by K. V. Rose
“You storm down the hallway and out the door with a gun in your hand, you don’t get to tell me what to do!” She’s wearing the dress but she’s barefoot and her blonde hair is wild around her face, her eyes glistening. “What the hell is going on?”
I grab her arm, and steer her down the hall, not wanting Riley to panic any more than she probably already is. I lead Ava to a chair in the living room and push her down, but she fights me, trying to stay on her feet.
I push harder.
She sinks down, arms folded over her chest as she glares up at me.
“Everything is fine.” I pull my phone out of my pocket and sit across from her on the beige couch. I scroll through my contacts and call Felix.
He answers on the first ring.
“Why didn’t you know?” I ask him, testing the waters. I feel Ava’s eyes on me.
“Know what?” He sounds genuinely confused.
“That Rolland got a flight out of the States to North Carolina.”
I hear Felix blow out a breath. “I have no idea. His passport was tracked—”
“Thought so.” I hang up the phone, toss it on the coffee table. I tap the gun against my thigh, thinking. We can’t run. I don’t want to run. I just want to keep Riley safe until I kill this motherfucker.
“What the hell is going on?” Ava asks again. I glance at her. She runs a hand through her tangled blonde hair, and then wraps her arms back around herself.
So much for a movie.
“You should probably go home,” I tell her. So much for getting laid.
She laughs. Bitterly. “Tell me what is going on. Why do you have a gun? Who is Rolland?” She gestures to me, clearly confused. “What is happening?”
I smile at her. “Nothing that concerns you, and you should be grateful for it. Come on.” I stand to my feet. “I’ll take you back to my place, get your bag, and then walk you to your car.” I make to walk past her, but she shoots an arm out and grabs my own, pulling herself to her feet as she does.
I look over at her, inches from me. I see her chest rise and fall. Watch her as she bites her bottom lip, leaving a small, temporary dent.
Fuck.
“Tell me what the fuck is going on. My father is the mayor of this town and if people are in danger—”
I snort. “Don’t worry, Princess. This shit is nothing your daddy needs to know about.” In fact, he definitely doesn’t need to know about it.
Her hand on my arm tightens, her nails digging in. “Benji—”
The way she says my goddamn name.
Fuckkkk.
“My last name is Silva,” I offer her, remembering her comment from earlier. I want this girl in my bed, but I’ve got to keep my head on straight. Romance is never in the cards for me, for this reason. “And that’s about all the info I’m going to give you right now, Ava Culwen, since you haven’t earned anything else. Now, get your fucking hand off of me and let’s go get your shit.”
She doesn’t let go. She just sinks her nails in deeper and pulls me closer. She’s standing on her tiptoes, her eyes narrowed. I can smell her clean scent, which is a miracle considering she spent all night in a fucking club. She’s like a walking, talking doll. With a lot more spite.
“Don’t you ever talk to me like that again.”
I laugh. “You can’t handle that?” I ask her, leaning down until my brow is pressed against hers. She doesn’t shrink back, she just narrows her eyes. “Then you definitely can’t handle me.”
Six
Fuck Benji Silva.
That’s all I can think as I pace around my living room, trying to work up the courage to go into Mom’s room, which, as my father just informed me, is likely the place she’ll die.
Die.
But I don’t really want to think about that, even though it’s really been a long time coming, so I think about Benji. Right now, he’s a distraction.
I need one.
I sink down into one of the stiff, dark wooden chairs, thankful my parents never really made us eat dinner in here unless it was something for Dad’s work. Mom was a dancer, and she liked to eat dinner in the living room. On the floor, crisscross applesauce style. And whatever Mom wanted, she usually got. Even now, Dad is still wrapped around her little finger.
Benji practically pushed me out of his condo, without telling me a damn thing about why he had a gun and was looking for a guy called Rolland.
Being practical, I searched for Rolland in Toronto, and found several, one giving me more pause than the others. A real estate mogul. But aside from many pictures of him in suits at various parties and functions, I could find nothing that would indicate why Benji would need a gun if he thought he was nearby.
I sigh, put my head in my hands.
Probably not the right Rolland.
I’m still feeling a little dehydrated and a lot hungover, and my feet ache from dancing the night away. But even that can’t stop the slow smile that curves on my lips. Because despite how it all came crashing down this morning, last night was fun, and as far as I know, there wasn’t even a single picture taken of me. Besides that, I know Benji had been watching me dance, and he didn’t mention that I’d done anything particularly embarrassing.
Although, then again, after he got that phone call and barged into Riley’s condo, he hadn’t mentioned much of anything.
I kind of feel bad for Riley. She’s got two dudes that seem to monitor her every breath and the girl just wants to hang with her bestie.
But as my phone vibrates on the table in front of me, I remember someone is trying—and failing—to monitor my every move too. And that failing part is really pissing Dumont off.
I pick up my phone and glance at the millionth text he’s sent since last night.
What the fuck, Ava? Are you okay? Dead? You weren’t in class today.
No shit I wasn’t in class. I’d told Tess I would miss this morning, and she’s coming over for dinner tonight, but I hadn’t bothered to tell Dumont, and I don’t even know why. Maybe because since he told me about the divorce, I’m feeling kind of…apprehensive. When he was still married, it meant things couldn’t go too far.
Now, though…
I switch my phone to silent and flip it over, laying my head on the table.
“Honey?” Dad’s voice.
I jump, and sit bolt upright, twisting in my seat to see him in the entranceway, a frown on his face.
“Yeah?”
“You okay?” He’s been waiting for me in their bedroom for a few minutes now. I changed out of my dress and into AG jeans and a pink t-shirt, but I’m not sure I’m ready for this.
Even still, I nod.
He’s losing the love of his life, and he’s holding his shit together, as he also presides over the shithole that is Briar. I can get myself together for this.
I stand to my feet, leave my phone on the table, and walk toward my father. I see his blue eyes—a shade darker than mine—are lined with red and there are deep purple shadows beneath them. As I walk closer to him, I feel some of my strength leave me.
I’m 22.
I’m going to need Mom for a long, long time. I need her right now. I want to talk to her about boys, including Dumont and Benji. I want to tell her how I have no idea what the hell I want to do with my life, and how I feel guilty being able to let that decision go for now, because of her and Dad’s money.
I want to tell her to take me with her, wherever she’s going.
Dad must see all of this in my face because he pulls me into him, his arms wrapped around me, holding me close. I inhale, breathing in his aftershave, thankful he’s still able to at least do that. To at least get through some semblance of normal life.
The tears prick behind my eyes, but I won’t let them fall. Not right now. I take a deep, shaky breath instead, resting my head on Dad’s chest, and we just stand there, not speaking, because really, what is there to say?
We’re losing her.
When we make it into Mom and Dad’s bedro
om, I slip in the sheets beside her, pulling the white comforter over both of us, our arms touching. She’s sleeping, and I hear her soft inhales and exhales, see the feeding tube in her nose. But even now, even at the end of her long battle with breast cancer, she’s so beautiful.
Her hair is blonde and long, a shade lighter than mine, thin and sparse. It’s fanned around her pillow, her eyes are closed, her nose straight and dainty, her lips full, even though they’re dry. She’s become half of the woman she was in terms of her size, but she’s twice the woman she was in every other way. Even though she’s battled this for over a year, she’s been my mother every step of the way. She’s always tried to coerce me into talking about school and boys and my friends, even though I’ve held back the past six months. She’s Facetimed with me when I’ve gone shopping, helping me pick out clothes, for both me and her.
She is the reason I stopped being an idiot last semester and drinking myself into oblivion and flunking all my classes.
She told me if I didn’t graduate, she’d never get over it, and if I became an alcoholic, she would probably die sooner, from grief.
Manipulation at its finest, and damn did it work.
But jokes on both of us. Because she’s going to die anyway.
Dad watches us from the doorway of their bedroom, his arms crossed, and a slight tilt of his lips to indicate he might be smiling, or maybe he’s just reminiscing about life before Mom’s diagnosis. Or even when we thought for sure she’d beat it.
I close my eyes, turn on my side and snuggle closer to her. I’ll stay here until she wakes up.
“What the hell, Ava? Are you okay? Is your mom okay?” Dumont’s words come out in a rush, and he exhales, loudly, through the phone. “I’ve been worried sick about you. I thought you were going to come over?”
I pace in front of my bedroom window, looking down on the immaculate grounds, lit by lampposts, the fountain in the front yard and the paved driveway that curves on either side of it. From here, we can’t see the road. It’s nice, feeling like I’m in a bubble.
Sometimes.
It was afternoon when Mom and I both woke up, and now it’s just past eight, and I have no desire to see Dumont, but I also don’t want to be here, either.
“I’m sorry,” I say absentmindedly, not really feeling very sorry. I pull my knees up to my chest on the alcove that juts off from my window, tracing my finger over the glass. “Mom isn’t doing well…” I trail off, feeling my chest constrict.
She was coherent enough for us to talk. For about one minute. She’s heavily medicated, and I know it won’t get better. It’ll get worse. I know it, and yet some part of me still thinks maybe there’s a chance. Holding onto that hope is almost the cruelest part.
I hear Dumont blow out a breath. “I’m so sorry, Ava. Why didn’t you just tell me that?”
The same reason I don’t call you James, I think bitterly. Because I don’t want to share more than I have to with my professor. Because this can never work out, even if we’ve been screwing each other since early summer, when we met at a bar and I climbed onto his lap and made him take me home.
“I dunno,” I answer instead, not really ready to deal with this shit right now. “I’m sorry, but I’m really tired.” A lie. “I’m going to head to bed soon. We’ll talk later, okay? I’ll be in class tomorrow.” Might be a lie.
“Ava, why don’t you meet me somewhere? Or, I don’t know, maybe I can sneak in?”
Is this dude for real?
I glance out at the expansive yard again, so far from the road. No way in hell Dumont could sneak in.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t want to give my dad any issues.” And finding my English professor who is sixteen years older than me in my bedroom would be a very, very big issue.
“Okay, Ava,” Dumont finally says, and I can hear the edge in his tone. He’s going through this divorce, and probably wanting to jump into my arms because I’m sure no matter how badly things weren’t working out for him and his ex-wife, he still misses her on some level. I know he still loves her.
We hang up, and I set my phone down on the window sill, leaning my head against the glass.
Tess cancelled dinner to hang out with her stoner poet sometimes-boyfriend, and I don’t want to be here alone. I pick my phone back up, scroll through social media, try, and fail, to find Benji or Riley. Neither of them are anywhere to be found, and I’m pretty good at social snooping.
But then a text comes in.
Benji’s number.
Come over.
Not even a question mark. The fucking audacity of this dude. And yet I can’t help this stupid smile on my face.
I don’t reply, and instead change out of my pink tee and into a light blue shirt made of lace, from Free People, with most of the back missing (on purpose). I comb my hair with my fingers, smudge on some eyeliner in my adjoining bathroom, and apply a shade of light pink lipstick. I slip into brown booties, and then pick up my phone again.
He’s already text. Again.
Do you need me to come get you or…
I want to be mad. But instead, I tell him I’m on the way, and practically run out of the house, shooting Dad a text that I’ll be out. I don’t use Tess as the excuse again, because my parents actually speak to her and I haven’t asked her to cover for me. But I’m 22. I’m allowed to leave when I want.
And I need to get out of this house.
Running away from my problems has always been what I’m best at.
Seven
Ava walks in at the worst time, and it’s my fault.
I had given her the keycode to the condo (which I’ll change immediately after she leaves) and told her my door would be unlocked.
What I hadn’t planned for was the panic attack.
I’m on my knees in the living room, my head in my hands, images of Bianca and the motherfucker she fucked me over with swarming in my head. The sounds she made when she was on all fours, him fucking her from behind. The way he yanked her hair back, grabbed her throat. How she moaned his name.
How if she had told me, I could have warned her.
But she didn’t.
Because she was scared of me, too. And that was before I even went to prison. That was before I was even someone to fear.
I feel Ava’s hand on my back before I even hear her come in. I flinch, instinctively ducking, turning, and shoving her off of me all at once.
She yelps, falling to her ass on the carpet of the living room, and for a split second, I’m still confused.
Then I realize who it is and what I did. I shoot to my feet, my hands on my head.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, taking deep breaths, trying to calm my racing heart, taking a step back from her. I wonder if this is what Riley felt like when I showed up in her old apartment and threatened her mom. When I put that blindfold on her at the rental house Caden and I found.
She ended up feeling pretty damn good after that, so I try to tamp down on my guilt, but Ava’s wide eyes aren’t making my feel much better. I take another step back from her and my calves hit the coffee table.
“I’m sorry,” I say again.
Ava’s still sitting on the floor, her knees bent, palms behind her. My eyes roam over her lace top, tight jeans, her thick thighs.
My heart starts to pound harder, but thankfully, for a very different reason.
“Are you…are you okay?” she finally asks me, and I see her chest rise and fall slowly, recovering from my outburst.
I nod, hands still on my head. “Yeah, I…” Pull yourself together, Benji. “I’m glad you’re here.”
She cocks her head. “Really?” she tests me, and a smile curves on her lips. “Because you uh, just shoved me away from you, and you looked like you weren’t doing so hot there for a second.” She glances at the floor in front of her, where she just found me.
I put my hands down, run one over my shirt then slip them into my pockets. My heart’s still hammering, my chest tight, but I can
fake it. I’m so good at faking shit. “I’m great,” I lie. “How’s your mom doing?”
She opens her mouth to answer me, but then closes it again, realizing what I’m getting at. And shit, even I know it isn’t fair, to turn this on her like that, but…
Her face turns pale and she scrambles back, coming up against the chair behind her.
“How do you know that?” she asks me quietly. She looks terrified.
I shrug. “I know a lot.”
She stands up, backing further away, past the chair. “How?” she presses.
I take a step toward her and she takes one back. But if she keeps going, she’s going to be against a wall.
I wouldn’t mind if she was against a wall right about now, so I take another step. She goes back. Another, and another, and then her back hits the wall and I place my hands on either side of her head, peering down at her.
Now I’m back in my element.
Back in control.
Now this is my playground. The anxiety melts away, replaced with something much more fun: Excitement. I might like to watch, but I like to play, too.
“Do you really want to know?” I ask her, knowing I won’t tell her, no matter what she says.
“Benji,” she says, trying to make her voice hard, but it still comes out a little hoarse. From her fear. “How do you know about my mother?”
I bring my head down, my lips over her ear. “Ava,” I say, my breath touching her skin. I sense her shiver beneath me. “You’re the daughter of the mayor.” My lips hover over the shell of her ear. “You can’t keep very many secrets. Especially not from me.”
I hear her breathing hard, and I wait to see what she’ll do next. Does she believe me? She shouldn’t.
But she doesn’t move. Doesn’t say a word.
I press my lips against her ear, waiting for her reaction. A whimper escapes her mouth. I move my head lower, trailing my tongue down her neck, and she lifts her chin, giving me better access, her entire body rigid with fear and something else she might not want to feel, but does.
