The Destiny of Violet and Luke

Chapter 11

Luke

We spend the entire Sunday moving everyone’s stuff into the apartment and then unpacking the boxes. It’s a decent place, with tan carpet and walls, a small kitchen attached to an even smaller dining room and living room. There’s two small bedrooms, one very small bath, but it’s affordable. No one has any plates or anything and even though the place is furnished, we still need a lot of stuff. I’m getting a little nervous about the fact that I only have a little less than two hundred bucks in my wallet and make a vow to get out and start trying to win some money.

Violet and I barely speak the entire time we unpack boxes, rearrange the furniture, and hook up the television. Not just because we’re too busy to talk, but because I can’t think of anything to say and she seems to be drifting down that path, too. The room fills with awkward silence and it makes me question if this living together thing is going to work.

It seemed like such a good idea at the time, but things just got extremely complicated with that kiss and I don’t handle complicated well. It makes life hard to live and I’ve always tries to avoid making things complicated. But now I want to let a very complex and complicated girl into my life, a girl who has a hold over me. I mean, I actually kissed her. And not because I needed to gain control for a moment, but because she looked upset and I wanted to comfort her and that was the first way I could think of. I kissed her in a way I’ve never kissed anyone. I kissed her with desire. It’s scaring the shit out of me, especially because she seems to need me as much as I want her. All I want to do right now is go looking for a fight or find a girl to fuck and bail out on, since Violet obviously can’t be that girl for me. I want to drown in alcohol. Run away. But somehow I end up hanging around the apartment all day. I fell asleep on the couch, even though I said we could share a room, telling Violet I just wanted to chill and watch television for the night. She didn’t seem that unhappy about it. In fact, she seemed a little relieved.

I toss and turn all night on the leather couch, eventually falling off into a nice peaceful dream about Violet. She lies wide-eyed beneath me, her arms pinned down as I slip inside her over and over again. There’s no nightmares of sticking needles in my mother’s arm or seeing her come home with blood all over her hands and clothes, knowing she probably did something terrible. There’s no being forced to listen to her maddening songs or her telling me how much she needs me. No cops banging on the door. No listening to her cry out in the night. There’s just me… and Violet… her big green eyes filled with excitement as I kiss her, touch her, pull at her hair…

I wake up to someone tapping my shoulder. At first I think it’s Seth because it seems like something he would do, but then I feel the soft touch of hair tickling my cheek.

“Luke, wake up,” Violet whispers, her breath hot against my cheek.

I roll my eyes open to her hovering over me, her wavy hair hanging over her shoulders and down into my face. Her eyes are lined with black, her lips glossy, and she has a necklace on. She smells incredible, too, like soap and something fruity I’d seriously like to eat right now.

“I need a ride,” she says, leaning back a little and sitting down on the edge of the sofa. There’s this look in her eyes, like she’s hating to ask me for help.

I gradually sit up, the blanket slipping off, but I quickly pull it back up around my waist. I sleep in my boxers and my cock is hard from the dream I was having about her. “Where?”

She bites her lip, her face twisting with animosity. “To the police station downtown.”

I rub the tiredness from my eyes. “Why?”

“Because.”

“Are we really going to go back to the one-word responses?”

She works not to smile, smashing her lips tightly together. “What? You think just because you kissed me that I’ll be more responsive to your questions?”

“You seemed pretty responsive yesterday,” I say, mentally cursing myself for starting it up again so quickly.

She fidgets with a leather watch on her wrist, but her eyes light up. “Well, maybe I’m feeling a little differently today.”

“Are you?”

“Maybe.”

God damn it, I need her to tell me more, but I can’t just ask her. That would be giving her way too much control over me. “You’re not going to even give me a little bit of a hint?”

“No.”

I let out a breath, shaking my head. “All right, I can give you a ride to the police station just as long as you promise to eventually tell me why you have to go down there.”

She nods once and then gets to her feet. She has a pair of black shorts on that cup her fucking firm ass and a black-and-white tube top that hugs her lean body and pushes up her cleavage. “Eventually,” she says.

Damn her and her one-word sentences. It’s frustrating beyond comprehension. I toss the blanket aside and get off the couch, my cock still a little hard, but I decide oh well. Her eyes drift down to my cock, then to my chest as I head to the bathroom to get dressed, feeling pretty good about myself at the moment, like I might have gotten the upper hand again.

“Give me like ten and I’ll be out,” I say and shut the bathroom door. I brush my teeth, tug on a black shirt and a pair of jeans, then douse myself in cologne. It’s the first morning in a long time where I haven’t run straight to a series of shots of Jack Daniel’s, but the fact that I have to drive her somewhere makes me not want to go there just yet. I’ll wait until I get home and then let myself sink into the blissful contentment of alcohol and hopefully it’ll clear Violet out of my head for a while.

I run a hand through my hair then go out to the living room where she’s waiting for me on the sofa, staring down at her boots. She looks exhausted and tense and it makes me want to kiss her again and try to take away whatever is making her look that way. Yes, I definitely need shots and a fucking blowjob or something.

I scoop up my keys and wallet from the kitchen counter and wind a path through the remaining unpacked boxes around the room. “Ready?”

She glances up at me, startled, but quickly gathers herself and gets to her feet. “Yeah.” She trudges for the door without looking over her shoulder, her head tipped down, looking like someone just killed her dog.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” I follow her out the front door and into the sunlight, resisting the overwhelming urge to put my hand up to the small of her back and guide her down to my car.

“Yep, I’m perfect,” she says, waving me off, then she trots down the stairs to the carport, keeping distance between us like she knows what I’m considering doing with my hands.

She barely speaks to me the entire drive and I hate how we’ve gone back to the place we pretty much started at. I ask her a few questions, push for a conversation, but she continues to give me her one-word responses. So I give up and ten minutes later we’re pulling up to the police station, an older brick building located in the heart of the town between stoplights, parking lots, and shops. I wait a moment, deciding what I’m supposed to do. Say, see you later. Tell her I’ll pick her up. Kiss her good-bye.

“What time do you want me to pick you up?” I finally ask, putting the truck in park.

She cracks the door open. “I’ll call you.”

I snag her elbow and stop her from climbing out. “Wait. You don’t have my number.”

She pauses, then she reaches into her pocket and takes out her phone. “What is it?” she asks.

I tell her and she punches it into her phone, her fingers trembling as she locks the screen and puts the phone into her back pocket.

“Give me yours, too, just in case,” I say and she tells me her number, looking a little more confused with each digit.

“I’ll call you when I’m done,” she tells me quickly then hops out and slams the door, then winds around the front of the truck. When she reaches the sidewalk in front of the police station, she stops and stares at the sign for what seems like forever. Finally, she takes a step forward and then backward and I start to roll my window down to ask her what’s wrong. But then she dashes off toward the stairs leading for the glass entrance doors. It makes me wonder why she’s here. Maybe she’s on probation for dealing? But she seemed too upset for it to be that.

I’m still parked in the road thinking about her when someone honks their horn. I blink my eyes away from the door and drive forward, forcing myself to stop thinking about her so much. My thoughts have been way too centered on her for the last few weeks and I need a break. I decide to hit up a little game of Texas Hold ’Em, get a few drinks, win some hands, control the game, and hopefully end up on the higher side. It’s going to take some time since I don’t want to throw down my entire two hundred bucks on a hand, but I’m okay at the moment with taking my time. I need some time away from the one girl I’ve ever let have this much control over me.

Violet

I made myself sick last night, thinking about going down to talk to the detective. I even threw up this morning before I got dressed. I hadn’t even realized how psyched up I was until the sunlight hit the window and I realized that I was actually going to have to go down to the police station and talk about my parents’ murder. The only thing that got me to go there was the thought that maybe, this time, their murder can be solved.

When I sit down with Detective Stephner, my dread turns to irritation. He keeps showing me mug shots I’ve already seen, asking me questions I’ve already answered. What were the people wearing, what did they look like, did they do anything that might stand out. It’s all in his notes, yet he’s making me retell him, making me relive that stupid fucking night that I hate thinking about, that haunts my dreams, my life, that turned me into this person, sitting here, lost in herself. I’m not even sure why he’s reopening the case and it’s obvious he hasn’t even read their file, since he doesn’t even know some of the simple details.

“Think carefully, Violet,” he says. “Is there anything at all you can think of about that night?”

“Other than my parents were killed?” I reply, slumping back in a metal fold-up chair. He’s got me in a small, square room with brick walls and the air stinks like cleaner and stale cheese.

He takes a sip of his coffee and spills some on his smiley face tie and down the front of his white button shirt. Seriously. Some dude with a smiley face tie is going to solve the murder of my parents that happened thirteen years ago? I lost all hope when I saw that tie and cursed myself for even having hope to begin with. “Look…” He glances down at my files, unable to even remember my name. “Violet, I know this must be hard for you to talk about, but I need you to try to think of anything at all that might be helpful.”

I lean forward with my arms crossed on the table between us. “Hard for me to talk about? It’s been thirteen years. I pretty much remember nothing about my parents anymore, let alone anything that happened the night they died.” I’m such a fucking liar.

He gives me a look of sympathy. “I’m so sorry.”

I shove back from the table and push to my feet. “Sorry for what? That I’m an orphan? That I have no family? That I bounced through foster families? That I’m the one who found my parents dead? Or that you can’t figure out the person who caused all of that?” I step back from the table and the legs of the chair grind against the stained linoleum. “I don’t need you to feel sorry for me. What I need is to not be here, remembering things I laid to rest a long time ago.”

“Violet, please settle down and think about that night carefully,” he says, rising to his feet, ruffling his blond hair into place. “Anything at all that you remember could be helpful.”

I back toward the door. “ ‘Lean into me. Lean into me. Take. Help me. I need to understand. Help me. I can’t do this without you.’ ”

He glances helplessly down at his stack of papers, sifting through them. “I’m sorry, Violet, but I don’t understand… Is that a song?”

“Yeah, it’s a song, you asshole.” I jerk open the door. “The woman was singing it that night, but you should already have that in your file if you’ve read through it all. Now, are we done here?”

He hesitates, then nods once and I start to head out. “Wait, Violet, one more thing,” he calls and I pause, but don’t turn around. “I just want to let you know that you might see a few things about the case being reopened on the news.”

I whirl around. “Why?”

He stacks his papers back into a manila folder. “We sometimes think it’s helpful to announce it to the public in hopes of someone stepping forward with information.”

“No one stepped forward with information thirteen years ago,” I say hotly. “Why would they do it now?”

“Time generally makes people less afraid,” he states, gathering his papers into his hand. “I just want to let you know so you’re not surprised if you see something.”

“Well, thanks for thinking of me,” I say sarcastically. And with that line, I exit, slamming the door behind me.

I slip my phone out of my back pocket as I nearly run through the police station. I dial Luke’s number as I burst out the front doors and sunlight spills over me. It’s the only number I’ve ever programmed into my phone, other than Preston’s and my regular buyers. It’s strange to be calling him, but a little relieving to actually have someone I can rely on. I felt sort of bad this morning that I was barely talking to him, but I couldn’t help it. I was too nauseous and distracted with coming down here and I’ve been feeling awkward about our kiss. I’ve never done awkward before—I’m usually the one who makes people feel awkward.

Luke’s phone never rings, going straight to his voicemail, and I shake my head at myself. “I should have known better,” I mutter, pressing my finger over the end button without leaving a message. I shut off my phone, cutting off any connection we developed, then glance up the busy street and sidewalk, wondering what I should do. There’s all this restless energy inside me as I’m flooded by my past.

I’m not solely focusing on my parents’ deaths, I’m also remembering when they were alive, playing with me at the park, opening presents on Christmas morning, going to the zoo. Laughing and smiling in the most genuine, pure way that’s ever existed. I remember being loved. God, I hate remembering that. It hurts so bad, knowing I had it once. It’d be better if I never knew what it felt like to know someone cared about me enough to never let anything hurt me, because I couldn’t feel the ache over something I never had.

I massage my chest with my hand, pressing so hard it aches. I want to tear it open and pull out my heart to stop the excruciating pain. I’m tumbling into the place I need to escape, I need to do something other than continue to remember what I don’t have any more, to feel that they’re gone, feel the pain of everyone that never wanted me, the heartache, the abandonment, the hatred for the people who did this, the needles, the razors, the tearing at the inside of my skin. God, I need to get it out.

“I need to…” I scratch at my skin, digging and digging until lines of blood trail down my arms. “Shit.” I try to wipe the blood away, not wanting anyone to see, as I hurry down the stairs to the sidewalk beside the street.

I head to the left and walk swiftly past the shops toward where the apartment complex is on Elm. The entire way that stupid song is on repeat in my head as I keep picturing the details of my parents’ case play over and over again on TV. It becomes my own personal torture and I can’t turn it off no matter what I try to think about. And it takes an hour to walk to the apartment in this heat, and I’m thirsty, hungry, and mentally and physically exhausted by the time I’m entering the entrance of the apartment complex. But through the heat wave, my desert-dry throat, and my grumbling belly, I still feel the clawing sensation under my skin and the nagging need to shove it out of my body, the only way I know how.

I run up the stairs to the third floor where the door to my apartment is. It’s strange, knowing this is where I’m going to be living for the summer with three guys, one whom doesn’t like me, one that seems afraid of me, and one that seems conflicted on whether or not he wants to screw me. If he showed up right now, I’d probably let him, since his needy, hot touch seems to have the power to smother my emotions almost as good as standing on the balcony does. But he’s not here and right now I’m going to have to settle for the balcony.

I open the door, ready to dash across the living room to the sliding glass door, but slam to a halt when I spot Greyson in the kitchen with an array of baking ingredients on the counter and a red mixing bowl. He’s preparing to bake cookies or something, and “Demons” by Imagine Dragons is playing from an iPod. He’s fairly tall with blond hair and light blue eyes. He’s wearing a gray fitted shirt and with a black shirt over it, the buttons undone.

His head is tipped down as he studies an open recipe book, but he smiles up at me when I shut the front door. “Hey.”

I’ve only crossed paths with him at the university and a few times in my dorm room. We’ve never spoken and he’s always seemed content with that.

I force a stiff smile and whisk by the coffee table and the boxes in the middle of the floor and head toward my room, figuring out an alternative way to regain control over my thoughts and heart. As I pass by the kitchen island, his eyes land on my arms, at the scratches, which are swollen and raw.

“Jesus.” He rounds the counter and strides over to me. “What happened to your arms?”

“I got attacked by a cat,” I say, still moving for my bedroom, needing to be alone and escape the only way I know how.

He lightly grabs my arm, forcing me to stop right before I reach the hallway that has a bedroom and a bath to the right and another bedroom to the left, my bedroom, which I need to be in, right now.

“It must have been a really big fucking cat,” he states, examining the scratches, tracing a path up and down my arm with his fingers. “You should put some peroxide on them or you’re going to get an infection.”

“I will,” I reply, subtly wiggling my arm away from his grip and covering the scratches with my hand. “That’s actually where I was headed.”

He smiles, but looks conflicted. “Well let me know if you need anything.” He turns toward the kitchen and goes back to the stove. “Do you want to help me make brownies?”

I pause. “Seriously?”

He picks up a stick of butter and begins unwrapping it. “It’s just cooking, Violet. No need to get worked up.” The corners of his lips tug upward as I walk over to him, curious.

“Yeah, but what about Seth?” I ask, resting my elbows on the counter as he drops the stick of butter into the bowl.

“What about Seth?”

“Doesn’t it seem like he might not be a fan of you hanging out with me, since I’m a vixen and all.”

“Well, since I’m not really into vixens or women in general, I’m pretty sure he won’t mind.” He grins and it’s probably the happiest grin I’ve ever seen.

“That’s not what I mean,” I say. “I meant, because he seems to have an issue with me.”

“He just likes drama,” he explains, opening another stick of butter. “He’ll get over it once he realizes you’re not going to steal his thunder.”

“Steal his thunder?”

“Yeah, you being the very colorful person that you are.” He eyes me with a look that makes me feel light inside and I sort of want to hug him.

I slide down into the stool. “And colorful is a good thing, right?”

“Of course.” He stabs the stick of butter with the spoon. “Besides, you and I are going to be hanging out at work when I start my job at Moonlight Dining. It’s inevitable.”

“You’re going to be working at Moonlight Dining and Drinks?” I ask.

He nods. “Yeah, I start Tuesday.”

I’ve been trying not to think of the fact that I only have one job now and a lot more bills. Plus, the rush I get from dealing is no longer an option. My life is changing and I’m not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing. “Well, here’s a little tip: It gets really slow most nights and the tips suck.”

“That’s good to know. I’ll make sure to dazzle as many costumers as I can then. That way the tips that I get will make up for it. ” He grins at me. “I’m good at dazzling.”

“I’m sure you are.” I’m amused. “I think you and I could end up getting along, Greyson.”

“You think so?” he teases in a light tone as he sets the spoon down. “You know what I think would be the perfect new roommate bonding moment? Baking some brownies together.”

“I haven’t baked any brownies or anything really since I was six,” I admit.

He presses his hand to his heart and shakes his head. “Well, we need to change that. Granted, the best kind of bonding brownies are pot brownies, but I don’t have any pot.”

“Pot brownies?” I ask interestedly.

“Oh yes.” He picks up the bowl and heads to the corner of the kitchen. “My parents were very hippieish and used to make them.”

“And let you eat them?”

“No, but I started sneaking them when I was about fifteen and went through my teenage rebellious phase. I’m not going to lie, I still do it occasionally when I want to relax.”

“Did you wear dark clothing and write depressing poetry, too?”

“Yes, to the dark clothing.” He opens the microwave and puts the bowl inside. “But no to the poetry. I was more into lyrics and music.”

“Do you still write?” I ask. “Or play anything?”

He shakes his head as he closes the microwave door. “Nah, I may have been into it, but I wasn’t very good.” He presses buttons on the microwave and it clicks on. Then he turns around and reclines against the counter, facing me with his arms folded. “So what was your rebellious phase, Violet?”

I glance down at my dark clothes, hiding my tattoos. “I think I might still be going through it.”

“And who are you rebelling from?” he wonders.

“Myself.”

He laughs under his breath. “What about your parents? Did they hate—or do they still hate your rebellious phase?”

My heart drops into my stomach and I suddenly remember where I was headed before I got sidetracked with this conversation. “You know,” I say as calmly as I can as I get up off the stool. “If you really want to make pot brownies, I can help with that.”

His brows lift as the microwave beeps from behind him. “Oh really?”

I shrug, backing for my room. “It’s up to you. I’m just offering.”

He moves away from the counter and pops the microwave door open. “Well, I’m not going to pass up an offer.”

I smile my fake, shiny necklace smile, the one I plaster on my face when I need to look happy. “I’ll be right back.” I duck into my room and go over to the boxes stacked at the foot of the unmade queen-size bed. I rifle through them until I find the prescription bottle I keep my stash in. I’m surprised Preston didn’t ask for it back, but he was probably too hung over on ecstasy to even remember I had it. But I don’t doubt that he’ll eventually remember and come asking for it. It seems like I should care, but at the moment I don’t.

I return to the kitchen where Greyson is reading the recipe book again, muttering the lyrics of the song under his breath.

“I’m going to have to tweak this a little now,” he says with his finger on the page.

“Well, tweak away.” I toss him the prescription bottle and his eyes widen as he catches it.

“Holy shit,” he says as he twists the cap off and glances at the fairly good stash inside. “Where’d you get this?”

“I have connections.” My smile is still bright like a polished cubic zirconium as I start for my room.

“Wait, don’t you want any?” he calls out.

“Sure,” I reply. “But I have to take care of something first.”

He gives me a puzzled look, but I walk away, leaving him in the kitchen to bake his pot brownies. I won’t go back and join him, not just because pot makes me evil and crazy like alcohol, but because I’m not in the mood for company anymore.

When I get back to my room, I lock the door. Then I head over to the window beside the bed and slide it open. I pop the screen off, set it down on the bed, then swing my legs out. I settle in the windowsill, staring down at the three-story drop to the concrete. I think I’d be able to survive it, but it’s hard to say for sure. If I hit my head, my skull would probably crack and if I landed on my feet, I’d probably compress my spine. Bones would probably break and my blood would stain the concrete like my parents’ blood stained the carpet, walls, and comforter on the bed. The fall would hurt if I survived, but for the briefest moment during the fall, I’d feel at peace, knowing that it could all just end.