he moves to the professor's table and takes a packet. Shockingly, though, he doesn't come for me. Instead, he takes a seat in the row in front of me, several seats down, and starts in on his own exam.

  I have to force my head back down to refocus on my packet. More people come into the classroom. All of them taking their packets and seating themselves around the room. Despite my early arrival, Dean finishes first. I clench my fingers into a fist as I work through the final problem, carefully outlining my answer as I watch in my periphery as Dean gets up from his seat and makes his way to the front of the room. He drops off his test and then, without a glance back, leaves.

  Air rushes out of my lungs. Abel warned me that I was tearing him up and tying him in knots—but I can’t imagine he’s right. Dean? Emotional? Over me? It’s bullshit. A con. I don’t know what he thinks he can still get from me, but I can’t trust it. I can’t trust anyone. No matter how much I want to. Still, I can’t help but ask myself: What is with me? What is with Dean Carter?

  I finish my exam and shove back from my seat, stomping down the aisle to the front. I slap my completed test on the table and head for the door. No sooner do I push through into the hallway, however, and a firm hand touches my side before I’m swung around and shoved back into the wall by a dark figure who hovers over me, pressing me back.

  "Why so angry, Avalon?" Dean's voice ripples through the air, the breath from his lungs drifting over the side of my face as he pushes himself into me.

  I put my hands on his shoulders and shove back. "I'm not," I snap. I look up and pause at the expression on his face. It wasn't easy to see when he was facing away from me in the exam room, but the same darkness that I know lines my eyes are under his as well. It's as if he hasn't been sleeping. On me, exhaustion looks like strain, but on Dean, it only serves to make the dominant features of his face even more prominent. His jaw looks sharp enough to cut. His eyes are sunken in, but they don't look dead. No, when he looks at me—they look like they're merely shadowed. Like he's looking at me with an expression he only uses in the bedroom. I would know, after all.

  "You sure stormed out here like you were mad," he says, taking a step back and giving me room to breathe. I'm not sure if I'm more irritated by his easy surrender or my response to it.

  "I'm just tired," I admit, turning away as I start down the hallway. I'm not surprised when his footsteps follow me.

  "I think I can help with that," he says.

  "I swear to God if you offer to fuck me to sleep right now..." I let the statement drift, and he chuckles.

  "Only if you beg me for it, baby," he replies.

  I halt at the doors leading outside and turn back to him. "Not on your life."

  "I'll take that bet," he says without stopping, pushing the doors open and swerving around my body. I watch him stride out into the sunlight, following at a slower pace as I narrow my eyes on him. He stops at the bottom of the steps and pivots to face me. "Avalon."

  I don't know what he's about to say, but I've got the distinct feeling I'm not going to like it. I open my mouth to stop him—how, I'm not sure—but luckily, I'm saved by the buzzing of my cell as it vibrates against my thigh.

  Frowning, I withdraw it from my pocket. It's an unfamiliar number, but it wouldn't be the first time Patricia forgot to pay her phone bill and used someone else's cell to get ahold of me. "Hello?"

  "Is this Avalon Manning?" an unfamiliar voice asks.

  I frown. "Yes, who is this?"

  "Ms. Manning. My name is Carla Davis, and I'm with the Larryville Hospital. I'm calling on behalf of your mother, Patricia Manning. This number is the only listed contact we have for her next of kin."

  Ice washes into my system, and Dean must see the shift on my face because in a split second, he's by my side, carefully easing the phone away from my ear and replacing it with his own. I don't hear what he says next as he answers the woman on the phone. My mind is focused on the last words the woman uttered. Next of kin—people only call family members that when someone is dead. Is Patricia dead?

  Air refuses to escape my lips. Instead, it builds up inside, stacking on top of my chest like rocks weighing down on my lungs. I can't breathe. There's a woman on the phone. I'm the next of kin and … I hate my mother. So, why do I feel this way? Why do I feel like the ground is uneven and I'm stumbling over it when I'm not even walking?

  The reaction of my body is what’s really throwing me off. Patricia is garbage. She’s nothing but a living corpse, and yet in the moments where I imagine her heart not beating and her eyes wide open, staring into nothing, something sinister curdles inside me. It’s not joy. It’s not relief. It’s fear. Why?

  Am I afraid of losing her? Not particularly. In fact, I’d banked on it happening sooner rather than later. Then why do I have this strange buzzing in my skull? Why do I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut?

  Maybe because the end of Patricia is like signaling the end of the person I used to be. That thought jumps out at me, slamming into my head like a baseball bat. At first, it doesn’t make much sense, but as I linger on it, I realize … it’s not inaccurate. What’s left behind of my life in Plexton? Roger is dead. I killed him. I won’t go back. Micki’s … well, Micki’s been gone for a while, and there’s no telling if she and I will ever meet again. But Patricia, she’s always been a constant no matter how bad she got. Once she’s gone, there’ll be nothing stopping me from burning the past.

  "Avalon?" Dean's voice is faint, as if it's coming from far away, but it's not. He's right next to me. The phone isn't in his hand anymore, but his fingers are gripping my arms, and he's shaking me slightly. "Avalon, listen, it's fine. She's fine. She's in the hospital. ICU. She's not—"

  "Dead?" I finish for him, confused. She's not dead? Oxygen rushes back into my mouth and I choke on it, coughing as I double over and gasp.

  "No," he answers. "She's not dead. The woman said that she overdosed, and is in intensive care, but she'll survive."

  “Oh.” I pull away from him, taking a step back as I reach for the phone in his grasp. He frowns at me and holds it over my head.

  “What are you doing?” he snaps.

  I glare at him. “Trying to take my phone back, asshole.” I curl my hand into a fist and punch him in the gut.

  My knuckles connect with muscle, and he grunts in response. Pain shoots through my hand and wrist and into my arm. Tough bastard. I snatch my phone from his grasp, realizing belatedly that he’s already ended the call. “What else did she say?” I demand, sliding the phone back into my pocket.

  He rubs the spot I hit and eyes me. “Why?” he asks. “You give a shit?”

  I roll my eyes, forcing myself to act normal. “Don’t play with me right now, Dean. What the fuck did she say?”

  Dean’s head tilts back, and when the sun hits his dark brown eyes, they reflect a kaleidoscope of differences—so minute, so insignificant, anyone else might not have seen. But I see. People think brown eyes are boring. Dull. That’s not true. Brown has different shades, and Dean’s eyes contain all of them. Honey and earth and embers. My breath halts in my throat.

  “She’s in a hospital a couple h
ours from here,” he says.

  I frown. That doesn’t make any sense. It’s at least a nine-hour drive back to Plexton—and that’s going well over the speed limit. What the hell could she be doing so close to Eastpoint?

  “Do you want to go see her?” he asks after a beat.

  I don’t know. Do I? I contemplate my answer. I look back to the classroom building. I have more exams coming, but if she’s already close, maybe it won’t be that big of a deal. A part of me doesn’t want to go. Maybe because a part of me feels like she deserves that—to wake up all alone after getting so doped up she nearly killed herself. I grit my teeth as I argue with the other part of me, the kinder part that shies away from the darker thoughts, the angry thoughts that surround my feelings towards Patricia.

  I’ll just go once and it’ll be the last time, I finally decide. I turn to Dean. “Yeah, I want to go see her,” I tell him.

  He nods. “I’ll pick you up at your dorm tonight. We’ll drive down.”

  “Thanks.” Before he can say anything else, I turn away and head off. My mind is a clusterfuck. Confusion swirling in a massive fog in my mind. I’m not going for her, though. I’m going for closure. I don’t know what it is about what happened in the trailer with Roger, but it unlocked something inside of me.

  That last single fuck that I had to give is gone—burned into a fiery mess. What I need now is closure. To say goodbye. Not so much to Patricia, but to what she represents. The old me. Whether she realizes it or not, this will be the last time she sees me. Eastpoint is going to be my home for the next four years, and hopefully, by the time my feet hit the graduation stage, I’ll know what the fuck I’m doing with the rest of my life.

  All I know now is one thing—whatever I do, it won’t be anything like the life Patricia Manning has.

  15

  Avalon

  Dean picks me up a few hours later after we've both had time to get back to our respective places and pack enough necessities for a day or two. I don't know how long I'll want to stay at the hospital. I didn't like being around Patricia when we lived together, I can't imagine that's changed in a few short months. Shockingly, though, when I get into his SUV—I don't see any sign of Abel or Braxton.

  "Where are the guys?" I ask.

  He arches a brow as he pulls away from the curb. "Did you want me to bring them?"

  I hadn't exactly thought about it. It's just become natural to see them all together. Though they may not be related by blood, anyone looking at them from the outside can see the closeness, the bond they share. "No," I say.

  He nods but otherwise doesn't respond, and for the next couple of hours, we remain in companionable silence as he drives. My mind wanders as I stare out at the passing scenery. Cars flying down the highway, swerving in and out of traffic. Trees running parallel to the big concrete bridges and roads. My fingers tap against the leather seats.

  He notices. "Worried?" he asks.

  I shrug. "Not really." Something occurs to me. "Shit," I hiss, reaching for my cell. "I didn't tell my professors about this—I still have a couple of exams tomorrow."

  Dean reaches out and touches my hand as I jerk my phone out of my pocket. "It's taken care of," he says.

  "Taken care of?" I repeat, confused.

  "You can take your exams online." His hand returns to the steering wheel, and I stare at him, narrowing my eyes.

  "I didn't clear that with my teachers," I state.

  "I did."

  Of course, he did, I think. Because no one in their right mind would tell Dean Carter no. No one except me. I snort. I toss my phone into the bag at my feet and relax back into the seat, crossing my arms and turning away.

  I can feel his eyes on me a split second before his voice fills the interior of the car. "Problem?"

  My shoulders lift and fall in a non-answer. I shouldn't be surprised. Dean always gets whatever he wants. In this instance, though, I should be grateful. I suppose it's helpful when he holds such authority over the university. One call from him, and I probably wouldn't even have to take my exams. I'd just fly through. Not that I'd ever let him do that. But I wonder...

  "Why do you even bother?" I ask suddenly, turning back to him.

  Dark, enigmatic brown eyes cut to me for a split second as he takes the next exit and pulls off the highway. I keep my gaze locked on his face. "Why bother with what?"

  "Why do you even bother showing up to class?" I ask. "You could probably not go and still get straight A's. You'd be able to fuck around, and in four years, you'd be out with a 4.0 and degree to do whatever the fuck it is your family does."

  His lips twitch. "You think I'd do that?" He chuckles. "And it's two years. I'm in my second year."

  "I'm wondering why you don't," I clarify. "Because we both know you could."

  "And what would that get me?" he replies, turning his head to consider me seriously. "Are there times where I take advantage of my family name? Yes, of course. No one gets anywhere without connections. That's just the way the world works. Some days, I don't have time to attend classes. Sometimes, there are more important things than attendance—but I always get the work done. Of course, the instructors want to please me, they essentially work for me—or if they don't believe they do yet, then they are aware that they will."

  Dean's focus goes back to the road as he slows to a red light and puts on his blinker. A quick glance at the GPS in his dash tells me we're still a good twenty minutes out, and this conversation is far from over.

  "Not everyone will understand what it is that we do," he continues, and I know he's not just talking about himself, but Abel and Braxton as well. Fact is, he's right. I still don't understand. Not completely anyway. "There will be more than our fair share of enemies, people who want to take advantage of us and use us for our connections. My name may get me in many doors, but a name cannot keep you seated at a table that does not wish to serve you."

  I grimace. "What does that mean?"

  The light turns green, and his foot presses down on the gas pedal. "It means," he hedges, "that if I take advantage of my power early on, then people will come to expect that from me. Respect is difficult to build and quick to fall. I attend classes because there is a purpose. I take the exams like any normal college student would because it has a purpose. Everything I do"—he pauses and pivots to look me in the eye as he speaks—"has a purpose, Avalon." For several long seconds, his gaze bores into me, as if he's trying to read me and understand all of the little things that make me tick. I contemplate telling him that there's no manual for someone like me—there's no cheat sheet or guidebook—but then he's turning back to the road. "Remember that," he finishes.

  What is his purpose? I wonder as I continue to stare at him. If it's to drive me insane and confuse the fuck out of me, he's certainly succeeding. But that can't be it. There has to be more to it. I know there is. A man doesn't hand a girl a gun and let her kill her rapist without a purpose. Was it so he could see the vengeance in my eyes? Was it so that he could test me? Is he still testing me?

  Before I can come up with something to say, Dean pulls into the parking lot of a tall white building. "We're here," he states.

  I sigh, letting the thoughts go for the moment, but knowing that soon—he and I are going to have it out. I want the truth, and I'm willing to give him almost anything he wants for it. Even if that means giving him me.

  * * *

  Hospitals always seem to be cold. Logically, I know it's probably to keep bacteria and disease low since cold temperatures tend to kill them off, but some subconscious part of my brain can only think it's to keep the bodies from decaying faster. Doesn't matter if they're still alive, we're all decaying on the inside.

  "We're here to speak with Dr. Morris about Patricia Manning," Dean says, leaning over the front desk counter. The woman—an older blonde with sagging jowls—glances up from her computer screen before doing a double-take.

  "Are you family?" the woman asks.

  "She is." Dean points to me. T
he woman's dull blue eyes dart my way once, and I'm not surprised to see the sweet smile on her mouth stiffen when I arch my brows.

  "I'll page Dr. Morris and let him know you're here," she says. "The waiting room is just that way."

  "Thanks, ma'am."

  I huff out an irritated breath as Dean's hand touches the small of my back, and he guides me away. When he leans down and whispers against my ear, I repress a shiver. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing," I snap, pulling away from the igniting heat of his palm against my lower spine. Without looking back, I take several steps forward and drop into one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs lined against the wall of the waiting area.

  Dean doesn't let my response bother him, though. He drops into the seat next to me a moment later and rests the full length of his arm against the back of my seat. I straighten my back and hold myself away from him.

  After what seems like an eon of waiting, a tall, lanky man appears in the doorway of the waiting room with a clipboard in hand. He scans the room, but Dean and I are the only occupants so it doesn't take him long to realize that we're the ones he's looking for. He glances down to the clipboard in his hand before looking up again as Dean and I rise from our seats.

  "You're here for Ms. Manning?" he says.

  I nod. "Yes, I'm her daughter."

  The doctor nods, though he looks to Dean as if expecting an explanation for his presence. I don't offer one. "Right then," Dr. Morris says. "She's still in ICU—we had to pump her stomach twice. She was in serious critical condition, but from what I was able to determine, this might have happened before?"

  I shake my head. "Not for a while," I tell him. "But yes."

  He reaches up and removes the clear, rimless glasses perched on his nose and rubs the red spot there. It's a natural movement, one he's obviously used to doing. Dr. Morris replaces his glasses and nods to me. "She'll need to remain for observation. Once she's out of the red zone, we'll move her down to a normal hospital room, but we'll still need to keep her there another night or two before we release her."