“Why, why, why,” she kept repeating and then would add, “I can’t feel my hands.”
The guy told her, “Shut the fuck up and quit tripping. You need to get your shit together, now.” Over and over again until, finally, he slapped her.
She only laughed, this crazy laugh and then she started singing this song, “Lean into me. Lean into me. Take. Help me. I need to understand. Help me. I can’t do this without you.”
The guy slapped her again, this time harder, and it shut her up for a moment. As he did it, I swear she looked right over at me hiding in the corner behind a box of toys, yet she never said a word. It’s all I could really see of her—her eyes—everything else was masked in the shadows. I’ll never forget the song she sang, the lyrics engraved into my mind deeper than letters and dates in my parents’ headstone. Even when I’m listening to other music, always hoping I’ll stumble across the song they belong to, I’m thinking about the song. The sound of her voice… so disturbingly beautiful. I told the police about the song and the shoes and they looked at me with sympathy in their eyes, telling me they’d do everything they could to find the person. I was six and confused and really did believe they’d bring the bad guys in. And sometimes, when my imagination got the best of me, I’d secretly tell myself that once the bad guys were behind bars, my parents would come back to me again.
But neither ever happened and eventually the case was closed, like the lids on my parents’ coffins.
* * *
I called in sick for work tonight and I’m blowing off dealing, even though it’s Saturday night, the best night for hitting up parties. Preston doesn’t always have me screw his costumers over, sometimes he just sends me to deal straight up, which is what he asked me to do when I dropped his car off last weekend. I’d agreed, but that was before I realized that it was nearing finals week, and I need to study. Plus my ankle is still a little black and blue and it’s not ideal for walking around in boots or heels, which is required attire when dealing—Preston’s rules.
I haven’t talked to Luke since he took me to McDonald’s, but I have passed him a couple of times in the halls and the campus yard. I caught him a couple of times staring at me, but he always looks away when he notices me noticing. I think I upset him with something I said while we were at McDonald’s. But I’m known most for unintentionally insulting people—and sometimes intentionally—so I’m not surprised. What I am surprised about is how much I’ve thought about him over the last few days and how I kind of sort of wish that he’d talk to me and I’ve even almost lost my sanity a few times and thought about going up to talk to him.
I don’t like it. At all. I don’t think about guys—or people in general—for extended amount of times or worry about talking to them. It’s a waste of brain space. But he seems a little different from the long sequence of people I’ve met in my life, mainly because he’s helped me out and hasn’t asked anything from me in return. There’s no clear reason why, but I’m waiting for one to surface, because he has to want something from me. If he’s helping just to be nice then it means my theory that people only help others to help themselves is ruined.
And maybe it’s that slight difference that makes me so drawn to him. Maybe it’s because he does, in his own strange way, seem nice. And I hate to admit it, but I also think it might be his eyes, too, but I’m blaming that on the fact I’m a female and I don’t think there’s any woman out there who wouldn’t be drawn to his intense eyes just a little.
I’m lying on my stomach on my bed with my Philosophy book opened up in front of me, along with my Calculus book, so I can rotate between the two subjects. I’ve got some Green Day cranked up fairly loud since Callie’s out, a bag of Sour Patch Kids and some Doritos in front of me, along with a thirty-two-ounce Dr Pepper. Between the sugar, caffeine, and loud music, I’ve hit a super zone where studying has become like breathing. My eyes feel like they’re bleeding, though, and my head’s starting to hurt, but it feels good to know I’m trying so hard it hurts.
I could take a study break, but I’m not going to. School was always sort of my thing and maybe it’s because it was my escape from whatever home I was living in. I almost flunked out when I lived on the streets and then went to juvie but when I got my shit together, I vowed never to mess up in school again.
Suddenly Green Day is overlapped with a little Rise Against as my phone starts to ring. Blowing out a breath, I lean over to the iPod dock and turn the stereo down, then I pick up my phone and answer it.
“I can’t do it tonight,” I tell Preston, sitting up on the bed and rubbing my eye. “I have to study.”
“Who said I was calling for that?” he replies. “Jeez, you didn’t even fucking let me say hello.”
“I know, but I know what you’re going to say and I can’t. I have finals coming up.”
“But you told me last Sunday that you could.”
“I know.” I sigh heavily. “But I forgot how close it was to the end of the semester.”
He pauses and I hear a flick of the lighter in the background as he lights up a cigarette. “Violet, I don’t want to make you do anything you don’t want to, but I need you to go out tonight.” His voice is calm, but firm. He’s getting irritated and I’ve seen what can happen if he gets too upset. “I was there when you needed me. I gave you a place to live and put a roof over your head when no one else would. And I let you live your life however you wanted.”
“Preston… I…” I waver. I want to stay in and study, but I don’t want him to be upset with me. And he has a point. He did help me out when no one else would—when no one else wanted me. “Okay, I’ll do it,” I finally say, frowning at my study stuff on the bed.
“That’s my girl,” he says, flawlessly changing from intense to flirty. “Take the bus over to my house and get the stuff. Then I’ll let you use my car.”
“Okay,” I tell him, trying to hide my disappointment. “But am I just dealing tonight or do I have to screw people over?”
“Just dealing,” he tells me. “After what happened last weekend I think it’d be good if you took a little break.”
“I’m sorry I screwed up.”
“It’s okay. Just don’t do it again.” He hangs up and I sigh, getting out of bed to get dressed.
I decide on a black backless, floor-length dress that will hide the fact I’m going to wear flip-flops. Then I tousle my fingers through the waves of my hair and sweep it to the side, then put some lip gloss on and outline my eyes with kohl eyeliner. It’s not my best presentation, but I’m only dealing tonight and I honestly am too exhausted to put any more effort into my looks. But hopefully I’ll be up to Preston’s standards, otherwise I’m going to be on the shit list for a while.
* * *
I arrive at Preston’s house a little after eight, which is a little later than he’d probably like but I had to wait around for the bus. I knock on the front door to the house that I called my home for three years before I went to college. It still looks the same; green shutters, nasty brown siding that used to be white, and set of rusty metal stairs that lead to the front door. The yard’s nice, though. There’s even flowers growing in it and the flourishing trees make me think of the trees that enclosed my old childhood home.
“Come in,” Preston calls out after I knock again.
I turn the doorknob and then gather the bottom of my dress so I can step over the threshold without stepping on it. The air always smells pungent in the house, but I think that’s because someone’s always smoking something. Like Preston right now. He’s got a cigarette in his hand, smoke snaking out of his lips, and a candle burning on the kitchen counter, which is diagonal from the front door.
“Well don’t you look beautiful,” he says, his eyes scroll over my outfit and I feel myself let a relieved breath out of my lips. I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding it.
“Thanks. I do try my best.” I swish the skirt a little as I make my way across the living room and to the kitchen. I pull out a barstool
and take a seat, propping my feet up on the bottom bar.
Preston’s wearing a plaid shirt that’s unbuttoned and shows a series of tribal tattoos on his chest and ribs. His sandy blond hair is a little long, running down to the bottom of his chin and he has a five o’clock shadow, but he usually does. His jeans are missing a button so I can see the top of his striped boxers and when he steps back from the counter, I notice he’s barefoot.
“Wow, you sure dressed up tonight,” I joke, folding my arms on top of the counter. “Aren’t you throwing a party or something? You usually do on the weekends.”
He glances at me as he puts the cigarette into his mouth. “Not tonight,” he says, smoke snaking from his lips. “I’m getting a little tired of people at the moment.”
“Getting too old for those crazy kid parties, huh?” I tease, then zip my lips together when he glares at me.
He grazes his thumb across the end of the cigarette, holding it over a coffee mug, and spills the ashes inside it. “I’m not that much older than you, Violet.”
“You’re ten years my senior,” I argue in a playful tone. “Which does make you old.”
“Eight years your senior,” he corrects. “I’m only twenty-seven… don’t be adding years on me.”
I shoot a conniving grin at him. “When you get that old, does it really even matter anymore if I add a year or two?”
He shakes his head with forced annoyance as he extends his arm over the counter and grabs the ashtray next to my elbow. He puts his cigarette out in it, then his hand moves for the front pocket in his shirt. “So I’m going to have you stick to herb tonight,” he says, taking out a small baggie of weed out of his pocket. He tosses it down on the counter in front of me, getting down to business. “And I heard that the cops were going to be out a little heavier around town, so be careful.”
“How do you know that?” I ask. “Is your friend Glen tipping you off again? He’s such a dirty copper.”
“ ‘Dirty copper’?” He chuckles under his breath. “I think you’ve been watching a little too many cop shows, Violet. No one talks like that.”
“I don’t watch cop shows,” I lie, tracing one of the many cracks on the countertop. “I read that expression in a book.”
“What era does the book take place in? 1930?”
“No, 2012.”
“You’re such a liar,” he says, crossing his arms as he slumps back against the counter. “You seriously are the worst I know and one day it’s going to get you into trouble.”
“I don’t lie all the time.” I pick up the bag of weed. “I just make things colorful when they’re gray.”
“You are the most entertaining girl I know, Violet Ha…” He trails off, probably remembering the one and only time I yelled at him—when he called me by my last name.
I quickly change the subject before it can get to me. “So, are you going to let me crash here for the summer or what?”
A flirtatious smirk curves across his face. “You know you’re always welcome here. I’ll even share my bed with you.”
I roll my eyes. “Thanks, but I think I’ll take my old room.”
“What? I’m not good enough to share a bed with?”
“No, I’m sure you are, but you know I don’t share a bed with anyone.”
He leans over the counter. “I know and I’d really like to know why.”
I give a one-shoulder shrug. “For the same reason I don’t share anything else. Because I don’t like people touching my stuff.” That’s not entirely true. I used to hate sleeping alone—being alone in general.
After I found my parents murdered, I stayed in the house with them for twenty-fours hours, and it was the longest twenty-four hours of my existence. The longer I stayed in the house with the bodies the farther I sank into the loneliness and myself. I kept telling myself to get up, but I knew once I did that it’d be over. That I’d have to say good-bye. Finally the silence broke me down, though, and I had to move.
I didn’t cry right away after the funerals. It’d taken a few days and then I couldn’t stop. It went on forever and I just wanted someone to comfort me. And I hated sleeping alone with the nightmares filled with loneliness. I tried to get someone to hold me, hug me, help me not feel so alone, but in the end, no one wanted the job. And finally I decided not to be so weak. I made myself be strong. Be okay with being alone. Be okay with only having myself.
“Earth to Violet.” Preston waves his hand in front of my face. “You’re spacing off on me.”
“Sorry.” I go to put the bag of weed in my pocket, but realize I forgot my jacket. “Shit, I don’t have any effin pockets in this dress.”
Preston cocks his head to the side and strands of his hair fall into his liquid blue eyes. “Personally I like the dress…” He looks me over and I try not to let his penetrating gaze make me uncomfortable, but it kind of does. “I have an idea.” He rubs his scruffy jawline as he winds around the counter and I turn in the barstool to face him. He sticks his hand out. “Give me the bag.”
I drop it in his hand and he folds his fingers around it and reaches for my chest. I flinch, but don’t say anything, focusing instead on keep my breathing even as his hand brushes the top of the dress.
“You’re not wearing a bra.” He bites his lip, his hand lingering on my chest for a moment, then he moves it toward my hip, reaching around to my back where the dress opens up and my bare skin shows. He barely slips his fingers underneath the fabric and then tucks the bag just beneath the waistband of my thong, my skin blazing with heat at the contact of his fingers. It’s not like I’m innocent. Guys have groped me and I let their hands wander wherever they want as long as it’s nothing more than business. It’s easy to ignore everything when they’re just a face, think of something else, like how much laundry I have to do. But if there’s the slightest spark of emotion then I push away.
The idea of connecting with someone emotionally and intimately never has appealed to me. Emotions haven’t in general. They serve no point other than to lead to disappointment when you realize you’re feeling something for someone who doesn’t reciprocate. Preston knows this about me and it makes me sort of question why he would touch me like this. He can joke with me all he wants, but touching is off limits with people I have some sort of relationship with whether it be foster dad or friend, whichever he is to me… it sometimes gets confusing.
I’m battling to get oxygen into my lungs without gasping as my head swirls with confusion and the urge to ram my fist into his jaw.
“Just don’t get too crazy with your dance moves,” he says, withdrawing his hand and winking at me. Then he circles the corner of the kitchen counter. “There’s a party in Fairtown,” he tells me, carrying on the conversation as if nothing happened as he digs through his cupboards for something. “You should hit it up. That town’s full of potheads.”
I swallow the anger down and force my voice to come out as upbeat as a cheerleader on crack. “Okay, sounds good.” With my back turned to him, I squeeze my eyes shut, reminding myself to breathe, reminding myself that he’s all I got and when faced with the choice of being entirely alone or taking this, I choose this.
Chapter 5
Luke
I have a beer in my hand and a few shots in my system, building my safety net for the night. Without them, I’d feel like I was helplessly falling nowhere. I know it’s a dangerous road I’m headed down, especially because I’m a diabetic. There have been a few instances where I pushed my body’s limits and doctors have told me that if I don’t stop, I could end up dead. The problem is that living without alcohol is a life I can’t live.
It’s Saturday night and I’m checking my computer for listing of apartments for rent. As usual, nothing turns up, nothing affordable anyway. It’s the wrong time of year, summer break approaching, and all the college students are looking for places to live so they fill up quickly. If I had more money saved up, it’d be easier, but I don’t. I’m starting to debate whether I can look past my res
entment toward my father and ask him if I can come live with him or at least stay at the beach house. But the idea of asking him for help, when I got so little of it growing up, makes me feel weak. I want him to have to work to be my father. I don’t know for sure how much he knows about what went on, but what I do know is that for years there wasn’t enough contact from him for me to even tell him. The only thing I can do is let the memories haunt my head, which they do pretty much every night when I close my eyes, unless I’m drunk. When I’m drunk, nothing is in my head.
I get a text as I’m shutting the computer. I pick my phone up off the desk and swipe my finger over the screen. It’s from Seth, Callie’s best friend. I sometimes hang out with him and his boyfriend Greyson, since they both like to party as much as I do.
Seth: R u going out tonight?
Me: Aren’t I always?
Seth: Where u headed?
Me: Probably to the Red Ink up on 6th street. Why? You got something planned?
Seth. Not yet. Red Ink, huh? You must be looking for a skank tonight.
Me: Tonight? Don’t you mean always?
Seth: You know, rumor has it you’ve been hanging out with the biggest skank on campus.
Luke: What? Who?
Seth: A bitchy roommate with a dragon tattoo on her neck. Goes by the name of Violet.
I scratch at my head, wondering where the hell he heard that from, but then it clicks.
The Destiny of Violet and Luke Page 8
