by Ash Night
Chapter Three
Layla
That was too close. I couldn’t allow him to get that close again. At least not if I wanted to keep what little dignity I had left. Guys were nothing but trouble, even the cute ones. Hell, especially the cute ones. And Ryder definitely qualified as cute. He was like if the cute boy next door and the hot bad boy had a totally hot younger brother.
The Borderline Personality Disorder thing had me a little worried. What did that mean, exactly? I’d been with plenty of crazy guys, but they had all been crazy after years of abusing hard drugs. Did Ryder do drugs? I saw a few pill bottles in his kitchen when I was looking for a glass to fill with water, but those looked like legit prescriptions. Not that that said much, but I wanted to believe he wasn’t on drugs. I didn’t understand why I cared in the first place. It wasn’t like I wanted to get close to him.
Oh God, I did.
I wanted him. That thought both thrilled and terrified me. Being with a guy was easy when I only wanted drugs. Being with them for other reason was when things got messy.
Holding up the lighter, I held the spoon I stolen from the kitchen to the flame as steadily as I could. The thought of drugs pushed all other thoughts from my mind. My body was screaming for the numb feeling. I craved it in that moment more than I craved Ryder. His powerful lean body held no power over me when I compared it to my overwhelming need for drugs. A part of my heart cried at the thought.
The part that still believed in, and wanted, love. That part still missed the innocence of love, the hand-holding, movie dates, the random silly things. A time when I thought sex meant something, instead of meaning absolutely nothing. There was a time where I was the innocent good girl.
A girl my daddy could be proud of. But now he was probably rolling in his grave. My mother, on the other hand, was probably screaming in pain as the fires of Hell consumed her. Good. She deserved nothing less.
When the heroin was ready, I tied my black belt tight around my arm and hit a vein on my first try. I nearly cried with joy as the sensation hit me almost instantaneously. It was sweet, like being bathed in warm velvet. My body shook from the pure ecstasy of it. If anything, Devin knew how to get his hands on the really good stuff. No wonder his prices were so damn high.
As I sat on the floor, enjoying the relaxed feeling of being as high as a kite, I heard it. Ryder’s sweet, melodic voice quietly singing in his bedroom. The passion in his voice made me want to weep. It was so pure, so honest. He was baring his soul. I wanted to get up, go to his room, and just listen, but my muscles wouldn’t cooperate.
It was like I had melted into the floor. That made me want to cry even more. I’d taken my usual dose tonight instead of halving it. I’d been stressed and I wanted to feel numb. Now, all I wanted was to be closer to him. I needed to be closer to him. I thought shooting up would make that feeling go away. It had only intensified it.
So, I sat against my bed, closed my eyes, and imagined what his body would feel like under my fingertips.
“Good morning, sleepy head, or should I say afternoon? It’s one-thirty.” Ryder smirked as he turned back to the counter. He was chopping onions. There was a pan with butter melting in it on the stove. Chop, chop, chop. It was like watching a chef. His movements were so precise, so skilled, like he had worked in a kitchen, or at least spent some time in one.
“Onions, huh? Am I gonna get to see Chef Ryder cry?” I asked as I slid into a chair, the same one I sat in yesterday, at the table.
He chuckled as he transferred the chopped onions to the pan of melted butter. They sizzled and popped. Explained the shirt. “No, I’m afraid not.”
“Is cooking all you ever do? That’s twice now I caught you cooking.” I got up and got myself a glass of water. My top lip was sticking to my teeth. Two cups of water went down in quick succession. Ryder raised an eyebrow but said nothing. I filled the third and returned to my seat, finally confident I could drink it like a normal human.
“My mother taught me. She owns a big restaurant in Los Angeles. I was promised a job there before…” He trailed off, stirring the onions.
“It’s okay. Privacy, I get it,” I said. “I don’t like people who pry either.”
The easygoing grin returned as he turned slightly to look at me. “Huh, never would’ve guessed, Kristen.”
I tried to hide my blush. “I told you I was sorry. I’m used to giving a fake name.”
“Why is that?” he asked, turning back to his onions, turning down the heat and taking two thawed chicken breasts from the microwave. Seasoning each liberally with salt and cracked black pepper, he added them to the pan. Covering the pan, he leaned against the counter, folding his arms, waiting for an answer. His white muscle shirt showed off his biceps. A very nice distraction.
“I’m used to dealing with very dangerous people. Guys, mostly. Fake names are easier.”
“Dangerous guys, huh? What’s a pretty little lady like you doing with dangerous guys?” Ryder’s posture changed. It was ever so slightly, but it was there. It was as if he was ready to fight something. His blue eyes looked angry. Protective. Why would he feel that way? We’d known each other for a day and a half. Of course, it’s not like I could exactly explain my feelings for him either. He looked away and kept his eyes on the pan on the stove, but I knew his mind wasn’t on the food.
“As you already know, I’m a drug user. I used to be an addict, but I am trying to quit. It’s just been a little hard.”
“I can admire that,” he mused, closing his eyes for several seconds. When he opened them again, he looked a little angry. I tensed. This anger was different. It was directed at me. “If the drugs in your room were found, it could cause me to lose my home. Please dispose of them.”
I cringed a little inside. I hadn’t been planning to quit cold turkey for a few more weeks. I was already kicking myself for last night. “It…may not be that easy.”
He sighed and placed his fingertips on the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache. He was completely still, his face dark with anger. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. In my experience, angry guys were dangerous. My brain screamed at me to run. I stayed rooted to my spot. Part of me was curious to see what he would do. That part wasn’t afraid. That part was stupid. I should be afraid. I knew what angry guys did. My ribs throbbed, as if I needed a reminder.
When he finally lifted his head, his features were relaxed. The anger had dissipated, replaced with a calm I didn’t fully understand.
“Promise me one thing.” His voice was gruff. It sent a delicious shiver down my spine.
“Yes?” I asked, mustering up the courage to look into the dark blue embers of his eyes. God, those eyes weren’t fair. No one should be allowed to have such power in their eyeballs. They were goddamn lethal weapons.
“When whatever drug you’re on, and I don’t care to know which one, runs out, that’s the last you will ever bring into this house. I worked hard for my home and I’ll be damned if a girl I picked up off the streets is going to fuck it up for me.”
I nodded. “I completely understand. I wouldn’t want my home taken away either.”
He smiled, back to his easygoing personality so easily it was like slipping on a glove. “Good, I’m glad we’re clear on that.”
Pushing off the counter in one fluid motion, he moved to the stove and flipped the chicken over with a small pair of tongs. He added a few garlic cloves and sprigs of rosemary to the hot pan before covering it again. The smell was amazing.
A massive growl erupted from my stomach. I laughed, embarrassed. “It smells really good,”
Ryder flashed his pearly whites at me. “Good,”
“I can’t cook at all. I’m amazed I managed to not blow up the kitchen making macaroni and cheese when I was younger.”
“Speaking of, how old are you?” He chuckled, putting his hands up in defense when I glared at him. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. I know you aren’t supposed to ask a lady her age but, honest
ly, you look twelve.”
I chuckled. “I know. I get that a lot. I’d be rich if I got paid every time someone asked if I needed help finding my mom in a store. I am twenty-three, I swear.”
“Got you beat! I’m twenty-five.”
“And you look seventeen,” I said. “Damn, do you work part-time at a gym?”
He flexed his arms. “Oh, you noticed? Nah, I go to the gym about five hours a week.”
I stared at him. “First off, that is so not fair! If it wasn’t that enough guys can eat their body weight in junk food and pizza and not gain an ounce, you barely have to work out and you look like that!”
He raised an eyebrow. “An hour a day on weekdays is a decent chunk of time,”
“Not when you’re a single guy,” I retorted. “But the gym is all the way across town. You must spend a lot on gas.”
“Nope, no car. I walk everywhere.” He sniffed and smiled. “Chicken’s done. Do you want a sandwich or just plain?
“Sandwich, please.”
In minutes, he had assembled two chicken sandwiches, put each on a plate, and sat down across from me. “Well?”
Picking my sandwich up with both hands, I took a big bite. The bun was soft, bakery-style bread. The spices in the chicken made my mouth water and I closed my eyes savoring the taste. Ryder really did know what he was doing in the kitchen. I was lucky to have found a boy who could cook. Living off of pizza and take-out hadn’t helped my waistline.
“Good?” he asked expectantly.
I opened my eyes, having trouble finding my voice for a moment. “I haven’t tasted anything this good in a long time.” My mind wandered to a rare good memory I had of both my parents.
We were in the backyard, grilling out. It was summertime. I was ten. Fireflies blinked occasionally, unwilling to be forgotten. My dad was standing at the grill, flipping steaks, holding my mom around the waist, laughing at a joke she had told. I no longer remembered the joke. I wasn’t paying attention. I was trying to catch fireflies, unaware that, five years later, my life would be disrupted by shattered glass and squealing tires.
“Hey, hey, I didn’t think it was worth tears.” Ryder smiled gently. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, just thinking…” I quickly wiped at my eyes. “It’s nothing. I’m sorry.”
He sat back, the smile never leaving his face. “That certainly didn’t look like nothing. And you should never apologize for how you feel. Emotions are beautiful.”
“Most are,” I corrected. “Anger is not beautiful.”
Ryder rocked in his chair for a moment, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Anger that hurts another person, emotionally or physically, is not, but pure anger, anger that does neither of those things, is. That kind of anger leads to the strongest emotion of all, sadness. There isn’t anything more beautiful, or as destructive, as sadness. Sadness has the power to set the world on fire.”
“Sounds more like anger to me,” I replied. “Setting things on fire usually involves anger.”
He set his chair on all fours and laughed. “You have a point.”
Wolfing down my chicken sandwich, I thought about everything he said. He was right. Sadness did light the world on fire. It brought people together. It inspired great works of art. It also snuffed out the light in peoples’ eyes. It took away the hope from those too tired to fight anymore. In my opinion, it caused far more destruction than it was worth.
Chapter Four
Ryder
My home meant a lot to me. It was mine. I didn’t have much to be proud of, but I was proud I had been able to keep a roof over my head. This house had saved my life. Without it, I was right back where I started. A lonely boy with a notebook full of songs and a past so scarred that he kept other people at a safe distance. Everyone was too afraid to mess with a ticking landmine of a boy.
I sighed as I checked my phone. It had vibrated three times in a single day, which in my book qualified as non-stop. There was only one person who made it do that. I had no idea how she had gotten this number.
Ry, come home. -sent at 10:42am
We all miss you. Even Dad. -sent at 12:15pm
She keeps asking for you. This isn’t fair to her. You need to see her. -sent at 3:40pm
Rachel was angry with me. She was the one that wasn’t being fair. She was lying. Dad didn’t miss me. He didn’t give a shit about me. He said so the day I left for good. It killed me each time she texted me. It didn’t matter how many times I changed my number. She always found it. She never called. She only texted. She would never stop texting.
I added her to my empty list of contacts without responding to her texts. I never responded yet she still texted. It was just a sad part of our fractured relationship. I played the part of the brother who never answered and she was the sister who always waited.
I wondered if she still cried for me. I didn’t deserve it. The only reason I knew is because the one time she called me in eight years, she was drunk and crying. She had called to tell me Mom had the early stages of dementia. Of course, being the dutiful older brother that I am, I found out through voicemail. Rachel had ended the voicemail by calling me every name in the book, using curse words I was surprised she even knew. It had been two years since she’d called. I listened to that voicemail every night before bed just to hear her voice. I didn’t even skip the end.
Pouring another cup of coffee, I pushed the thought aside. I wouldn’t think about Mom. That was reserved for at night. During the day it didn’t exist. I could pretend she was fine because in my mind, she was. I preferred to remember her as the way she was the day before I left. Happy, smiling, full of life. I didn’t want to think of what dementia had taken from her.
I took my cup of coffee to my room. Layla stopped me in the hall. “Thanks,”
“For what?” I asked, hoping she wouldn’t want to talk long. Thinking about my family had put me in a bad mood. I didn’t want to ruin her good mood with my bad attitude.
“For fixing the lock on my door. I really appreciate it. So thank you.” Her face lit up like the sun. Fixing her door had brought her so much happiness. The change in her when she smiled, really smiled, was insane. Everyone looked better when they smiled, of course, but Layla did it so rarely that the effect was all that more powerful.
“Of course, it was no problem,” I said, meaning it despite my bad mood.
“Well, I’ll leave you be. Hey, uh, is there more coffee? I could really use a cup to get my day started.” She smiled at me.
I gestured to the kitchen. “Full pot on the counter, help yourself.”
“Thanks, Ryder, honestly. For everything.”
I nodded once and continued to my room. My phone lay on my dresser, fading to black just as I happened to glance at it. Setting my coffee down, I snatched it off my dresser and saw why. Another text.
Breakfast lunch was delicious. :)
-Layla
I chuckled and replied back. I was surprised I knew how to do that. Breakfast lunch? Don’t they normally call that brunch?
My phone dinged with a response seconds later. She was fast. :P Yeah but from what I understand brunch is before noon. I woke up at one-thirty. So breakfast lunch it is.
Shaking his head in amusement, I texted back, not nearly as fast as her. Brunch is usually around ten where I’m from but I imagine it can be anytime. Can I interest you in another brunch tomorrow?
Three dots appeared. Breakfast lunch! And yes, I would love another breakfast lunch! You are a damn good cook, Mr. Daniels.
Another three dots.
Hey, I’m in the kitchen. Where’s the sugar?
Why?
What? You don’t drink coffee with sugar? Le gasp! Monster!
I smirked. I like my coffee like I like my soul. Black as the abyss, sweetheart.
:P Okay, whatever you say, Blue Eyes.
I don’t have any sugar. I can pick some up Friday before work if you want it that badly.
I don’t want it. I need it. Sugar is my
life’s blood! It’s okay I can run right now. I’d be too afraid you’d come back with more nasty black coffee if I sent you, Mr. Black Soul.
Do you need me to come with you?
:P no thanks dad. I’m twenty-three, remember? Three more dots. Another message.
Work on your music some more. I want a front-row seat tonight.
My bad mood was washed away with that simple conversation. The angry song I was going to write softened into a gentle ballad about a girl in my dreams with sensual, powerful eyes. The words mixed with the melody beautifully. It left me exhausted when I was finished.
A song that powerful hadn’t hit me like that in years. My creativity licked at the page like hungry flames. I ended up writing three more songs before I was completely spent. It was more than I written in months. I didn’t want this burning creative passion to leave. I’d missed it like an old friend.
My coffee had gone cold. I drank it anyway, grimacing in disgust. Cold coffee was horrible. Going to the kitchen, I passed by Layla’s room. It was empty. She must have still been out getting sugar for her coffee. The pink teddy bear still lay against her pillow. I’d forgotten to ask her where she got it. Maybe I would after our little impromptu concert tonight.
She must’ve heard me singing last night. Did she like it? I played at the various bars in the city almost every Sunday for some extra pocket money, but never for just one person. Not in a long time.
Pouring myself a second cup of coffee, I sat outside in the old green and white folding chair I’d had forever. It was the most comfortable chair I’d ever owned. It was the first thing I’d ever bought with my own money. I was nine. Every week, my dad would pay me five dollars to clean out his truck. I’d saved up and had my eyes set in that folding chair so we could go camping and I could sit around the fire with my dad like a big boy. He’d promised that as soon as I got it, we’d go camping that summer.
