by Coralee June
I sat down for my morning breakfast with Mrs. Mulberry, who was humming to herself and cursing the news anchor. I burned her breakfast, but she didn’t seem to mind. "Why do you look like your dildo's made of thorns?" she asked while taking a bite of the black toast I'd prepared—she’d slathered it with butter to make it tolerable. Her idioms never made any sense to me but always brought a reluctant smile to my face.
"The man that killed my brother was fucking him, too," I said. Didn't matter, she wouldn't remember. She nodded her head, soaking in my words while trying to come up with a witty way to respond. Mrs. Mulberry liked making people laugh, branding herself as the inappropriate one in the room. Even now, her sheer nighty gave me a clear view of her breasts. She was brazen and brave. She accepted who she was without hesitation. People could either accept her or move on. I liked that about my roommate.
I’d expected her to make some dirty quip about how she wanted in on that, she instead stood and made her way to the cabinet, opening it up and pulling out a bottle of vodka that I'd watered down when coming here. She couldn't mix alcohol with her meds, and I didn't want to add another drunk to my list of people to babysit...I'd done that enough with my mother. I was always doing that with people, making decisions for them.
She poured some into a plastic cup then handed it to me, her outstretched fingers shaking as I grabbed it. "Nice breakfast," I said while swallowing it down without a second's pause. I sputtered when the liquid hit my tongue. Fuck, it really was vodka, not the watered-down shit. When did she replace it?
"Seeing your face right now is priceless," she said with a clap while bending over. "That was the exact expression I had when I found out you watered down my booze."
I blanched, setting the cup down and refusing to drink any more. She clicked her tongue at me before laughing. "You should let loose more. You think I don't notice things, but I do. I notice enough to lock up my gun and hide my pills. You're a self-destructive one," she said while twisting her long grey hair into a braid.
My eyes widened in surprise, but I settled back in my seat, crossing my arms over my chest and really taking in my crazy roommate. "I'm not always here," she said while tapping her temple, a manic smile covering her face, "but I'm aware enough to know that you're in love with your therapist and have plans on killing a man you know nothing about. I also know you're kind, in a really fucked up way. You don’t feel things the way other people do, and you’re stronger for it."
Well damn. "What else do you know, Mrs. Mulberry?" I prodded.
"I know that we all have a part to play. In an hour or so, I'll zone out, disappear into her." Mrs. Mulberry had a sad look in her eyes.
"Who is her?" I asked.
"She's the bitch trying to steal my memories. She likes to be complacent. All day, she sits staring at the world. She doesn't cling to the unknown as I do. She doesn't search for answers. She's mindless. She's killing me. You know her too, even if you don't want to admit it."
I let out a laugh, mostly because I didn't know how else to react. "Yeah," I began, "I know her. She's a real bitch."
I didn't dress up to see Samuel, but I did put on some red lipstick. I ended up pouring Mrs. Mulberry’s bottle of vodka down the drain before I left. She was passed out on our floral couch again, snoring loudly as I left. I didn't have work today, and I wanted to make the most of my time off.
According to Instagram, Samuel was at a popular brunch spot downtown on a date. I took the bus. Of course, it was in the nicer part of the city, where people didn't leave their house without makeup on or their suits pressed. I looked out of place, but I didn't care. When I arrived at the cafe where they were enjoying their morning, the hostess gave me a curious stare but didn't ask me to leave. I knew how to fake a confident pose and trick people into thinking I belonged, despite my appearance.
Samuel was sitting at the bar, mimosas and half-eaten French toast lay out in front of him while a girl with bright blond hair and a short dress sat in his lap, feeding him strawberries. They were lost in each other's eyes. She'd giggle at something he'd say, then he'd trail his fingers down her cleavage, not caring who could see. She squirmed, pressing her thighs together, probably trying to get some friction and relief.
I pulled up a bar stool beside him, already feeling giddy at the prospect of ruining his brunch. "This seat taken?" I asked, my voice sounding hoarse from my late night. I grabbed a piece of French toast from his plate and dipped it in the syrup, almost laughing when I saw his date's horrified face.
"Octavia, we've got to stop running into one another like this, people will start to talk," Samuel said with a smile, matching my enthusiasm without pause. Was he always...on? Was his entire life a performance? Obviously, he didn’t really care about his date’s feelings because his hungry eyes were now roaming me.
"Get rid of her, we need to talk," I said while nodding at the girl with syrup on her lip. She gave me one of those looks that would make normal people feel insecure, but of course I couldn’t feel anything. It took all of an hour to get her out the door. It took some whining, consoling, kissing, and a very long trip to the bathroom. I waited patiently, even ordered myself some food—on his tab, of course.
When they came back from the bathroom, smelling like sex and looking ruffled, she gave him a lingering kiss before leaving. Once she was finally out the door, Samuel stood behind me with an exasperated sigh. "Come on, Octavia. Let's go," he said before dropping a couple hundred on the bar top and spinning around. I wasn't too thrilled that he wanted to take charge of this moment, but that damn curiosity was calling to me. It was tempting. Like chocolate when you’re on a diet.
We walked onto the street, and Samuel called a cab. Getting in, I made sure to press myself up against the passenger door, keeping as much distance as possible between the two of us. Samuel didn't seem phased. If he noticed that I was distancing myself, he didn't act like it bothered him. He merely rested his arm on the headrest, intentionally moving closer and invading my space with a cocky smile, our thighs brushing. He was fluent in the game I was playing.
He gave the driver an address, and I noticed that it wasn't the Pike house. It wasn't until we pulled up to a high-rise apartment building that I realized Samuel didn't live at the frat house. "Is this where you live?"
Samuel got out, and I followed after him before he answered me with a shudder, "Yeah, I couldn't stay at the Pike house after…" He turned to look back at me, wincing when he realized what he was saying.
"You don't want to stay where Youngblood killed my brother?" I asked sarcastically, rolling my eyes as I followed him to the doorman. Samuel let out a sigh as if expecting my anger. He didn't seem shocked by my statement, which meant he was either an accomplice or Youngblood told him my theories. Either way, he was on my shit list.
Of course Samuel didn't live on the first or second floor like any regular struggling college student would. No, the man with a beautiful smile, perfect hair, and bright green eyes that almost deceived like it was their job, lived in the motherfucking penthouse.
When we walked through his front door, he made his way to the kitchen, opening the refrigerator and bending down to grab a water bottle. I'm only human, so of course I took the opportunity to stare at his perfect ass. They say the devil was pretty, and after looking at the men of Pike, I know that rumor was true.
"All right, I'm ready. Hash it out," Samuel said while leaning against the marble countertop.
I didn't like that he was trying to call the shots, so instead, I took a moment to look around his place. I lingered at the entertainment center, where signed baseballs filled each cabinet. It was an open concept, modern design. It was also surprisingly clean for the bachelor pad of a college student. But I assumed he had a maid to make sure everything looked nice.
"What do you know about Youngblood and my brother?" I asked.
Samuel smiled, that teasing grin that said he had me right where he wanted me. "Why are you asking questions to things you already know the a
nswer to?" At that moment, I started recalling everything I knew about Samuel, sighing when I remembered that he was in school for pre-law.
"Okay. Fine. They were fucking. I knew my brother was sexually adventurous, but that's not the surprising part of this entire revelation. I want to know what led to William’s death and what part Youngblood played in all of that. He told me last night that he killed him."
All the color drained from Samuel's face. He thrust a hand through his blond hair before bracing it back against the countertop where he was leaning. You could hear a pin drop, the apartment was eerily silent aside from the electric hum of his kitchen appliances.
It was the first sign that Samuel really didn't have his shit together. It was also the first time I realized just how close he and Youngblood were. "He really said that?" he asked. Samuel propelled himself off the countertop and made his way to the grey sofa in the living room near where I was standing. Sitting down, he braced his forearms against his thighs, leaning forward with a grunt.
"I knew he felt guilt over what happened, but…" Samuel said before sitting up.
"Can you please just tell me? Tell me what happened," I pleaded.
"Look, there's a lot of shit going on behind the scenes that you don't even know about. It's not my story to tell, plus there are consequences when the truth gets out. I will tell you that Youngblood and William had a major fight the night before William died. It was bad. Real bad. The next day, William overdosed. It's natural for Nathaniel to blame himself. I mean, God, William committed suicide."
I wanted to tell Samuel that he was wrong. William would've never done that. We spent a lifetime watching our mother battle substance abuse, and I knew in my gut that he would never give in to that sort of death—no matter the circumstances. We’d been yanking up our mother from the grave for years. He would've sooner blown his brains out than die from her struggles.
But I didn't get the chance to answer him. Because then, the front door opened and in walked the culprit himself. I should've known that Nathaniel and Samuel lived together. There were black circles under his eyes, and he entered the door while staring at the ground, moving like a zombie. I recognized the hollowness in his stance and the weight on his shoulders, but I didn't care.
Samuel broke the silence. "Where were you?" he asked.
Nathaniel looked up, eyes widening when he spotted me.
"Out." Nathaniel stormed off, marching down the hallway until his steps disappeared after the sound of a slamming door. He didn't even bother asking me to leave. Maybe he was used to the Wilson brand of determination. William and I were different but still cut from the same cloth.
I made my way to the front door, knowing that it was no use for me to stay. Samuel was loyal to Youngblood, and Youngblood was loyal to himself. The only person I was loyal to was dead, which meant I had all the time in the world to figure it out. And just before I left, one more clue clicked into place. Samuel spoke under his breath. "I bet you were with her."
Chapter 7
Mrs. Mulberry passed peacefully in her sleep last night. Or at least, that's what I was telling myself. For all I knew, it could have been fucking painful. She could have been alone and paralyzed on the cusp of eternity. Did she call for me in her last moments? Could she call for me? When I awoke for work in the morning, I was surprised to find that she wasn't perched at her usual spot in the living room, screaming at the TV while putting on lace stockings for her visit with Mr. Nordstrom, always with the lace stockings. She told me that he liked to pull them from her body with his teeth. Kinky motherfucker.
I made my way to her bedroom to check on the old broad, and when I saw her grey, sunken-in skin and her hair feathered out over her pillow, I slowly backed away from the door. I didn’t cry. Didn’t go check her pulse. I knew she was dead. The light was gone from Mrs. Mulberry. Guess the bitch she was running from finally claimed her after all.
After a moment of debating on what to do, I made myself her usual breakfast: eggs over easy with two slices of bacon and whole wheat toast. I sat down at the table and stared at her vacant seat. I guess I thought if I looked hard enough, maybe she’d magically appear, and we could go back to politely tolerating each other in that comfortable way we did. I barely stomached a bite of breakfast. I never really enjoyed it before; I’ve always been a pancake woman myself. But without Mrs. Mulberry, it was just ash in my mouth. The lime green kitchen walls looked beige now, too. Nothing about this apartment felt the same, and I was spiraling. Spiraling. Falling. Feeling.
I then went to work. Anticlimactic, huh? Just letting her corpse rot in her bedroom as I questioned the meaning of life on my commute to work. Spoiler alert, there was no meaning. We had no purpose. We’re just a collection of cells that age and reproduce and then die.
I mean, what the hell was I supposed to do? What did anyone usually do in these situations? She was there, live and vibrant and okay. And then she wasn't. I was finding my version of okay, and then I wasn’t. I was finding family, and then finding myself all alone in the world once again.
Samuel was sitting in my section when I arrived, looking smug. I knew that the bastard was hoping to catch me off guard. We were playing that stupid game of cat and mouse, a game I initiated. But today, I wasn’t the cat—or even the mouse. I was the pissed off trap. So when I didn't even flinch at his perfect face, his smile faltered, the right corner of his mouth dipping ever so slightly. I went behind the counter and pulled out a big coffee cup before setting it down. With shaky hands, I poured myself a hot mug and immediately took a giant gulp, letting it burn all the way down to the pit of my stomach.
My boss, a burly man whose name I could never remember, gave me a stern look. This diner was all he had. He got too worked up about napkins and coffee grounds. He had nothing else interesting in his life, so he took whatever excitement he could by bullying us. He looked like a Bob. Simple and gruff. "You're late," he said.
"Sorry." I wasn’t sorry.
I tied my white apron around my hips and made my way over to my section, refilling drinks and taking the orders of everyone else before stopping at Samuel last. Ah. There was that smile again. "Pretty far from the Upper East Side, don't you think?" I asked while tapping my pen against my notepad.
"I hear the pancakes here are shitty. Wanted to test them out for myself," was his smooth answer. It was like he fucking planned it, and I pictured him practicing in the mirror this morning as he shaved his face. "For someone so determined to get answers, you sure did leave in a hurry." I wasn’t in the mood to be confronted or called out. I wasn’t in the mood to work, or sleep, or hide, or eat.
"So you want pancakes?” I asked while writing nonsense on my pad. Swirling lines on paper I’d never deliver to the cook. “Anything else?" I wanted to sound bored, or at the very least uninterested. However, for some reason, my throat felt like it was closing up and something that felt like tears were filling my eyes. But it couldn't possibly be tears. I wasn't crying. Nope, not me. Samuel's eyes widened, and he stood up. He looked around then grabbed my elbow, guiding me to the small bathroom on the other side of the diner. I was sure my boss, whatever his name was—Bob, or Bruno, or Bernadette—was somewhere frowning at the world while touching himself through the pocket in his jeans, but I was too shocked by the fact that I was crying to care.
"What's wrong? Did something happen to you?" Samuel grabbed tissues and handed them over to me. I guess now my tears were freely falling. I was doing that ugly cry thing, you know the kind. Where snot formed on your upper lip and your eyes went red. Was that a sob that just escaped my chest?
I sat there, crying in a bathroom that smelled like shit and syrup while standing between Samuel and a trashcan full of bloody tampons. It wasn't pretty. My phone started ringing in my pocket, and I answered it without checking the caller ID, hoping for a distraction.
"Hello?" My voice was a strangled sob, echoing off the tiled walls of the bathroom.
"Octavia? Are you crying?" It was Noah. Oh Noah
. Always Noah.
I sniffled. “Are you day drinking? You never call during the day.” Leave it to me to deflect his concern with a punch to the fucking gut.
Noah breathed into the phone. “What happened? And no, I’m not day drinking.”
My cheeks were so wet from my tears that I had to pull the phone away and put him on speaker. Samuel went and did the thoughtful thing again, grabbing another tissue and handing it to me so that I could wipe my face. His movements were practiced, like he studied how to comfort a weepy girl at his fancy private school. Samuel even had that look of sympathy on his face, laced with a hint of guilt, a pinch of uncertainty. Even here, in this damn bathroom, he looked like the pretty boy he was, and I kind of hated him a little for it.
How could I possibly say out loud what I saw this morning, how I’d walked away without a care?
This wasn’t happening. No, no, no.
“Octavia, is this about him? You didn’t actually kill anyone, did you?” Noah asked. I looked up through glassy eyes to see Samuel’s expression. Now it was my turn to be disappointed at his lack of a reaction. Nothing, not a thing. He didn’t even flinch. Either he didn’t think I was capable of committing murder, or he didn’t care. For some reason, I was leaning towards the latter.
“What, are you wanting me to be surprised? Run away while you cry here in this nasty ass bathroom?” Samuel asked, that damn cocky smile on his face. He looked kinda hot, all assuming and helpful.
“Who’s that?” Noah asked. “Octavia?” I knew Noah pretty well. I could sense when he was on the verge of needing a drink, and that anxious lift to his voice was making me giddy.
Samuel’s grin grew wider, and I predicted the words from his lips before he even said them. He was all about stirring that flirty pot. “You should’ve told me you have a boyfriend, Octavia. I’m no homewrecker. But with a body like yours, I guess I can make an exception.”
