by Jamie Howard
“Hey, shithead. You didn’t come home last night.”
“What are you, my mother?” His response got eaten up in his pillow.
“No, but I am your roommate and when you pull shit like that it makes me wonder if you’re taking a nap in a gutter somewhere.” Or lying in a hospital bed. The disinfectant, the starched white sheets, the fluorescent lights all bombarded my memory for the briefest of seconds before I wrestled them out of my brain. When the worst happened to you, it was hard not to imagine it happening to everyone else.
With a curse, he threw off his blanket and swayed into an upright position, dropping his head into his hands. A whiff of something that smelled like tequila, garbage, and puke drifted toward me. “Fuck man, were you sleeping in a gutter?”
He flashed me the finger. “I was sleeping fine right here until you came and woke me the hell up.” With a hand under his jaw, he twisted his head to the side and his neck gave a loud crack. The light hit the side of his throat, highlighting the series of small bites that traveled the length of it.
“Dude.” I tapped my finger against my neck. “You bone a vampire last night?”
He winced as he ran his hand over a particularly sensitive spot. “Honestly? I have no idea. I’m not even entirely sure how I got home.” Standing, he squeezed his hands into fists and stretched for the ceiling. Which was fine and all except it put his junk right around eye-level.
I inched backward. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”
He tilted his head to the side, brows scraping together as he tried to figure out what I meant. It could’ve been him not bringing girls home—which he hadn’t done since my accident—or whatever it was that fucked him up so bad he was missing hours out of his life. Hell, I wasn’t even sure which I was going for. Both, really.
A melody burst from my pocket, making Gavin cringe as I pulled my phone out. I glanced down at the familiar image of my mom, her smiling face staring back to me. My thumb hovered over the “answer” button, before sliding over and landing on “ignore.”
Gavin took a deep breath and blew it out. “Yeah well, you don’t have to do that either.”
Chapter 8: Felix
Music was my drug—it surged through my veins and lived in my soul. Even as I wheeled into Juliet’s building, the latest song we’d been working on still danced through my brain, the notes clinging to my skin like the damp strands of hair at the back of my neck. A lot of things had changed in my life when I woke up in that hospital room, but I refused to let music be one of them.
The drums were mine. Period.
From the corner of my eye, I caught Eddie glaring at me as the elevator doors slid shut in front of my face. Now he was one friendly dude. Nothing but smiles whenever he was around Juliet and not a single one for me. Dick.
The carpet squished beneath my wheels as I made my way down the hall, my arms aching with the best kind of exhaustion that comes from wailing out a sick beat. I could’ve really used a shower, but I was already running late for my hangout sesh with Juliet, so a quick spritz of cologne had to do the job.
My movements slowed as I got closer and spotted two men flanking her door. They both wore pristine suits, their faces more expressionless than the bushy-hatted guys who stood guard outside Buckingham Palace.
One glanced toward me, gave me a once-over, and reached into his pocket, drawing out his phone. He studied it for a second, then looked back at me again. “Felix Donovan?”
I frowned. “Uh, yeah. That’s me.”
He nodded, one succinct tip of his head. “Ms. St. Clair is expecting you.” With a quick twist of his wrist, he threw open the door for me. Normally that would’ve annoyed me—I can open my own doors, fuck you very much—but I was too confused to even register the feeling.
The apartment was dim, the curtains drawn so only small shoots of light poked out from between them. I stopped. “Juliet?”
“Here.” A hand reached up into the air from the couch, her fingers wiggling through a swath of sunlight.
I took the quick trip over, stopping right in front of her. I didn’t even need the closed curtains or the suits outside to tell me something was wrong—one look at her was all it would’ve taken. Her long blond hair spilled over her shoulder like her own personal brand of sunshine, but every other part of her was cloaked in shadows. Her lips struggled into an unconvincing smile when she saw me.
“Hey.” I leaned forward so I could tip her chin up with a finger. “What’s the matter?”
She tugged up the sleeve of her shirt, which was trying its best to slip down her shoulder. It was an old, baggy thing with the collar cut out and a fraying hem. “Can we”—her eyelids fluttered closed as she rubbed a finger against her temple—“not talk about it right now?”
“Whatever you want.”
She patted the cushion next to her, and after flipping on my brakes, I shifted myself into the empty spot. Grabbing the remote at her side, she cued up a new episode without another word, then dropped it back onto the couch beside her. For once, we didn’t have the Switzerland of couch cushions separating us; there was nothing more than a few inches of empty air.
She drew her knees up tight to her chest, resting her chin on top of them. I tried to pay attention to what was happening on the screen, but all of my senses were tuned into Juliet—her soft, resigned breaths, the way her gaze studied her blue-painted toenails. I conjured up a hundred different scenarios of what could be wrong, each one more ridiculous than the last. With each second that passed, I sent silent thoughts up into the void—tell me, trust me, let me help.
Her voice interrupted my endless stream of silent whispers. “You can call me Jules, you know.” Green eyes caught mine and held them. “All my friends do.”
“All right, Jules.” I tried to lift her spirits with the force of my smile. “That better?”
“Almost.” Digging her knuckles into the couch, she scooted closer to me. She wriggled down until her head rested against my chest and swept her hair back over her shoulder. Her hand rested gently against my stomach and I had to remind myself to breathe.
“That’s better,” she mumbled.
My hand hovered in the air—hip, shoulder? Shoulder, definitely shoulder. “I’m, uh, a little sweaty. I might smell.”
She shook her head. “Don’t care.”
My grip tightened around her arm, fingertips brushing bare skin. Seriously, what the hell was going on? My heart thumped out a heavy beat, a steady cadence that I was sure she could feel underneath her cheek. I didn’t care. Not in the slightest. All that mattered was that in this moment, she needed me. I was making her feel better. And damn if that didn’t make me feel ten feet tall.
An hour passed. And then another. Neither of us moved; I wasn’t sure either of us even wanted to. I sure as hell didn’t. The sweet scent of her strawberry shampoo drifted up to tickle my nose, and my fingers reached out for those silky strands before I’d even decided to do it. I twisted them around my finger, amazed they were even softer than they looked.
Her fingernails scraped against my T-shirt as she tightened her hand into a loose fist. “What were you up to eight, nine years ago?”
“Oh, geez.” I rested my head back against the cushion as I sorted through my memories. “I would have been graduating high school? A freshman in college? Let’s just say there was a lot of beer and women involved with the occasional addition of football and music.”
From my vantage point I could see her grimace. “So, you weren’t paying that much attention to the news back then?”
I snorted. “Can’t say I pay all that much attention to it now. It’s depressing as hell.”
Her tongue ran over her lips. “Well, eight years ago, if you’d picked up a newspaper or magazine, flipped on a news station, you would have seen coverage of me testifying . . . against my stalker.”
Everything inside me went still, like someone pushed the pause button on my body. I gritted my teeth together. “Tell me they put that bastard in jail.”
“Yeah, they did.” She hesitated and that brief delay seemed to suck all the air out of the room. “But he’s not there anymore.”
My hands clenched into fists, and my heart joined in on the action. “That’s why you’ve got the burly brothers guarding your door?”
“He used to send me these letters. Sometimes they’d show up at my hotel, sometimes they’d just be mixed in with other fan mail. They were awful, always worded just perfectly enough so that I never felt safe.” She took a deep breath. “I got another one this afternoon.” She shoved herself up and ran her hands over her thighs, bunching and then smoothing the black material of her pants. “I hate this. I hate that I’m afraid to check my mail. I hate that I’ve got the police on speed dial again. I hate that I’m sitting here moping.” With a growl, she burst off the couch and stomped over to the windows, throwing back the curtains and nearly blinding me in the process. Her shoulders tightened, lifting toward her ears, and I hated that I couldn’t just walk over there and ease out the tension with my fingers.
“It’s not all bad though, right?” I flashed a smile in her direction, or at least I tried to. I’m not sure how convincing it was when rage was coursing through my veins, thicker than blood. I forced myself to relax, lighten the mood. “I mean, would you rather be wearing that pink bunny costume singing karaoke in Times Square or using this perfectly legitimate excuse to get your hands on me?”
When she turned around, I laid a hand right over the spot where hers had been resting.
She shook her head, but, slowly, a grin broke across her face, lighting up the room. “That is a pretty decent silver lining.”
“Pretty decent? That’s it?” I winced. “You’re seriously bruising my ego.”
“Shut up.” Her steps carried her back across the room and she sank down, sitting on top of the coffee table across from me. “It’s my turn now, you know.”
“Hit me.”
“You sure you’re ready.”
“Bring it on.”
“All right.” She crossed one leg over the other, leaning closer. “Would you rather hang out this weekend like usual or go on a real, honest-to-goodness date with me instead?”
Wait, what?
While I blinked at her like someone was assaulting my retinas with a flashlight, she kept talking. “It’s fine if friends is all you’re looking for, but I’m interested in you so I wanted to put it out there. I’m not the kind of person who likes to play games or beat around the bush . . . so, yeah. I like you. I’d like to go out on a date with you if that’s something you’re interested in.”
I had to unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth and jumpstart my brain in the process. She was asking me out on a date. A date. A date. It didn’t really matter how I said it or where I placed the emphasis, it still shocked the hell out of me.
Finally, my lips moved and I managed to say, “A date.” Because clearly that was the only thought scampering around my brain. I cleared my throat. “My place. I’ll cook you dinner.” And then, almost as an afterthought, “I like you too.”
That got her to laugh. “You should really see the look on your face.”
I cringed. “I think I’ll pass. Fragile ego and all, you remember.”
“So, Saturday?”
I nodded. “How’s seven?”
“Seven’s perfect.” Her eyes sparkled with repressed laughter as they traveled over my face. “You wanna call it a night?”
It would probably be best to end tonight on a high note. If I stayed, I couldn’t guarantee that I’d be able to string together a coherent sentence. I tried though. “Maybe.”
I did try, I just wasn’t successful.
Her eyes narrowed. “I’ve got one last question for you.”
“Well, hopefully I’ve got one more answer for you.”
She walked her fingers up my arm, inching forward with every touch and sending goosebumps skating in all directions. “Would you rather date a girl who’s predictable or one who takes you by surprise?”
The words came out rough, like someone rubbed them down with sandpaper. “I like surprises.”
The tip of her nose brushed mine. “Good,” she said, the second before her lips landed on mine. Her hands found their way to my shoulders, her fingers creeping around to tangle in the long strands of hair at the base of my neck.
It wasn’t like any other first kiss I’d ever had. Our mouths weren’t strangers, they were old friends. As her tongue sought mine out, her lips teased mine like they’d done it thousands of times before. When I drew her lower lip between my teeth and slid my hands down her ribcage, drawing her closer, she let out a breathy sigh of contentment that made me groan in response.
Running her hands up the sides of my neck, she took one more long pull on my tongue and then drew back. Her pupils were wide and round, a faint flush dusting her cheekbones. I wrapped a hand around her neck and dragged her back down, tasting her one more time before letting her go.
Her grin was infectious, and I felt my cheeks aching as they returned the expression.
“Well,” she said. “I guess that answers that question.”
Chapter 9: Juliet
When I died, my tombstone would no doubt read: Here lies Juliet St. Clair, workaholic.
A hanger screeched across the metal pole as I sorted through my closet, and I shielded my phone from the noise. “Mhmm, that’s great, Sheila.” She babbled some more in my ear. “No, not a problem at all. I’m always happy to squeeze you in.” I rolled my eyes as I picked up a floral skirt and put it back.
It’s just a quick interview with People magazine, Ally had said. Fifteen minutes, tops!
Fifteen minutes, hah. More like forty-five. And if I didn’t hurry the hell up then I was going to be late for my date with Felix.
“Great, I look forward to reading it. Talk to you later.”
The second I hung up, I padded out of my closet and tossed my phone on the bed. It disappeared into a pile of clothing, and I sprinted to the bathroom, stripping off my clothes as I went. The shower water was still cold when I stepped underneath it, the icy droplets making me gasp. My teeth chattered together until the hot water managed to kick in, but I didn’t have time to soak it up.
Water pooled on the bathroom floor as I hastily scrubbed myself dry and wrapped my hair in another towel. After a quick pit stop to brush my teeth, I hurried back to my closet and pawed through it. There had to be something in there.
Jeans? Too casual.
Pencil skirt? I shook my head. I was going to a date, not a funeral.
Hmm, a dress. Definitely a dress, but which one?
From somewhere in my bedroom, my phone gave out a chime signaling an incoming text message. I’d consider ignoring it if it weren’t for the fact I’d been getting a barrage of text messages from Felix asking me everything from my preference in wine—shiraz, but I was a beer girl myself—to whether I had his address—I didn’t.
By the time I managed to unearth my phone from its hiding place in a pile of discarded clothes, I’d gotten another text. The first was from Felix, the second from my little sister, Elle.
Felix: You’re not allergic to cheese, right?
Elle: I’m bored and I miss your face.
I brushed my fingertips over her name, silently wishing Thanksgiving would come faster. Taking this time to myself was eating me up inside like a guilt-ridden parasite. I should be home, spending time with her while I still could, not wasting it here by myself.
But I wasn’t wasting it. For the past twelve years I’d rarely even had a day to myself. If I wasn’t filming or smiling for the cameras, I was home, helping Mom and Dad with Elle, soaking up every second with my family that I could. It was okay to schedule in some downtime, right? Right?
I sighed and quickly typed up a response to Elle. It was almost always the way we communicated nowadays when I was on the road. If it wasn’t enough that juvenile Huntington’s made it difficult for her to walk or do anything that required fi
ne motor skills, it was robbing her of her speech too. I’d have gladly sat on the phone for hours while she searched out the right word and convinced her mouth to form the word she’d so painstakingly chosen, but it frustrated Elle to no end. So, she resorted to texting—at her own pace, in her own time, on the biggest device with the biggest buttons I could find.
After Elle’s text, I shot another one off to Felix, then stuck my phone in my cleavage for safekeeping. Not that I had all that much of it, but enough to do the trick.
My phone chimed again.
Elle: Is this you hinting I should get you cheese for Christmas?
I groaned. My phone clearly hated me as much as I hated it. If Elle got my text meant for Felix, that meant that . . .
Felix: You just saw me like, two days ago lol. But I miss your face too.
Felix: But really, are you allergic to cheese?
Oh for God’s sake. Laughter bubbled through me as I sent back a quick response to Felix, actually Felix, letting him know I was definitely not allergic to cheese. Then I sent another one over to Elle.
Me: Wrong text message, sorry. I’m a mess. Trying to get ready for a date. No idea what to wear.
I searched through my closet for the seventieth time, gave up again, and went to do my hair. The straightener was still heating when Elle’s response came through.
Elle: Anyone I know?
Me: Felix Donovan. Drummer for The Downfall.
Her next response was much quicker.
Elle: I hate you.
Elle: Wear the boots.
The boots. Of course. I almost smacked myself in the forehead. How could I have forgotten about the boots? With quick, deft movements, I straightened my hair until it glimmered like a golden sheet, then quickly threw on some makeup.
Marching back to my closet for the final time, I stooped down to dig out the infamous boots. Some paparazzo had snapped a photo of them on me when I was out on the town with Ally, and the next morning I’d gotten a slew of tweets and posts about it. Apparently they “rocked everyone’s world.” Elle, who had only been sixteen at the time, dubbed them my “sex boots.”
