"You walked me home. I couldn't deny you the use of my restroom."
He laughs. "Thank you. I appreciate that. Just don't let anyone else in to use your restroom, okay?"
I grin at him flirtatiously, proud that I even have it in me. "We haven't even been on a date yet and you're already trying to dictate who can and can't use my restroom?"
He shoots me the same grin in return. "I can't help it if I'm a little possessive. It was a really nice restroom."
I roll my eyes and begin to close the door. "Good night, Owen."
"I'm serious," he says. "You even have those cute little seashell soaps. I love those."
We're both laughing now as he watches me through the crack in the door. Right when the door shuts and I lock the latch, he knocks again. I shake my head and open the door, but it catches with the chain lock this time.
"What now?"
"It's midnight!" he says frantically, slapping at the door. "Call her. Call your roommate!"
"Oh, shit," I mutter. I retrieve my phone and begin to dial Emory's number.
"I was about to dial 911," Emory says as she answers.
"Sorry, we almost forgot."
"Do you need to use the code word?" she asks.
"No, I'm fine. I already locked him out, so I don't think he's going to murder me tonight."
Emory sighs. "That sucks," she says. "Not that he didn't murder you," she adds quickly. "I just really wanted to hear you say the code word."
I laugh. "I'm sorry my safety disappoints you."
She sighs again. "Please? Just say it for me one time."
"Fine," I say with a groan. "Meat dress. Are you happy?"
There's a quiet pause before she says, "I don't know. Now I'm not sure if you said the code word just to make me happy or if you're really in danger."
I laugh. "I'm fine. I'll see you when you get home." I hang up the phone and glance at Owen through the opening in the door. His eyebrow is cocked and his head is tilted.
"Your code word was meat dress? That's kind of morbid, isn't it?"
I smile, because it kind of is. "So is choosing an apartment based on its connection to a horror film. I told you Emory is different."
He nods in agreement.
"I had fun tonight," I tell him.
He smiles. "I had funner."
We're both smiling, almost cheesily, until I straighten up and decide to close the door for good this time.
"Good night, Owen."
"Good night, Auburn," he says. "Thank you for not correcting my grammar."
"Thank you for not killing me," I say in response.
His smile disappears. "Yet."
I don't know if I should laugh at that comment.
"I'm kidding," he says as soon as he sees the hesitation on my face. "My jokes always fail when I'm trying to impress a girl."
"Don't worry," I say to reassure him. "I was kind of impressed as soon as I walked into your studio tonight."
He smiles appreciatively and slips his hand through the opening in the door before I can shut it again. "Wait," he says, wiggling his fingers. "Give me your hand."
"Why? So you can lecture me about how I shouldn't touch strangers' hands through locked doors?"
He dismisses my question with a shake of his head. "We're far from being strangers, Auburn. Give me your hand."
I tentatively bring my fingers up and barely touch them to his. I'm not sure what he's doing. His eyes drop to our fingers, and he leans his head against the door frame. I do the same and we both watch our hands as he slides his fingers between mine.
We're on two separate sides of a locked door, so I have no idea how simply touching his hand can make me have to lean against the wall for support, but that's exactly what I'm doing. Chills run up my arms and I close my eyes.
His fingers brush delicately over my palm and trace their way around my hand. My breaths are shaky and my hand is growing even shakier. I have to stop myself from unlocking the door so I can pull him inside and beg him to do to the rest of me what he's doing to my hand.
"You feel that?" he whispers.
I nod, because I know he's looking right at me. I can feel his stare. He doesn't speak again and his hand eventually stills against mine, so I slowly open my eyes. He's still watching me through the crack in the door, but as soon as my eyes are all the way open, he quickly lifts his head away from the door frame and pulls his hand back, leaving mine empty.
"Fuck," he says, standing up straight. He runs his hand through his hair and then grips the back of his neck. "I'm sorry. I'm ridiculous." He releases his neck and grips the doorknob. "I'm leaving for real this time. Before I scare you away," he says with a smile.
I grin. "Good night, OMG."
He slowly shakes his head back and forth while his eyes narrow playfully. "You're lucky I like you, Auburn Mason Reed."
With that, he closes the door.
"Oh my God," I whisper. I think I might have a crush on that boy.
"Auburn."
I groan, not ready to wake up, but someone's hand is on my shoulder, shaking me.
Rude.
"Auburn, wake up." It's Emory's voice. "The police are here."
I immediately roll onto my side and see her standing over me. She's got mascara under her eyes and her blond hair is sticking out in all directions. Her unexpected, unkempt appearance scares me more than the fact that she just said the police are here. I sit straight up in bed. I try to find my alarm clock to check the time, but my eyes won't open enough for me to see it. "What time is it?"
"After nine," she says. "And . . . did you hear me? I said there's a cop here. He's asking for you."
I scoot myself off the bed and look for my jeans. I find them crumpled on the floor on the other side of my bed. As soon as I get them buttoned, I reach into the closet for a shirt.
"Are you in some kind of trouble?" Emory asks, standing by my door now.
Shit. I forgot she doesn't know anything about me.
"It's not the police," I tell her. "It's just Trey, my brother-in-law."
I can see she's still confused, and that makes sense since he's not really my brother-in-law. It's just easier to refer to him that way sometimes. I also have no idea why he's here. I open my bedroom door and see Trey standing in the kitchen, making himself a cup of coffee.
"Is everything okay?" I ask him. He spins around and as soon as I see his smile, I know everything is fine. He's just here for a visit.
"All good," he says. "Shift just ended and I was in the neighborhood. Thought I'd bring you breakfast." He holds up a sack and tosses it toward me on the counter. Emory walks around me and grabs the bag, opening it.
"Is it true?" she asks, looking up at Trey. "Do cops really get all the free doughnuts they want?" She grabs one of the pastries and shoves it in her mouth while making her way toward the living room. Trey is looking at her with contempt, but she doesn't notice. I wonder if she's aware that she hasn't looked in a mirror today. I doubt she cares. I love that about her.
"Thank you for the breakfast," I tell him. I take a seat at the bar, confused as to why he would think it's okay to just stop by without notice. Especially this early in the morning. But I don't say anything, because I'm sure it's just me being cranky due to my late night and lack of sleep. "Is Lydia coming home today?"
He shakes his head. "Tomorrow morning." He sets his cup on the bar. "Where were you last night?"
I cock my head, wondering why he would even ask that. "What do you mean?"
He glances back at me. "She says you called over an hour late."
Now I get why he's here. I sigh. "Did you really want to bring me breakfast or are you using it as an excuse to check up on me?"
The offended look he shoots me makes me regret my comment. I blow out an exasperated breath and rest my arms on the bar. "I was working," I say. "I filled in at an art gallery for extra money."
Trey is standing in the exact spot Owen was standing in last night. Trey and Owen are probably the sam
e height, but for some reason Trey just appears more intimidating. I don't know if it's because he's always in a police uniform, or if it's the hardened facial features. His dark eyes always seem to be frowning, whereas Owen can't seem to help smiling. Just thinking about Owen and the fact that I'll see him again tonight instantly puts me in a better mood.
"An art gallery? Which one?"
"The one on Pearl, near my work. It's called Confess."
Trey's jaw tenses and he sets his cup of coffee on the counter. "I know the one," he says. "Callahan Gentry's son owns that building."
"Am I supposed to know who Callahan Gentry is?"
He shakes his head and pours his coffee in the sink. "Cal's an attorney," he says. "And his son is trouble."
I wince at his insult, because I don't understand it. Owen is the last person I would associate with the word trouble. Trey grabs his keys off the bar and begins making his way out of the kitchen. "I don't like the idea of you working for him."
Not that Trey's opinion matters to me in any way, but I'm a little put off that he even made that comment. "You don't have to worry about it," I say. "I was fired last night. Not what he was looking for in an employee, I guess." I fail to tell him the true reason I was fired last night. I'm sure that would upset him even more.
"Good," he says. "You coming to dinner Sunday night?"
I follow him to the door. "Haven't missed it yet, have I?"
Trey turns to face me after he opens the door. "Well, you've also never missed a phone call, and look what happened last night."
Touche, Trey.
I hate confrontation, and my attitude is going to start one if I don't backtrack. The last thing I need is tension with Trey or Lydia. "Sorry," I mutter. "It was a late night last night with working two jobs yesterday. Thank you for the breakfast. I'll be nicer next time you show up unannounced."
He smiles and reaches up to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. It's an intimate gesture, and I don't like that he feels comfortable enough to do it. "It's fine, Auburn." He drops his hand and steps out into the hall. "See you Sunday night."
I close the door and lean against it. I've been getting a very different vibe from him lately. When I lived in Portland, I never saw him. However, moving to Texas put me in his presence a lot more, and I'm not sure we're on the same page when it comes to how we define our friendship.
"I don't like him," Emory says. I glance toward the living room and she's seated on the couch, eating her doughnut while flipping through a magazine.
"You don't even know him," I say in Trey's defense.
"I liked the guy you had over last night much better." She doesn't bother looking up from her magazine as she judges me.
"You were here last night?"
She nods and takes a long sip of her soda, again not bothering to give me eye contact. "Yep."
What? Why does she think this is okay?
"Were you here when I called you about the code word?"
She nods again. "I was in my room. I'm really good at eavesdropping," she says flatly.
I nod once and make my way back toward my bedroom. "That's good to know, Emory."
CHAPTER SIX
Owen
If I were smarter, I would be at my place right now, getting dressed.
If I were smarter, I'd be mentally preparing to show up at Auburn's apartment, since that's what I promised her I would do tonight.
If I were smarter, I wouldn't be sitting here. Waiting for my father to walk through the door and see my hands cuffed behind my back.
I don't really know how I should feel right now, but numbness probably isn't the appropriate response. I just know he's about to walk through that door any second and the last thing I want to do is look him in the eyes.
The door opens.
I look away.
I hear his footsteps as he slowly enters the room. I shift in my seat, but I can barely move thanks to the metal digging into my wrists. I bite my bottom lip to stop myself from saying something I'll regret. I bite it so hard I taste blood. I continue to avoid looking at him and choose to focus on the poster hanging on the wall. It's a photo timeline, depicting the progression of meth use over a ten-year span. I stare at it, aware of the fact that all ten pictures are of the same man, and all of them are mug shots. That means the guy was arrested no fewer than ten times.
He's got nine arrests on me.
My father sighs from where he's seated, directly across from me. He sighs so heavily his breath reaches me from across the table. I scoot back a few inches.
I don't even want to know what's going through his head right now. I just know what's going through my head, and that's nothing but a sea of disappointment. Not as much for my arrest as for the fact that I've let Auburn down. She seems to live a life where a lot of people let her down and I hate that I'm about to become one of them.
I hate it.
"Owen," my father says, requesting my attention.
I don't give it to him. I wait for him to finish, but he doesn't say anything beyond my name.
I don't like that all he said was my name, because I know there are a hell of a lot of other things he wants to say to me right now. There are certainly a lot of things I want to say to him, but Callahan Gentry and his son are not the best communicators.
Not since the night Owen Gentry became Callahan Gentry's only son.
That's probably the only day out of my entire life I wouldn't trade this one for. That day is the reason why I continue to do the shit I do. That day is the reason I'm sitting here, about to have to talk to my father about my options.
Sometimes I wonder if Carey can still see us. I wonder what he would think of what's become of us.
I look away from the meth poster and stare at my father. We've perfected the art of silence over the past few years. "Do you think Carey can see us right now?"
My father's face remains expressionless. The only thing I see in his eyes is disappointment, and I don't know if it's disappointment because he failed at being a father or if it's disappointment that I'm in this situation or if it's disappointment that I just brought up Carey.
I never bring up my brother. My father never brings up my brother. I don't know why I'm doing it now.
I lean forward and I keep my eyes locked with his.
"What do you think he thinks of me, Dad?" I say quietly. So quietly. If my voice were a color, it would be white.
My father's jaw clenches, so I keep going.
"Do you think he's disappointed in my inability to just say no?"
My father inhales and looks away, breaking eye contact with me. I'm making him uncomfortable. I can't lean forward any more than I already am, so I scoot my chair toward him until my chest meets the table between us. I'm as close as I can get now.
"What do you think Carey thinks of you, Dad?"
That sentence would be painted black.
My father's fist meets the table and his chair falls backward when he stands abruptly. He paces the room, twice, and kicks the chair, causing it to crash against the wall. He continues to pace from one end of the small room to the other, which is only about seven feet or so. He's so pissed, I feel bad that we're in such a tiny room. The man needs space to release all of his aggression. They should take these types of situations into consideration when they arrest people and stick them in tiny square rooms to meet with their lawyers. Because you never know when a lawyer is also a father and that father needs space to fit all his anger.
He takes several deep breaths, in and out, in and out. Just like he used to teach Carey and me to do when we were younger. Being brothers, we used to fight a lot. No more so than other brothers, but back then, when Callahan Gentry was a father, he would do everything he could to teach us how to deal with our anger internally, rather than physically.
"Only you can control your reactions," he would say to us. "No one else. You control your anger and you control your happiness. Get it under control, boys."
I wonder if I should repeat thos
e words to him right now.
Get it under control, Dad.
Probably not. He doesn't want me to interrupt him as he silently attempts to convince himself that I didn't mean what I said. He tries to tell himself that I only said it because I'm under a lot of stress.
Callahan Gentry is good at lying to himself.
If I had to paint him right now, I would paint him every shade of blue I could find. He calmly places his palms flat on the table between us. He stares down at his hands and fails to make eye contact with me. He inhales one long, slow breath, and then releases it even slower. "I'm posting your bail as soon as I can."
I want him to think I'm indifferent. I'm not indifferent, though. I don't want to be here, but there's nothing I can do about it.
"Not like I have anywhere else to be," I say to him.
I mean, I don't, do I? I'd already be late if I were to even show up, plus there's no way I could show up now and tell Auburn where I've been. Or why. Besides, I was more or less warned to stay away from her last night, so there's also that.
So yeah. Who needs bail? Not me.
"Not like I have anywhere else to be," I repeat.
My father's eyes meet mine and it's the first time I notice the tears. With those tears comes hope. Hope that he's reached his breaking point. Hope that this was the last straw. Hope that he'll finally say, "How can I help you, Owen? How can I make this better for you?"
None of those things happen, though, and my hope disappears right along with the tears in his eyes. He turns and walks to the door. "We'll talk tonight. At the house."
And he's gone.
"What in the hell happened to you?" Harrison asks. "You look like shit."
I take a seat at the bar. I haven't slept in over twenty-four hours. As soon as my bail cleared a few hours ago, I went straight to my studio. I didn't even bother going to my father's house to discuss this situation, because I need a little more time before I can face him.
It's almost midnight now, so I know Auburn is probably asleep, or too pissed off to sleep, because I never showed up tonight like I promised I would. It's probably for the best though. I need to get my life straightened out enough for her to want to be a part of it.
"I was arrested last night."
Harrison immediately stops pouring the glass of beer he was about to hand me. He squares up and faces me full-on. "I'm sorry . . . did you just say arrested ?"
I nod and reach across the bar, taking the half-full beer from him.
Confess Page 7
