Julian
Posters of Nick Jonas, Ariana Grande and Beyonce cover Bianca’s room. But she dedicates a corner to pictures of herself, the cheer squad, and a million of her friends. Her bedroom suite is neat and organized and covered in matching colors of gold and white.
I’m lying on the queen bed with one hand behind my head and the other clutching my cell phone. But my attention is on her FaceTime conversation with her proxy co-captain, Stacy Michelle.
Bianca sits in her executive swivel chair in tight yoga pants and a tank top. They’ve been talking for an hour now, discussing the latest act of rebellion in the squad.
“Find out if Brianna said that.” She flips her long blonde ponytail shining underneath the glare of the overhead light.
The queen bee heads her group like a monarchy, with her as the sovereign head of state. Brianna, the girl in question, thinks Bianca’s choreography for the upcoming cheer competition sucks, and it’s rumored that she’s practicing with the other girls on the down low. The renegades plan to present this to the committee for a decision that can either keep or axe Bianca’s dance moves. These are speculations, but the Ice Queen takes no chances.
“I’m on it, B,” said Stacy. “The ladies are on the lookout.”
Bianca nods. “Maybe we need to remind her of what happened to CeeCee.”
Her friend clucks her tongue. “Duct tape, anyone?”
The girls laugh at their private joke while I sit up in bed on high alert. Jesus Christ, who are these people? The fucking mafia? Never have I paid attention to her conversations with her friends. Now, after that breakfast with Wayne, her empty interactions have picked up a new meaning—one that’s darker and sinister.
When she finishes, she spins around to face me. “Let’s talk about prom.”
I arch a brow. “It’s only January. Prom’s in May.”
She rolls her eyes. “Never too early to work on it. Duh.”
“What do we have to plan for? You wear a gown, and I put on a tux. We take pictures. We end the night at the hotel. Done.”
She glares at me. “The crowns for the prom king and queen are at stake here. And I’m not losing those to Aidan and Bailey!”
“Ok…”
“Listen, Stacy told me that Bailey’s boyfriend is staging a prom proposal during the seventh inning stretch.”
Another blank stare from me and she gives me an eye roll.
“Aidan is this year’s star baseball player. He planned this elaborate surprise proposal and the entire team is in on it. It’ll be super cute and you know what that means?”
Why this info is important to me, I’ll never understand. “Tell me.”
“They’ll be the next ‘it’ couple, and it’s goodbye to the crown for me!”
“So, let me get this straight. You want me to ask you to the prom in front of everybody, even though we’ve been an item for years, and everyone already assumes we’re going together?”
“Yup. But do it in a big way. You have two weeks to plan something bigger and better than Aidan’s. Stacy will work with you because she knows me, and she’ll be able to help if your idea sucks.”
“Wow, so romantic.”
“Romance has nothing to do with it!” Her green eyes flash as she glowers at me. “This moment is mine!”
My head turns to her and Wayne’s words come crashing back to me. Bianca and I have been dating for three years, yet she remains a big question mark. As she sits on her chair, a picture of pure perfection, I remember how I used to pinch myself at night at how lucky I was to nab her as my girlfriend. But now, with her manipulations and the huge possibility of her involvement in a former classmate’s injury, I’m questioning my luck.
Feet planting on the carpet, I hop off the mattress and grab my backpack. “Heading home.”
She pouts and stops me. “Babe, are you mad at me? I care about us. It’s just the title is important to me.”
I pause in front of the door and exhale. Then I turn to her, my hand still on the knob. “What did you do to CeeCee?”
That calculated softness melts as she looks at me with surprise. “You were listening?”
“What happened to her?”
Her eyes widen for a second, but then her composure returns. She sits straighter and smooths her ponytail. “The squad had her sit on the bleachers instead of cheering with us during homecoming. What did you think we did, Ian?”
I sigh. So, I guess that’s the game we’re playing because I don’t believe her for one bit. Suddenly, I’ve outgrown this relationship. I turn and open the door. “See you around.”
Chapter 19
Josephine
I clutch my throat and struggle to pry the heaviness that’s pressed against it. But try as I might, it doesn’t budge. Large immovable hands covered in blisters scrape the skin on my neck.
Can’t. Breathe.
My gaze shifts up as my arms flail to reach for the face and disarm my assailant. But a shadow replaces a live body, rendering my attempts useless.
The fingers tighten more, making my throat constrict. My chest threatens to burst, and my vision tunnels as I fight for air. Then an unusual calm takes over despite the darkness closing in on me. I’m dying.
Suddenly, a flash of a white flower pops in front of me, and my eyes open.
Nestled beneath a thick comforter, I see a room bathed in light and a well-worn poster of Ronda Rousey. A sigh of relief escapes me. It was only a dream. As I sit up, I wipe the sweat on my forehead and bring my knees to my chest. I cover my face with my hands and stifle a scream. Night terrors. Twice in one night. I fall into bed and stare at the ceiling. I can’t deny it any longer. This dream is a message. Shit. She was murdered.
“Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!” I hop out of bed and pace around the room as my conscience pierces my heart. “I don’t want to do this, Alexa. I don’t want to end up in the psych ward for you. Find someone else. Please. I’m not the only medium in this town.”
Guitar time. Distraction is a good thing. As I sit back on the mattress, I pluck the strings and before I know it, I’m singing Frank Ocean’s, “Thinking Bout You.”
Oh, yeah. This feels right. I close my eyes—until Alexa’s face pops in my head. “Dammit!”
Forget it. I return the guitar on the stand. This will be a long night.
Then the door bursts open, breaking the silence. “Never fear, honey, Aunty is here!”
I turn to the doorway. Aunt Helen’s slim frame blocks the entryway, and she’s standing in the room with a bright smile. The persistent anxiety plaguing me disappears, and I jump out, running straight to my beloved mother figure.
“You’re here!”
“Yes, ma’am.” She squeezes me as I wrap my arms around her neck.
As she walks beside me to the bed, I check out her fitted gold sweater, tight skinny jeans and tan ankle booties. Asymmetrical bob framing her delicate oval face, the woman fits the image of a trendy San Francisco resident. We stand at eye level now, and I’m reminded of how Julian used to have a crush on her when we were kids. My Aunty turned heads back in the days. Years later, staring at me with her chocolate brown eyes and long lashes, nothing has changed.
“Did my parents leave already?”
“Just a half hour ago, so it’s just you and me, kiddo.”
I grin. The world could end tomorrow, and I’d be the happiest chick alive.
“Listen,” she said, tucking a stray curl behind my ear. “Your mom gave me instructions to take you to church, but I may get amnesia in the next five minutes.”
“I won’t tell if you won’t.”
“That’s my girl,” she laughs. “And I may also get amnesia about enforcing you to put on her outfits.”
My eyes widen. “I can wear whatever I want?”
“And that is an order.” She winks. “Now go back to sleep. It’s only three in the morning.”
I let myself drop to the bed with a contented sigh. Freedom never tasted so good.
Chapter 20
Julian
My car keys fly into the air, and I wait for the clink of metal to hit the desk as it lands. I pull my shirt off and undress to jeans and socks. Next, I pop my contacts off my eyes, blink several times to moisten them and relieve the fatigue. Headaches and muscle tension infest my body while recuperating from my disastrous evening with Bianca.
My swivel chair spins from the wind swooshing through the window, and I plant myself at the desk with a heaviness of a sumo wrestler. Hands laced behind my head, I lean back for a stretch. I glimpse a glossy baby blue envelope caught in between the table leg and the wall. I right myself to retrieve it. As I reach for it, I remember Alexa delivering it two months ago, standing on my front porch holding an envelope with my name.
“It’s official. My cotillion is totally happening.”
I take the envelope and rip it open. “Hotel du Mar?
Jesus Christ, that’s fancy.”
“It’s cotillion goals, honey,” she drawls.
“Never been to one before. So this is kinda like a Sweet Sixteen party, except it’s celebrating eighteen-year-olds?”
She laughs, displaying a set of perfect pearly whites. “Calling this event ‘a party’ is an understatement. This is a ball, sweetie.”
“Oh shit. My bad, princess.”
She giggles as she toys with her hoop earrings. I lean against the doorframe and watch her. Alexa looks casual today, but she’s still a knockout. Her shiny black hair pools atop her head in a bun, and trendy, thick-rimmed glasses with no prescriptions rests on her high cheekbones. She sports a loose cropped sweater that shows a tanned flat stomach and opaque tights that showcase a pair of toned cheerleader legs. It’s easy to see why Brandon still pants for her. “So, princess, are you excited? I mean, you’re gonna be legal soon. That’s gotta be exciting, right?”
She shifts her gaze to the sky as if thinking. Then she faces me. “I am. Before it didn’t matter. But now, I can’t wait.”
“Makes sense. Are you expecting something awesome coming your way?”
She pauses and her eyes cloud as she stares past me. Then it passes. But she looks somber this time. “I got shit mixed up, Ian, and I regret some choices I had made. I have to make things right.”
My hand rubs the skin over my heart to relieve the ache. Though I’m not religious, I bow my head over my clasped hands and pray to anyone in the universe. I just want her found.
Under the sound of the evening breeze, the low hum of a guitar reaches my ears. I look up from my silent prayer and gaze outside my window. The light from Jo’s room is peeking from underneath her closed curtains, telling me she is awake. The familiar melody of Frank Ocean’s song sneaks out of her bedroom and into mine. I haven’t heard her play in a while, yet I know she’s the culprit for this acoustic version of “Thinkin’ Bout You.”
As her strumming becomes louder, she switches to plucking the strings. I nod, impressed at her skills. Then she accompanies it with her voice, and that’s when time stands still. I’m held spellbound as I forget my very existence. A tingle shoots up my veins, and I lean forward to capture each note.
Jo has matured, and her singing ability is no exception. She was an accomplished musician, playing her guitar in my room and the piano from their parlor. We used to enjoy singing together, despite my off-key vocals. But Jo always sounded lovely.
But now, lovely is an understatement. Her voice drips like honey. Sweet and thick, prolonging the pleasure. I remember her love of Amy Winehouse, Lauryn Hill, and Whitney Houston—amazing artists with powerhouse vocals. She takes elements from each singer, making it into her own unique sound. But it has a bite. A memory of me tasting Bourbon came to mind. Jo’s is smooth but packed with enough punch to reinvigorate and leave you sated like a lover after an afternoon tryst. No, her singing is not lovely. It’s an experience.
As she continues to sing, her smoky voice wafts through the night air and lingers in my room. I close my eyes as I listen to her croon. Tonight, she’s a scorned woman, lamenting on the pain of unrequited love.
But somewhere between adoration and nostalgia, the trance breaks, and it’s also when Joy stops singing. My eyes snap open, and I rub my neck as the disturbing thought of Jo worming her way back to my heart becomes a possibility. I shake my head and curse.
Ping!
Perfect timing. I right myself in my chair and take my phone out of my pocket.
Brandon: I’m outside, yo.
What the hell?
Me: The fuck, bro. It’s 3 am. What are you doing at my house?
I wait for a reply, but a response never came. I get up from my desk and put on my glasses. Within a few minutes, I’m at the door, swinging it open. “This better be good, asshole.”
But what I see on the front porch surprises me. Brandon is on the patio swing, knocked out, mouth wide with his head back. “Oh, hell no.”
I walk over to him and nudge him awake. He smells of weed and booze. “Wake your ass up!”
I slap his face mid-snore, and he wakes up, choking on his saliva as he rouses out of sleep. He looks around with bulging eyes. “Where the fuck am I?”
“You’re at my house, dude,” I said. Then, I look behind me and see his truck. “You fuckin’ drove here? You coulda gotten yourself killed—or worse, killed someone else!”
He burst into a fit of giggles. “Bro, you got glasses! But I’m not drunk. Nope. Not me. I’m a fucked up boyfriend, though. And an even worse friend.”
I rub the back of my neck. “The hell you talkin’ about?”
“My baby. She’s too good for me,” he said. Then he shifts his attention to me. “And I gotta right some wrongs, dude. That’s why I’m here.”
“Ok, but can you do this inside? It’s fucking freezing out here, man.”
He shakes his head and groans as he does. “It won’t take long, bro. And then I’ll go home.”
“The hell you are! You’re not driving like this. Sleep it off.”
He nods and puts up a finger. Then he gets up, wobbles over to the railing and in a matter of seconds, hurls over my mom’s gardenias. I grit my teeth as the porch begins to smell of acid, alcohol and rotten, regurgitated food. After he finishes, he wipes vomit off his mouth and slumps to the ground.
“What the fuck have I done?”
I watch him wallow in his sorrows, sobbing as he leans against the wooden post. Then his eyes droop, and he lowers his head, chin sticking to his clavicle. He whimpers and mumbles nonsensical sentences. “Frsheat… celexa…sith…binacaca…you da basement.”
“Man, you’re on some shit. You sure that’s just weed and booze?” I walk over to him. “Take my hand, bro. Come on, get up.”
He takes it, and I pull him off the ground. He’s unsteady on his feet and I tell him to lean on me as we wander together inside the house. After a few minutes of uncoordinated movements, we made it to the den. I plop him on the couch and he falls onto the cushion like fallen timber. I turn on the TV and sit next to him. “Ok, talk to me. What’s up?”
But he responds with a drunken snore. I roll my eyes, but I’m glad because I have no energy to handle his drama right now. I text his mom to let her know he’s safe with me.
Chapter 21
The Night Orchid Page 11
