The Destiny of Violet and Luke

Chapter 6

Luke

I was seven when I realized that there was something really wrong with my home environment. It wasn’t something I’d slowly discovered. It was suddenly forced on me when my mother showed up in the middle of the night after being gone somewhere for hours. She was freaking out, chattering about being sorry. I think she was high out of her mind and it looked like there was blood on her hands and clothes, but when I asked her about it—even though I was scared shitless of her answer—she only hugged me for hours, rocking me like a baby, and told me everything was going to be okay. The thing was nothing was ever okay from that point on. It’s still not okay, but livable, as long as I have enough alcohol in my system that the fucked-up parts of my life don’t feel real. As long as I have control over the things that I do I’m fine. The problem is that lately the control I’ve worked so hard to get is slipping from my fingers.

School ends in a few days and it’s getting close to the day when I should be heading home, back to the hellhole where nothing feels right and I feel like a God damn kid again. Kayden’s already got most of his stuff packed, his side of the room covered in taped-up boxes. He is over at Callie’s dorm helping her out right now and I haven’t even gotten started on my side, the bed still made, my clothes still in the dresser. I’m seriously contemplating lighting it on fire and living in my truck. I haven’t even bothered talking to my father since our last conversation. He’s called a few times, but hasn’t left any messages.

“Look I’m sorry I’m breaking your heart or whatever,” I pace the length of my small dorm room between the two beds with the phone pressed up to my ear, shaking my head at pretty much every word she utters, “But I’m seriously going to stay here.” I’m so full of shit. I officially have nowhere to stay. All the apartments for rent cost too much money. At this point I’ve been searching for a roommate, but I can’t seem to find one. It’s just the wrong time or something and I fucking hate it because I don’t want to go back to my hometown, Star Grove.

“Lukey,” she starts. I hate it when she calls me that and even now it makes me feel nauseous. “You need to come home and take care of me. I’ve started taking my medications again and I need your help.”

“Which ones?” I say disdainfully, kicking at the leg of my bed, the need to pound a hole into something rising in me like a flame burning toward a pool of gasoline. “Your heroin? Your crushed-up pain meds? Coke? Whiskey? Which one is it, Mother?”

“You act like I don’t need it,” she says, sounding hurt. “I do. I need it, Lukey. I need it more than anything otherwise I think too much and bad stuff happens when I think too much. You know that.”

“Bad stuff happens regardless of what you’re on.” I slam my boot into the leg of the bed over and over again, the bed slamming into the wall, and my foot starts to hurt. Fuck! “And you know I’m too old to believe that shit, Mother. I know you’re just doing drugs for the same reason that everyone else is in the world and that’s to escape whatever it is you’re running from. It’s not some doctor prescription like you convinced me it was when I was six.”

“But it is, sweetie.” Her voice is high-pitched as if she’s talking to a child. “The doctors just haven’t realized I need it yet.”

I hate her. I hate myself for hating her so much. I hate the hate inside me and how out of control it makes me feel. I hate that every time I get even remotely close to anyone, I think of all the horrible things she made me do—the hell she put me through. “You know what I think,” I say and storm over to the wall. “I think you’ve done too much of it and now you’ve lost it.” I pause, wondering how she’s going to respond. I’m usually not so blunt with her, instead avoiding her at all costs. But the moving back is getting to me.

“You think I’m crazy?” she asks in a subdued voice. I hear rustling in the background and I don’t even want to know what she’s doing. “Is that what you think? Does my little boy think his mother is insane?”

I press my fingertips to my temple, the muscles in my arms tightening with my frustration. “I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“You’re sounding like all the rest of them,” she says and something loud bangs in the background.

“All the rest of who?” I ask, rolling my eyes.

“The neighbors,” she whispers and then pauses. “I think they’ve been watching me… And there’s this car parked out front… I think it’s the police watching me again.”

“The police aren’t watching you again—they never were. They just questioned you once for God knows what, you never would tell me.”

“They are, too, Lukey. They’re after me again.”

I shake my head and the list of what “medication” she’s been taking becomes shorter because there are only a few of them that bring out her paranoia. “No one’s after you and you want to know why? Because no one cares.”

“You care about me, though.” Panic fills her tone. “Don’t you, Lukey?”

I sink down on the bed and lower my head into my hands. God, I wish I could just say no. Tell her I hate her. Rid my life of her. But I can’t seem to bring myself to say it aloud, always bound by that stupid little kid that lives inside me, the one that always helped her, felt like he had to because no one else would. “Yeah, sure.”

“That’s my good boy,” she tells me and I feel the burn of approaching vomit at the back of my throat. “Always taking care of me. I can’t wait for you to come home. We’re going to have so much fun.”

I know what her version of fun is—cleaning the house together, having me help her with whatever drugs she’s taking, sit with her, listen to her sing, be her best friend and enter her insane world of drug-induced ranting. I can’t go back and live with her. In that house. In my room. With the insanity. Her telling me she needs me. Needs. Needs. Needs. Just going back for Christmas was enough and I wasn’t even there that much. If I end up with her there I can probably get a job and party a lot just to avoid going home, but in the end I’ll have to go home. I never want to go back. I ran away from all that shit when I was sixteen and I can’t go back. I need to get out of going home no matter what it takes. “I have to go.” Before she can say anything I hang up.

I toss the phone aside on the bed and rock back and forth, breathing back the impulse to scream and hit something. I know if anyone walked in and saw me like this they’d think I’d lost my mind, but I can’t stop the wave of anger and panic once it surfaces like this. Only three things do it for me. Sex and alcohol and violence.

I keeping rocking and rocking but the rage inside me rises and mixes with the vile feeling of shame I always carry with me. I feel a wave of rage building and building as it makes it’s way through my body toward the outside of me. If I don’t do something soon I’m going to end up destroying the room. Finally, I can’t stand it any longer. I jump up from the bed and storm for the wall again. This time I don’t stop. I just bend my arm back and ram my fist against the wall over and over again, heat and rage blasting through my body. After the fifth slam of my fist, I’m trembling from head to toe and there’s a fist-size hole in the wall and each one of my knuckles are split open. Kayden was already worried about fixing the door and now the wall’s messed up. I’m really on a roll. I need to get out of here because it still feels like I need to hit something. Kick something. Beat the shit out of something. I need to get the anger building inside me out, before it takes control of me, and there’s only one way to do that and it requires a lot of physical pain and alcohol, but I want it. More than anything.

Violet

I’m in a super shitty mood today, the invisible razors and needles I haven’t felt in a long time are back, slicing at my skin as my irritation builds. At first it was a slow-building irritation, over life in general. I tried to tell myself over and over again that it was nothing—that I was just in a mood. But I think it might be something deeper, like the fact that I find myself missing a certain someone.

I never miss anyone. And all I want to do is turn it off, yet at the same time I don’t.

It’s confusing and slightly annoying

As I’m packing my boxes, telling myself to stop thinking about him, my phone rings and the song playing means it’s an unknown number. When I answer it the person breathes heavily and then hangs up.

“Seriously,” I say to the phone, before setting it down on my bed. I move over to the desk, searching through the papers stacked on it, wondering if any of them are mine. As I’m reaching the bottom stack, my phone rings again, same ringtone, unknown number.

I glare at the phone as I pick it up. I don’t even get to hello this time, before the caller hangs up. It happens again and again and finally, after the seventh or eighth I tell the person off.

“Look, if you don’t stop calling me,” I say, “I’m going to track you down and cut your balls off.”

“What if I’m a girl?” he asks with a hint of laughter in his tone.

I sit down on my bed and cross my legs. “Then you really need to stop taking so much testosterone since your voice is lower than a normal dude’s voice.”

He laughs, like I was amusing, but I’m being serious. “You’re funny.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

“Well, you are.”

I shake my head. “What the hell do you want? And who are you?”

“I’m looking for Violet Hayes,” he says.

I go rigid. I don’t recognize his voice—he shouldn’t know my last name.

“Who the hell is this?” I start to grow nervous as I glance around my empty room. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt uneasy with being alone, but the old feelings are emerging, the feeling that someone is watching me, waiting to hurt me like they should have done twelve years ago.

“The Violet Hayes who was part of the Hayes murder case,” he says.

I hang up on him and chuck the phone across the room. It dents the wall and I think I broke it until it rings again. I let it ring and ring, then it silences as it goes to voicemail. But then it starts ringing again, until finally I can’t take it anymore. I get up and track the sound of the ringtone to the corner of the room, where I find the phone wedged between the leg of the desk and the wall. I bend down and fumble around until I get a hold of it.

“What the hell do you want, asshole?” I practically shout in the phone as I stand back up.

“Is this Violet Hayes?”

“Oh my God, are you being serious? I don’t want to talk to you, whoever you are, so stop calling.”

He pauses. “This is Detective Stephner. I need to speak to Violet Hayes.”

I hesitate as I wander back to my bed. “Did you just call me?”

“No…” He sounds lost and gives an elongated pause. “I’m calling you to see if you can come meet with me. I’d like to talk to you about your parents’ murder.”

It takes me a second to answer. “Why?” I ask cautiously.

“Because I’m reopening the case,” he responds in a formal tone. “And I want to see what you can remember about that night.”

“Why are you reopening the case?” I ask, wondering if maybe they found something, feeling a spark of hope. “Did you find something?”

“No, but we’re hoping to,” he says and all of my hope simmers out.

“Well, I remember what I told the police thirteen years ago, which isn’t a hell of a lot, since I was six and emotionally fucked up,” I say, telling myself not to get my hopes up but I can already feeling the emotions pressing up, the ache connected to the loss of my parents. “So I don’t really see the point of me coming down there and wasting my time, you asking me the same damn questions and shoving the same damn mug shots at me even though I told you I barely saw the killers since it was dark.”

“I understand your frustration, but answering some questions could help solve your parents’ murder,” he points out and I hear him shuffling through papers.

“No it won’t,” I say, flopping down on the bed on my back, holding the phone to my ear. My muscles are starting to tighten just from the suggestion of going down to the police station and chatting about something I’d laid to rest a long time ago. Case closed. They said so themselves and even though I didn’t like it, I accepted it. Moved on. Lived what life I had. “They couldn’t solve it thirteen years ago and you’re not going to solve it now.”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d come down,” he tells me, sending me a silent message through his firm tone. You’re going to meet me—it’s not a choice.

“Fine, but I live in Laramie now, not Cheyenne,” I say in a tight voice. “And I’m in the middle of moving, so it’ll have to wait a few days.” I’m making up excuses on purpose.

“How about next Monday at seven? Downtown at the Laramie police station?” he asks without missing a beat. “Does that work for you?”

I frown. “I guess.”

He says good-bye and then I hang up, lying on the bed. I chew on my fingernails, not liking the emotions tormenting me in the quiet. I’d shut that door a long time ago and now I was just supposed to open it up so I could tell him the same things I already told the police thirteen years ago. I’m sure he has all that in his file, so why is he bothering me?

I check my voicemail seeing if creepy, deep-voice guy left a message. He didn’t and an unsettling fear stirs in my stomach. For the first few months after my parents died, I had this overwhelming fear that the people were going to come back to finish me off. It was like I constantly felt I needed to look over my shoulder; if I saw a shadow at night in my room, I thought it was them breaking in. But I managed to get myself out of that place and land where I am now. I worked hard not to be afraid of anything and I refuse to go back to that place.

I barely budge from the bed, drowning in my emotions, and I start to debate my options for a much-needed hit of adrenaline. I have these pills that I’ve taken a couple of times and at the right dose they can put me into darkness and I can still get out. They’re hidden in the computer desk drawer, beside the prescription bottle that holds the stash of weed Preston gave me to make quick sales, right within arm’s reach. Such an easy escape from everything going on around me. It’s not my favorite route to go, because it’s easier for someone to walk in and find me. I don’t want to be found. I want to remain lost because it’s the only thing that’s become serenely and painfully familiar.

But then Callie and Kayden walk in the room with boxes in their hands, ready to pack up the last of her stuff, and I force myself to shove my bed-binding emotions down and move again.

After packing for a while, Callie and Kayden start making out with each other. They actually think they’re in love and the concept is ridiculously absurd to me. I sort of feel sorry for them, because one day down the road they’re going to break up and it’s going to hurt. They’ll cry. They’ll become depressed. They’ll eat lots of ice cream or whatever people do when they mourn the loss of a relationship.

I remember one foster home I lived at when I was about fourteen. The Peircesons, a husband and wife that lived in a townhouse in this decent subdivision where each house was a duplicate of the other. I remember, when I pulled up to it, thinking it was pretty and that worried me because I was anything but pretty. I wore dark clothes, chains for a belt, and I had more studs in my ear than I could count on my fingers. I was going through a misunderstood phase and wanted everyone to know it. The Peircesons were decent, but the husband seemed a little uninterested in having a teenager around. At first, it seemed like my stay there was going to be boring, until I was out back one day on the porch and the next-door neighbor came out, talking on her phone. There was a tall fence, so she couldn’t see me at first, but I could hear her talking dirty to someone on the phone, telling them she would spank them. The conversation got me interested the longer it went on and by the time it was over I was laughing, something I hadn’t done in a while.

The lady must have heard me, too, because when she hung up she peeked her head over the fence. She seemed a little annoyed at first that I was eavesdropping, but her annoyance turned to intrigue when I showed no remorse for listening.

After that, I started hanging out with her during the three hours I had between when school ended and the Peircesons came home from work. She taught me how to light her cigarettes for her and told me the ins and outs of men, even though I told her I’d never fall in love. Her name was Starla, although I never really believed it was her real name, but it seemed fitting. She ran a phone chat operation from her house, which meant she told guys she was doing dirty things to herself, playing into their fetishes while they jerked off. She actually had a part-time job as a saleswoman at a car dealership, living a double life. She reminded me of a starlet from the 1940s when she was at home, her blond hair always curled, she wore a lot of silk, and sometimes even a feather boa. She told me she dressed like that because it made her feel like the sexy seductress she played on the phone. When I asked her why she enjoyed talking to men like she did, she told me it was because it made her feel like she had control over them. That she’d had too many heartbreaks and spent too many nights crying over ice cream and this helped her stay away from that. What was amusing about the whole thing is usually she was cooking dinner or reading a magazine, even watching television when she was talking dirty to the guys. She never actually did any of the stuff she said.

“You like that, Biggie,” she’d said once into the phone as she walked around the living room cleaning up the garbage laying around, while wearing her silk robe and slippers. I was hanging out on her couch, waiting until it was time to return home to the boring Peircesons, watching reruns of My So-Called Life, this nineties television show that got canceled after one season, but I found highly entertaining.

I giggled when she called him Biggie and she’d glanced over at me, smiling as she rolled her eyes. “Creeper,” she mouthed.

I laughed again. “Aren’t they all.” Then I grabbed a handful of chips out of the bag on my lap. A lot of the guys liked her to call them their special nicknames and I was guessing this one asked for her to call him Biggie, probably because he wasn’t.

“Oh yeah, I like that,” she said, picking up a few empty glasses off the coffee table. Then she whisked out of the room and I’d returned to my show.

A few minutes later, after the guy had probably finished himself off, she’d come back into the living room, smoking a cigarette. “Men are exhausting,” she said, plopping down on the sofa beside me. The whole house was crammed with gold-trimmed antique furniture, none of which matched, and the teal walls were hung with pictures of bands and actresses she’d met. I loved her place because it was different. Every place I’d lived looked pretty much the same as the others and most of those turned out to be crappy.

“Then why do you work for them?” I’d wondered curiously, kicking my feet up on the coffee table.

She glanced at me as she reached for an ashtray on the coffee table. “Oh my dear, sweet, innocent Violet. They work for me, honey.”

She always used endearing terms and it annoyed me, yet I let it slide with her.

I stuffed a few more chips in my mouth. “You know, I seriously wish you would be my foster mother.”

She smiled sadly, leaning forward to put the cigarette out. “I can’t be a foster mother, Violet. I can barely take care of myself.”

I chewed on the chips as I stared at the television screen. I didn’t get it because it seemed like she took great care of herself, no attachments, doing whatever she wanted. It sounded like such a great life, but maybe she was just saying that because she really didn’t want to be my foster mother.

“So what’s up with the girl with the red hair?” she asked, changing the subject as she reached for the chips. “She seems obsessed with gorgeous eyes right there.”

“I don’t think she’s obsessed.” I silently shouted at the emotions stirring inside me to shut up, that it doesn’t matter if I have a mother or not because it wouldn’t fix anything—fix me. “Just addicted to him.”

“That might be even worse than being obsessed.”

“What do you mean?”

“Addiction is dangerous,” she said and then patted my head as she rose to her feet. “Especially with men.” She’d gone back into the kitchen and moments later the phone rang. I sat on the couch listening to her talk about spanking some guy wondering if she was addicted to guys or whether they were addicted to her. What was the difference?

Even though my time with Starla was fleeting, since the Peircesons quickly got tired of having a foster kid, I learned a lot from her. Not just about manipulation, but about gaining power. Plus she never gave a shit about what she did, even though a lot of people would have looked down on her if they found out about it. She would say stuff that most wouldn’t and I idolized her for it.

“Would you guys knock it off?” I ask Callie and Kayden as I stuff the last of my shirts into the boxes. Callie and Kayden are rolling around on the bed together and I swear I’m about two seconds away from getting a live porn show.

They barely hear me as Kayden lies down on top of Callie and starts sucking on her neck. I give up on making them stop, scooping up the last of my packed boxes. I still have a few more things to box up but I need a break from all the PDA so I head out of the dorm room and carry the last box down to Preston’s car. He let me borrow it this morning so I could get my stuff to the house a little easier and thankfully my ankle’s healed enough that I’m not walking like I need a cane.

It’s mid-May and the temperature is pushing ninety-something. As I toss the last box into the trunk, I pull my hair up into messy ponytail and then tie the bottom of my T-shirt so that it sits above my waist. I have cut-offs on and my combat boots, the one’s with the broken buckle. It’s hot and I seriously wish that someone would create a law that we could be allowed to walk around naked when it’s this hot.

Unfortunately if I stripped down and paraded around the campus naked, I’d probably get arrested. Given the right time and my mood, though, and I’d probably be glad to be handcuffed and thrown into a police car. Plus, it might get me out of going down to the police department on Monday.

When I pull up to Preston’s trailer house, there’s a party going on. I’m a little irked because he knew I was moving back today and it’s going to be a pain in the ass trying to get my stuff in the house with a bunch of annoying drunk dumb-asses hanging out in the living room.

I park the car as close to the front door as possible, but there’s a line of cars blocking the driveway. People are standing all over the front yard, on the driveway, and on the steps leading to the front door. Most of them are older, but some are about my age. Plastic cups and cigarettes in their hands. I haven’t lived here for nine months and apparently I’ve forgotten what it was like and why I decided to live in the dorms. Living here is like having to deal at parties all the time.

Sighing, I get out of the car and adjust my hair into a more secure ponytail as I bump the door shut with my hip. Some guy wearing an oversize hoodie whistles at me and I shake my head and disregard him as I weave around the people toward the front door.

“What’s up, baby? You come here to give me another show,” a douche named Trey calls out as I walk by him and through the front door. He’s in his midtwenties and when I was staying here he used to walk into my room all the time pretending to be lost when really he was trying to catch me changing, which he did once. I’d have locked the doors but there aren’t any locks on any of them, except for the bathroom.

“I’ll give you another show,” I say, shutting the screen door. “Just as long as I can give you that painful knee-to-the-nuts reminder of what happens after you steal a show?”

His eyelids lower as he puckers a kiss at me and then laughs like he’s the most hilarious person on earth. “It’s a deal.”

I let the screen door slam shut in his face. Cigarette smoke and the pungent scent of weed engulfs me as I squeeze through the crowded room. “Kryptonite” by 3 Doors Down blares from the stereo and some weirdo tripping in the corner is pretending to play air guitar. When I first moved in with Preston things weren’t like this, but that was because of Kelley. Yeah, they were dealers and sometimes I think that was part of the reason they adopted me, so I could go to all the high school parties and sell stuff for them. I wasn’t a fan of it, but I didn’t care, either, so I did what they asked because they gave me a home. But they never brought their dealing or their clients home like this, Kelley would never have allowed it.

I head down the hall toward Preston’s room, knowing he’s probably in there doing something highly illegal. I pause at the door and knock, but the music playing in his bedroom is even louder than the music in the living room. After the third knock I turn the knob and open the door, hoping he’s not having sex or anything. He’s not but there are four guys on the bed with him and they’re circled around a blue bong shaped like a vase and there’s a guy and a girl on the television screen, the guy ramming her from behind as she moans and whimpers. I’ve seen porn videos here and there, but not under circumstances where I paid attention to it. But right now, I can’t seem to take my eyes off it. The guy looks so content in this really intense way and so does the girl, but there’s no emotion toward each other. They’re just there in the moment. I wonder if that’s what I look like all the time. Just there in my life.

Finally I blink my eyes away from the screen and fix my attention on the bed. One of the guys has his mouth to the mouthpiece of the tall, slender glass bong and a lighter in his hand, about ready to light up. He says something to Preston and then Preston looks over at the television with this euphoric look on his face.

I’m deciding if I really want to stick around just so I get high off secondhand smoke tonight and sit around watching porn with a bunch of guys, when Preston notices me lingering in the doorway. His bloodshot blue eyes light up as they scale my body and then he says something as a languid smile spreads on his face, but the music’s too loud for me to make out his words.

“What?” I shout, cupping my hand around my ear.

He turns the music down that’s playing from an old stereo, the smile still on his face as he waves me over to him. The other four guys suddenly notice me, and their undivided attention is unwelcomed on my part. I know there’s something wrong about the situation, but it’s hard to determine what exactly the wrong part is because I’ve seen so much wrong that sometimes it starts to seem right.

I let out a breath, knowing I’m going to have my hands full with five stoned, horny guys in the room. I walk over to the bed and when I reach the edge Preston’s fingers spread around my waist. Pressing his fingertips into me, he guides me to his lap and sits me down on it. I still have my shirt tied up so his hands are on my bare skin and I’m pretty sure I feel his hard-on pressing against my ass. I’m not enthusiastic about the situation so I casually start to slide off his lap, but he only constricts his grip and secures me in place. It stings and I wouldn’t be surprised if he leaves red marks on my skin. It doesn’t feel like he’s being friendly at all, but territorial. Pins and needles prick at my skin as I feel the confusing, indecipherable emotions tied to the moment, to Preston. He means something to me—this means something. I tap my fingers on my leg, trying to figure out what to do.

He leans closer and puts his scruffy chin on my shoulder. “Why are you so tense? Is it the weed or the video?”

I force one of my infamous plastic smiles as I rotate my head toward him. “I’m just tired. I spent all day packing and I still have to go back and finish up.” I don’t mention the thing about the detective because I don’t want to talk about it at the moment.

“Well, I’ll help you unpack the car,” he says, his hands wandering from my waist to the top of my thighs as he glances at the television screen. “That should help, right?”

One of the guys across from me, wearing this really grungy beanie, elbows the blond guy to the side. They exchange an underlying look, then the blond one’s eyes drink me in. I’m getting a little nervous, but also the thrill of what could happen arises and the two painfully mix. The pins and needles fizzle but I’m not sure whether I’m relieved or terrified anymore.

I nod, without taking my eyes off the blond guy. “Yeah… that should help.” My adrenaline’s speeding, soothing and pulling at my emotions, an internal tug-of-war. Do I like it? Hate it? Do I want the danger to accelerate? Or do I want to run? Be weak. Let the pins and needles win.

After the argument goes on and on in my head, I finally give up and maneuver my legs to the side, lowering my feet onto the floor. I’m still uncertain how I feel about my emotions at the moment, but a break from the smoke, Preston’s hands, and the porno movie might clear my head.

“I’m going to go start getting boxes out of the trunk,” I tell him as I slip out of his arms. Thankfully he easily lets me go and then follows me out of the room, one of the guys shouting out for him to take it easy on me. I don’t say anything as I wind back through the living room and then go outside, ignoring Trey when he asks me for a show again. I put one foot in front of the other, shoving people out of my way as I walk swiftly down the driveway to Preston’s Cadillac. I pop the trunk, go around to the back, and then stare down in it with my hands on my hips wondering what to take out first, instead of focusing on what just happened, the way Preston touched me, and my confusion over it.

“Hey, what’s up with the power walk?” Preston weaves to the car and then his feet scuff against the dirt as he moves up behind me. “You took off like the house was on fire.”

“No, I took off like a person who wasn’t comfortable watching porn with a bunch of dudes stoned out of their minds.” I keep my tone light and my chin tucked down, avoiding eye contact.

His arms wrap around my midsection and he presses himself against me, lining his body with mine. “Let’s unload the trunk later.” He rubs against me and I go stiff as board.

“I need to unload it now,” I tell him, leaning into the trunk to grab a box.

His arms leave my waist and his hands cover the top of mine. He presses them roughly to the edge of the open trunk and pins me down with my back slightly bent over. Anxiety surges in my body, but I’m still managing to get pissed off through the storm of needles. It’s one thing to cop a quick feel, but this is too much.

“I need help with a problem,” he whispers in my ear as he thrusts his hips forward, pressing his hard-on against my ass.

“Go jerk off in the bathroom then.” My voice comes out uneven and I cringe.

One of his hands slides up my arm and he cups my breast. “I took some E, Violet, and it’s so fucking amazing… everything feels so amazing… you feel fucking amazing.” He starts palming my breast like it’s some kind of stress ball.

“Well, that seems like a dumb-ass move, especially if you mixed it with weed, too.” I’m a little uneasy but don’t show it. I’ve seen what mixing drugs can do to people and it’s unpredictable, which makes Preston at the moment unpredictable. And when he gets that way, I’ve seen him get violent.

“I did though… couldn’t help it… and God it feels so good.” He moans, grabbing my breast so hard it hurts.

I use my free arm to jam him in the ribs and nudge him away from me. His hand leaves my breast as he wobbles backward and I seize the opportunity to turn around. “Look, I’m sorry you popped a pill that makes you want to screw everything that moves. But that’s not my problem. It’s yours. I’m not going to help you.”

He crosses his arms, the sun is shining behind him and casting a shadow over his face as his jaw clenches. “What if I’d said that to you four years ago when social services asked us to take you in? What if Kelley and I had turned her away because you were bad… what if we wouldn’t have helped you?… You’re acting really ungrateful.”

“I’m not ungrateful. I’m really grateful that you and Kelley gave me a home when no one else wanted to, but…” I shift my shoulders uncomfortably as I release an uneven breath from my lips. “But I can’t have sex with you.”

“Why? We could be fucking amazing together.” He reaches for me, but I protest, stepping back. He sighs and brushes his hair out of his eyes. “What’s your problem? And don’t try to feed me that no-one-ever-loved-me-so-I-can’t-stand-being-touched-by-someone-I-know bullshit. I know you want to be with me, you just won’t admit it.”

“That’s not what it’s about and you know it,” I say through gritted teeth, my pulse hammering. I was barely in the mood to be around people after the call from the detective and now I have to deal with the horny asshole version of Preston, the one that wants to touch me, feel me, make me feel things I’m not comfortable with.

“How do I know it? I don’t know anything about you,” he replies, adjusting his man part with his hand, wincing. “Everything that’s come out of that mouth of yours is a damn lie.”

I walk backward, making my way to the driver’s seat. “Go fuck yourself. You’re acting like a jerk.”

He storms for me like he’s going to tackle me. “I’m acting like someone who just took some E and wants to get laid.” His hand drifts for me again and he grabs my hip. “Come on, Violet, let me fuck the shit out of you. You won’t have to feel a thing. I promise.” He looks like he’s about to orgasm, sheer ecstasy on his face.

“I have no idea what that means,” I say, squirming from his grip, my skin burning as he digs his fingers into my skin. But I manage to get my arm loose, reach for the door, and yank it open. “But I’m leaving.”

He shakes his head and then moves for me with his arms open, like he’s going to hug me. I jump out of the way and bang my hip on the door. My eyes pool with tears from the pain as his hands miss me and he loses his balance and falls into the driver’s seat. He reaches for the keys, chuckling under his breath, and I realize that he was never going for me in the first place. He removes them from the ignition and slides out of the seat, twirling the key chain around his finger as he gets to his feet.

“Have fun walking wherever it is you were heading.” He backs down the driveway, with his hand stuffed in the pocket of his low-riding jeans, grinning like an asshole. “Face it, Violet, you have nowhere else to go, so you might as well come with me, baby.”

I curl my fingers inward, and then flex them, telling myself not to open my mouth, but he’s worked his way under my skin way too much and my control over my mouth snaps like a thin rubber band. “Have fun beating yourself off because face it, no one wants to be with you.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, but either I’m too pissed off to care or I’m seeking the danger of the moment to stop feeling the hurt that I’m feeling—I’m conflicted over my reason. As Preston rushes toward me, I calculate how much strength it’s going to take to bring him down and if I have the guts to do it to him. Even though he’s jacked up on sex pills and pot, a bad combination, and isn’t thinking clearly, doesn’t mean he’s going to see this my way when he’s sober.

His hands move for my shoulders and I prepare to lift my foot to kick him in the balls, when his arm suddenly veers to the right and seconds later his fist collides with my jaw.

It lets out a loud pop and my ears start to ring. “Ow… fuck,” I groan, clutching my jaw as my head falls forward and my shoulders slump.

“God damn it, Violet, why couldn’t just give me what I want for once!” he shouts, his voice cracking. “I gave you everything when no one else would and yet all you are is a pain in my ass!”

The blinding pain spreads through my cheek and I can already feel it swelling. Even though tears sting at my eyes, I feel alarmingly content, my heart beating at a consistent rate.

I raise my head up with dispassion on my face and slowly lower my hand from my cheek. He’s breathing ravenously as he takes me in, his chest puffing out and then sinking in, his eyes wide, his pupils dilated, his face red and damp with sweat. I don’t say anything because there’d be no point. I just turn around and walk down the driveway. He doesn’t say anything, but I glance over my shoulder when I reach the street at the end of the driveway, and he’s still standing by the car watching me.

I turn to the left and walk down the highway, not bothering to move over when cars zoom by at sixty-five miles an hour. The breeze that gusts over me as vehicles pass by calms the panic in my chest that’s been there since I got the call from the detective. Just the idea that they could swerve to the side and take me out, throw me out of this world, is enough to distract my body from what it’s feeling and my mind from what it’s thinking. When I arrive at the edge of town, which is just a bunch of farmhouses, I retrieve my cell phone from my pocket. It’s getting dark, and I’m getting tired of walking but my list of contacts consists of Preston and a few guys I frequently deal to.

I’m about to stuff my phone into my pocket, when it starts singing the ringtone that belongs to any unknown number. I hate that I’m slightly disappointed that it’s not Preston’s ringtone and when I answer it I sound grumpier that I want to.

“Hello.”

There’s a long pause.

“Seriously, again.” I shake my head, about to hang up.

“Violet Hayes?” he asks in the somewhat familiar deep voice.

“I think we’ve already established that that’s who I am.” I glance around at the flourishing trees around me, the tall grass in the fields, the ditch to the side of the road. All places where a creeper can hide.

He laughs softly in the phone. “Yeah, I guess.”

“But what we haven’t established is who you are,” I say, picking up my pace.

He draws out the silence forever. “Can we just call me a friend for now?”

“Can’t do that,” I say, trying to shake the uneasiness of the situation off. “I don’t have friends.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he replies, sounding genuine. “It’s no fun not having any friends.”

“It sucks about as much as everything else.” I veer down into the grass as a car whizzes by, more nervous than I prefer.

“Does your life suck… do you not like it?”

“Okay, this conversation is getting a little too personal for me,” I say. “So please stop calling.”

“Violet, I want to talk to you,” he says, quickly. “I need to. Please, it’s important. Can we meet somewhere? Just you and I? Just talk?”

I laugh insultingly. “You seriously think I’m going to meet some creeper who randomly called me and knows my last name all by myself?”

“You’re not afraid, are you?” he asks, his voice lowering. “You don’t seem like the type that’s afraid. You seem like the type that doesn’t give a crap, at least from what I’ve seen.”

I stop walking, glancing around up and down the road. “What did you just say?”

“I just said you seem tough.”

“No, you said ‘seen’… who are you?”

There’s a pause and then the line goes dead.

“Shit.” I hammer my finger against the end button and hurry up the side of the road. It’s too far to turn back to Preston’s but it’s also a fairly long walk back to town. I start running and I’m not ever sure why. It was just some creepy guy… some creepy guy who’s been watching me.

I try not to think about the fact that the case is reopening and that the calls started coming in around that time. There can’t be a connection. It’s too random. Then again, my whole life has been based on random events.

I keep walking, trying not to think too much, knowing I’ll only get worked up and there’s nothing I can do about it at the moment. I know there’s supposed to be a bar somewhere on this road where a lot of college kids hang out because the owner doesn’t card very often, but I’m not sure where exactly. After about an hour of walking, my dorm is still about five or so miles away and I’m exhausted, hot, and my cheek is starting to hurt pretty bad.

“Stupid asshole.” I place my hand over my cheek, not really sure if I’m referring to Preston or the guy on the phone. My steps are beginning to lag along with the high of being so close to the traffic. Finally, I arrive at civilization in the form of a rundown bar called Larry’s Palace, the one I’ve heard people talk about. I’m sure they’ll have ice and a place for me to sit down for a minute and if rumors are correct, I won’t get carded.

I open the door and instantly get overwhelmed by the musty scent of beer and peanuts. There’s loud music playing from a jukebox, neon lights glowing from the signs flashing in the windows and some girl, probably barely eighteen, is dancing around a pole on a stage wearing a bikini that hardly covers anything.

I note that almost everyone in the place is male and that this bar is actually a strip club. I sigh, disheartened.

I decide to make it quick and walk straight up to the bar. The bartender is one of the few females in the place. She’s also the most dressed one, wearing a white T-shirt that’s a little too small for her.

“Can I get some ice?” I ask politely, crossing my arms on the counter.

She eyeballs my swollen cheek. “How old are you?”

I sink into a barstool and point over my shoulder at the stripper on the stage. “Probably older than that girl you have on stage.”

She narrows her eyes as she reaches for a glass cup under the counter. “Do you want water with your ice?”

My fake smile is shining on my face. “Just ice straight up.”

She rolls her eyes at me as she retreats to the back of the bar. She scoops some ice out of a bucket and then drops the glass down in front of me, before heading to an older guy with salt-and-pepper hair sitting down at the end of the bar.

I pick up the glass and press it to my cheek, wincing at first from the sting but then letting out a relieved breath as the cold begins to soothe the heat. I prop my elbow on the counter and rest my head against my hand as I listen to some guys cheer from behind me. There’s a mirror behind the counter, giving me a good glimpse of how bad I look at the moment. My mascara is running down my flushed skin and my hair is a little frizzier than normal because of the heat. My cheek is so puffy it looks like I’m carrying a giant jawbreaker in it and the skin is tinting purplish blue.

The song switches to a more upbeat one and if it’s possible the guys in the bar get even noisier, cheering for more. I decide it’s time to take the glass and bail because I have a long walk ahead of me and very little patience left. I hop off the barstool while the bartender’s distracted by the old dude at the end of the bar. I’m headed to the door when I notice that the cheering has shifted to shouting. I glance over my shoulder just in time to see a chair flying through the air and then it smashes into the stage. It causes a domino effect and suddenly everyone’s shoving up from the seats and the stripper takes off running from the stage. I’ve never actually seen a bar fight… or a strip club fight, but the idea of jumping in makes my pulse beat faster. It speeds up even more when I spot the guy in the middle of the room getting held back by two guys that look large enough to be bouncers.

Luke Price. He’s wearing a long-sleeved gray shirt with the sleeves pushed up and there’s blood staining the front from a trail dripping from his cut lip. His jeans also have blood on them and his boots are untied. His arms are being held back as a thinner, but taller guy stands in front of him rolling up his sleeve. Luke looks like he’s relishing the fact that he’s getting his ass kicked. I kind of understand it, although I usually try to avoid the actually physical part of a fight, just letting it work up to almost getting there then bailing.

There’s a thin guy wearing a tight black shirt and steel-toed boots standing in front of Luke and he says something to him. Luke laughs as he slams his head back, crashing it into one of the bouncers faces, the taller one with a more rounder gut. Blood gushes from the guy’s nose as he releases Luke. He starts cursing as he clutches his nose, blood dripping down his hands and arms. The bouncer begins to raise one of his arms to punch Luke.

I feel this wave of something, not adrenaline, but close to it, and suddenly I’m shoving through the crowd toward Luke, carrying so much energy in me it’s hard to know what to do with it. I don’t help people out. Ever. But with Luke I feel obligated because he’s helped me out more than once.

A few guys give me a look like I’m insane as I squeeze by them, but I’m too amped up on shock and adrenaline to care. With each step, the emotional aspects of tonight slowly erase, the confusion Preston put in me. The way he hurt me, the feelings that surfaced from his words and his inappropriate touching. By the time I reach Luke and the bouncers, I’m so silent inside I feel like I could do anything.

Luke’s attention darts to me as I step through the last of the bodies and out between him and the thinner guy standing in front of him. The taller and rounder bouncer is hunched over, his nose bleeding all over the floor and the other one has wrapped his arm around the skinny guy’s neck. The thin guy has a puffy nose and a swollen eye, which I’m guessing is why Luke’s knuckles are scraped.

Luke looks at me curiously, his gaze lingering on my cheek, before gliding up to my eyes. I can tell he’s having a hard time focusing and standing, probably because he’s beyond drunk.

“Who the hell are you?” the thin guy asks then spits blood on the floor, his boots crunching against the glass and peanut shells as he turns toward me.

I glance from him to the big guys and then at the thinner one, realizing I should have created a plan before I walked into this mess. Thankfully, being in the middle of guys pumped up on alcohol and testosterone is giving me even more silence from the earlier emotions Preston—the entire shitty day—put in me. I feel high, like I’m flying and could fall at any time. Blood is pouring through my veins and roaring in my ears. It’s like I’m invincible and it feels like I could do anything.

I fix my attention back to the thin guy with barbed wire tattoos on his arm. “I’m here for him.” I hitch my finger over my shoulder at Luke and give the skinny guy one of my best charming smiles.

The skinny one frowns, unimpressed, and crosses his arms. “Your friend broke the rules and he’s got to pay for it.” He leans to the side to look at Luke. “No touching the dancers.” He points to a sign hanging on the wall to my right that matches what he just said.

I look over my shoulder at Luke again, fighting an eye roll. “Really? You couldn’t have just gone home and jerked off.”

He shakes his head, his brown eyes darkened by the alcohol I can smell flowing off his breath. “I couldn’t wait that long.” He has this silly, drunk, innocent look on his face that actually makes my heart miss a beat and I don’t like it.

I’m seriously debating whether or not just to let him handle this on his own, but then remember how he helped me to and from class and gave me a ride to McDonald’s. My shoulders slump as I turn around to face the skinny guy, doing the one thing that I’m good at. Bullshitting people.

“Look… he’s really sorry he broke the rules, but can’t you just let him go?” I ask with a sweet smile.

The thin guy narrows his eyes. “I was just going to kick him out but then he fucking sucker punched me in the nose when I asked him to leave. He gets a freebie for touching, but I’m not about to let some idiot punk get away with punching me.”

My eyes sweep the crowd of people watching us, racking my brain for an idea. “So you’re just going to hit him and let him go?”

The thin guy shrugs. “Haven’t you ever heard of an eye for an eye? He hit me so I hit him, then he can walk out of here.”

The idea of watching this guy ram his fist into Luke’s not too-bad-looking nose makes me squirm. I should do something… for him… and for me maybe, too. I’ve had a crappy night and testing my boundaries in a fight seems so much better at the moment than feeling the weight of the crappiness. It’d take my mind off Preston, the detective, the fact that I’m probably homeless.

I feel my heart pitter-patter with excitement as I dive headfirst into the mess with no regard for my future. “Look…” I pause so the thin guy will give me his name, but he doesn’t catch on. I inhale quietly through my nose and exhale through my lips, preparing myself to create one of the best lies I’ve ever come up with. “You can’t kick my boyfriend’s ass. He does this sometimes, you know. But he just found out that we were going to have a baby.” I rub my stomach, blowing it out a little. “And he’s been really stressed working two jobs so we can move out of the apartment and get a house.” I take a deep breath and let it out, releasing the tears I only let flow when I’m playing a part. “Plus, he has a drinking problem and I don’t really know what to do anymore but he’s the father of my child and I need him, you know?” I let tears drip out of my eyes and the thin guy shifts awkwardly. “You can’t hurt him otherwise he’s going to have to miss work and we can’t afford it.”

I’m not sure if he’s buying it or not but he’s definitely not comfortable with the crying. Most guys aren’t, which makes my ability to cry at the drop of a hat spectacularly good luck. And I don’t mind the crying, just as long as it doesn’t have any emotion behind it.

“Please just let him go.” I finish it off with a heart-wrenching sob, letting my shoulders curve inward as I cover my face with my hand. “Please, I can’t deal with this right now… everything’s just too stressful.”

The whole room is so quiet you can hear a pin drop and some of the guys start to wander back to the tables, over the drama. I glance up and the thin guy is staring at me like I’ve just escaped from a mental institution.

Then he shakes his head and throws his hand in the air exasperatedly. “Just let him go so he can get the fuck out of here. I’m too old to deal with this shit.”

The large guy shoots him a harsh look. “What about setting an example? You want things to go back to what they where pre-Ted?”

“Ted was a moron who had no idea how to run a strip club,” the thin guy says, cupping his hand over his puffy nose and wincing.

The large guy shakes his head in disgust, but releases Luke and steps away toward the stage. Luke stumbles forward and bumps his shoulder into mine as he grabs on to my arms to hold his balance.

“Sugar dearest,” he whispers with a snorting laugh, his fingers digging into my arms as he laughs in my ear.

I grab on to his arm, helping him get his feet firmly under him. Then holding on to each other, we wind around the tipped-over chairs, broken glass crunching under our shoes. Some of the guys are watching us, but others have already forgotten, staring at the stage. Luke leans his weight on me, gripping at his ribs, and I wonder if he got punched there.

Once we’re outside and safely behind a row of trucks where no one can see us through the bar window, I step away from him and his arm falls from my grip. The sky is a sheet of black, the stars twinkling, and neon lights in the windows of the strip club light up the ground around us.

“So what was that about?” I ask as he trips to the side, fighting to stand up straight on his own.

He glances over me with unresponsiveness, his body tottering to the side. “You’re kind of crazy, Violet with no last name.”

“I’m crazy.” I point at myself as I gape at him. “I’m not the one who groped a stripper in a sketchy club in the middle of nowhere that has bouncers with their own special rules.”

He shrugs with his hands out to the side, tripping over his own feet. “She stuck her ass in my face. I didn’t touch her. She touched me.”

I raise my eyebrows accusingly as I fold my arms. “Is that really what happened?”

He wavers as he blinks his glazed-over eyes and then braces his hand on the bumper of a lifted pickup beside him. “I might have put my hand on her, too.”

“Why would you do that? Why not just go grope one of those skanks you always have hanging around you?”

His mouth dips to a frown. “Because I wanted the bouncers to hit me.”

“What? Why?” Actually, I can think of a few reasons, but that would imply Luke was like me and I doubt that’s possible.

“So I could hit them back,” he replies with a casual shrug.

Now I’m more curious than concerned. “Why would you want to get hit?”

He wipes some blood off his forehead that is coming from a cut on his hairline and then winces as he pulls his hand back, flexing his fingers. “I didn’t want to get hit. I wanted to get into a fight.”

Okay, now I’m just confused because that sounds like something I would do and I’ve never met anyone who has a weird obsession with danger like I do. I want to know if that’s why he wanted to get hit. If it was because he wanted the thrill of an adrenaline rush. If Luke is like me for whatever reason. “But why would you want to get into a fight? For kicks and giggles? Or do you just like getting your ass kicked?”

He grabs at the bottom of his shirt, shaking his head. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“I ask a lot of questions?” I watch him as he tries to get the bottom of his shirt up high enough so that he can wipe his lip. The low lighting around us is enough to highlight his stomach muscles and I can see how ripped he is and that he has tattoos. Jesus. I’ve seen muscled and tattooed guys before, but I’ve never had this much curiosity and draw toward them.

He nods his head exaggeratedly as he continues to fight with his shirt to wipe his lip, pulling a face at the uncooperative fabric. “Yeah, you do.”

Blinking my gaze from his muscles, I shuffle forward and snatch hold of the bottom of his shirt. I move the fabric up to his lip and he gets this goofy grin on his face.

“I knew it.” His speech is slurred and his breath reeks of booze and cigarettes. He gazes over my shoulder at the road where it sounds like a semi truck is driving by, the headlights reflecting in his eyes. “Knew that you wanted me.”

I snort a laugh and stretch his shirt far enough that I can wipe the blood from his lip. “I don’t want you and I think you know I don’t.” But as I say it, I actually picture what it would be like to press my lips against his, blood and cuts and all. In fact, it might be a bonus, make things more intense and wrong—making him more intense and wrong. My stomach warms and coils just thinking about it.

He winces, his relentless gaze eating me up as I smear the blood from his cut lip. “Not even a little bit.” He seems slightly saddened, which amuses me.

I let go of his shirt and step away from him, the weird stomach sensations simmering down now that I put the space between us. “Maybe you should stop talking before you say something really stupid.” But the inside of me doesn’t match my words. I feel the smallest acceleration in my pulse and my stomach starts doing the weird warm, coiling thing again.

“I only say the truth when I’m drunk,” he tells me, stepping forward. “And the truth is,” he leans in toward me, passion and Jack Daniel’s dripping off him, “That you drive me fucking crazy.” His pupils are large, the brown in them blending in with the black. “Rubbing up against my dick one moment and the next moment you’re running off all because I say you’re beautiful and I want to fuck you.”

I stifle a laugh, completely entertained now. “Actually, I think you said that we should go back to one of the rooms.” I hold my hands up to my side, pretending to be innocent, and trying not to laugh at him as his face contorts in perplexity. “Maybe you just wanted to cuddle or something. Some guys like that.”

His eyes narrow as he moves back and leans his hip against the bumper for support. “You think this is funny.” He pats his back pockets and then starts to panic, standing up straight as his hands dart around to his front pockets. He promptly relaxes as he pulls out a pack of squished Marlboros and then fumbles to open it. “It’s not funny…” He plucks one out and then goes to put the end in his mouth, but drops it on the ground. Cursing, he bends down to pick it up and doesn’t bother to brush the dirt off before he puts it into his mouth as he stands back up. “It’s not funny at all.” He snatches his lighter out of his back pocket and then drops the pack on the ground and cups his hand around his mouth. He flicks the lighter over and over but can’t get it to light. Grunting, he kicks at the dirt with the tip of his boot and then curses some more. I feel like I’m witnessing a drunken tantrum and it’s ridiculously hilarious.

I haven’t laughed in a while, but I find myself laughing under my breath as I snatch the lighter from his hands. “Here, let me help you.”

“I don’t need your help or anyone else’s,” he insists, annoyed, but still doesn’t bother stopping me as I move the lighter up toward the cigarette in his mouth and flick it. The flame burns as the paper crinkles, but he starts blowing instead of sucking and it doesn’t light. I try again and then again.

“Would you stop blowing on it so hard?” I flick the lighter again and the flame poofs up.

“Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?” he retorts in a lazy tone and his bleary-eyed gaze is unyielding. “Hey, what happened to your face?”

I put the flame from the lighter up to the end of the cigarette. “I got into a fight with the wall and the wall won.”

He crooks his brow, blowing too hard again and it burns out. “A wall?”

“Yeah, a wall.” I give up on lighting the cigarette and pluck it from his mouth.

“Hey,” he protests as I put the end of the cigarette into my mouth. I gag at the potent taste of Jack Daniel’s on it as I light it up and take a deep inhale. I quickly puff out the smoke and do it a few more times, getting light-headed and then I hand it over, the end glowing orange through the dark.

“There you go, nicotine addict,” I say as he takes the lit cigarette from my fingers.

He puts it in his mouth and sucks on it. When he exhales the cloud of smoke, he looks more calm and relaxed. “You sucked that like a pro.”

“Well, I’ve had a lot of practice,” I tell him and then laugh a little when he busts up laughing, hunching over and holding the cigarette out to the side, the cherry bright through the dark.

“And I didn’t mean it like that.” I shake my head with a somewhat real smile on my face. “I just meant that I had this foster mother who liked to smoke when she cooked and sometimes when her hands were full she’d have me light her cigarette for her.” He stops laughing and I realize I’ve just told him more about me than I’ve told pretty much anyone besides the people who’ve taken me in.

He quiets down, putting the cigarette back into his mouth. “Foster mother?” He blows out smoke. “You grew up in a foster home?” He pauses, considering something. “What was it like?”

“All rainbows and sunshine—I was completely showered with love. Can we drop the subject?”

“Was it weird or good having different parents all the time?” he continues, clearly not registering that I want to change the subject.

A sinking feeling moves through my body, so weighted and heavy I nearly collapse to the ground. “So where’s your truck?”

The lights from the strip club’s signs flash in his eyes as he stares at me. “I think I parked out back… why?”

I head for the back of the building, motioning for him to follow me. “Because I’m going to drive you back to campus.”

He staggers after me, surprising me when he hitches a finger through a back loop on my shorts. At first I think he’s going to jerk me back to him, but all he does is hold on to me for support and balance, trusting me to get him where he needs to go, which is weird.

“How’d you get here?” he mutters in my ear.

I lead us around the corner, ignoring the blast of heat when his knuckles graze the skin on my back. “I walked.”

“From where?” he asks, flicking his cigarette to the side, little orange sparks dotting the gravel.

“From nearby,” I lie and speed up when I spot his truck parked crookedly at the back of the club in front of a cluster of trees beneath one of the lampposts. “Were you drunk when you got here?” I ask.

He steps up to the side of me, releasing my belt loop and grabbing hold of my arm. “No.”

“You parked like you were drunk.” I stiffen, not liking the way he’s clinging on to me for support. It’s causing a mixture of emotions from panic to desire and those damn heated stomach sensations to surface again.

“Well, I wasn’t.” He stares at his truck like he barely recognizes it. “I was just distracted.”

I’m not sure if he’s telling the truth or not, but I lead him the rest of the way to the truck. The doors are unlocked and I help him into the passenger side, letting him put his hands onto my shoulder to boost himself in. God, he owes me big time. Just thinking about him owing me a favor thrills me way, way too much. I need to get my head out of Luke land and get back to the place where it’s only me and me alone.

Once he gets settled in the seat, I close the door and round the front of the truck, deciding where I’m going to go when I get him back to his dorm. Walk back to my dorm and then what? I don’t have hardly any of my stuff and I’m pretty much homeless, at least in a couple of days I will be.

When I open the driver’s door, Luke is already lying down in the seat. I nudge him over and then hop in, slamming the door. “Where are your keys?”

His eyes are shut, his arms flopped over his chest, looking like he’s asleep. “I think… I think in my… pocket.”

I rest my hands on the steering wheel. “Can you please get them out?” I ask as nicely as I can because he’s wasted and doesn’t really know what he’s saying, but my patience is wearing thin.

He moves his hand slowly for his pocket and pats himself down. “Hmmm… that’s weird… They’re not there.”

This night is quickly becoming the night of ill-fated events, but I’m not going to put it down as my worst. “Then where are they?”

He shrugs, kicking his feet up on the door. “I have no idea.”

Sighing, I pat down his pockets myself, causing him to laugh and squirm. The only thing I can find is what looks like an insulin monitor thing with a strip sticking out of it and also a pen-shaped object.

“Oh good, you found it…” he mutters, taking it from my hands. But his fingers falter and he drops it on his stomach. “Damn it, I’m all… I’m all…” He sighs the longest sigh in world’s history. “Violet… can you… can you check my blood sugar for me?”

I pick up the monitor and pen object and flip on the interior light, examining them. “How do I do that exactly?”

He extends his arm over his head toward me and points his finger. “Just put the pen up to my finger and push the button.”

I’m a little uneasy about helping him, but put it up to his finger, and push the button like he asked. It pricks his finger and blood pools out of it.

“Now put the strip up onto the blood,” he says, yawning.

I do what he asks and move the strip on the monitor up to his finger. He dabs his blood on it and his eyes shut, like he barely knows what he’s doing. Then he pulls his hand away and flops it down on his stomach as the machine beeps. “What’s it say?” he asks.

I glance down at the beeping screen. “Sixty-eight.”

“Shit,” he mutters, forcing his eyes open. “Can you get my pills out of the glove box?”

I reach over him, flip the handle of the glove box, and dig around the papers and past the flashlight until I find a bottle of vitamin pills. “These ones that say ‘glucose’ on them.”

He bobs his head up and down with a lot of effort. “Those would… be the… ones.”

I unscrew the cap. “How many do you need?”

“Three…”

I’m kind of worried. Luke’s drunk and I have no idea about diabetics and what happens is they don’t get the right meds. What if I do something wrong?

“Are you sure it’s three?” I ask.

He bobs his head up and down. “Yeah… three and I’ll be… good…”

I swallow hard and pour three into my hand, then put the cap back on, and put the bottle away, shutting the glove box. I nudge him gently with my arm. “Luke, here. Take them.”

His eyelids flutter open, bloodshot, with zero comprehension. He gradually lifts his hand up and scoops the pills out of my hand, opening his mouth and dropping them in. His neck muscles work as he forces them down his throat. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” I mutter, confused by the momentary exchange of gratitude. Such a foreign concept to me.

I stare down at him as his eyes drift back shut and then I lean over to turn the light back off, deciding to just lie back and shut my eyes, sleep until morning and then ask him where the hell he put the keys. But as I lean back, I feel a shift on Luke’s part and suddenly I’m being grabbed and he’s pulling me down between the back of the seat and him.

“Holy shit,” I gasp, startled because it seemed like he was barely awake a few moments ago.

I start to get up when he flips us over, putting his body on top of me. I freeze as he stares down at me, the lights from outside barely illuminate the cab.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he mutters, tracing a line up my cheekbone. “It drives me so crazy how beautiful you are.”

It takes me a second to remember that I’ve never actually been pinned underneath a guy before. I’m always either standing or taking the top. I’ve never lay in bed beside one. Never touched a guy before just because I want to. Never kissed while feeling any sort of emotion behind it. It takes me another second or two to realize that this moment is going against all of my previous experiences. Because I’m pinned below him, being touched, and feeling something I desperately want to run away from. I don’t do normal feelings. There’s no point. Letting someone in and giving yourself to someone else has no purpose but heartache. I should shove him off and bail before he does.

But as he breathes heavily, leaning down, his lips inching nearer, I remain stationary. Frozen by fear and want. The contact of his lips only heightens the fear and desire, the two feelings mixing so persuasively that I start to weakly tremble as the walls I worked so hard to put up begin to crack. I try to keep my mouth closed as he works to kiss me, not wanting to give in, not wanting to give any part of me to him, knowing that eventually he won’t want me anymore. But as my body warms below him, I can’t help it and my lips readily part. Seconds later, his tongue slides into my mouth and he groans against my lips. It sends vibrations through my body and I shiver.

“Jesus, this feels so much better than I imagined…” he moans as his fingers tangle through my hair, tugging at the roots and it feels so good. “I need this… God…” There’s an alarming amount of panic in his voice as he breathes heavily. It’s deafeningly quiet around us and I’m about to say something, when his tongue slips back into my mouth more forcefully and his movements fill with desperation. I can barely keep up with him, gasping for air as his hands travel restlessly across my body, over my legs, my stomach, my breasts. I’m crushed between him and the seat, pinned down and I don’t do anything to escape. And I don’t want to because for a fleeting, unfamiliar, passionate, overwhelming moment, I feel safe with him over me. And I haven’t felt safe in a very long time.

I kiss him back, but don’t touch, feel him with my tongue, keeping some sort of boundary between us. I don’t think of anything else, but the taste of his breath, the blinding heat of his body. His scent: tequila, cologne, and a splash of cigarette smoke.

Then suddenly as quickly as he started, he stops, sliding to the side and nearly falling onto the floor. I turn over and look at him, his chest descending and rising as he breathes. He’s passed out and I’m left wide-awake. I lay there for an eternity, watching him sleep, knowing once I sit up I’m probably going to panic over what I just did. Reluctantly, I sit up and face the consequences of my choices, let them hit me square in the stomach.

I open the door to turn the interior light on and search the floor, the glove box, and the visor, for the keys. I want to get back to the dorm before he wakes up. I get out of the truck, leaving him in it, and backtrack to the bar, searching the ground for the keys. The farther I move away from the truck and into the dark, the less safe I feel, yet I keep going because it’s familiar. I continually curse myself for what I just did as I hunt for the keys behind cars and in the gravel, taking my cell phone out to use the screen as a light. That was not a no-strings-attached kiss. It had meaning behind it and I can’t stop thinking about doing it again, even though he probably can’t even remember doing it. It’s a bad place to be and I need to get away from it.

All I end up finding on the ground is the pack of cigarettes Luke dropped. I pick them up and tuck them into my pocket. The only other place to check is in the strip club and I don’t think it’s a good idea to go back in there.

I drag my hand across my face, deciding whether stay here and help Luke or bail out on the situation and hitchhike back to campus. I’ve hitchhiked a few times, wandered around a desolate highway more than once, and slept in the streets. But something is pulling me back to the truck, almost like I feel guilty for leaving him there. I don’t know where the feeling’s coming from. I’ve never cared about anyone before, but then again no one’s ever given me a reason to care about them. And no one’s ever made me feel safe. I don’t want safe—I need danger—because it’s easier.

As a car zooms by, I realize that just like everyone else who’s ever entered my life, Luke is just someone who will be gone by morning when he wakes up with a hangover, unable to remember what happened between us. So I hike up the road beneath the stars and the moon, with my arm out to the side and my thumb up. The possibilities of what could happen float through my mind like they always do. I could get run over. Picked up by some creeper, maybe the one on the phone. Be beaten. Murdered liked my parents. Is death in the cards for me tonight? Is that what I’m searching for?

Eventually, a sleek red car slows down and pulls up beside me. The headlights light up the darkness in front of me as I open the door and climb in. The cab smells like pine trees and there’s garbage on the floor. The driver, a thirty-something, slightly overweight, bald guy, smiles at me as he turns the steering wheel toward the road. The imaginative side of my brain wonders if he’s the guy who’s been calling me.

“Where you heading to, sweetie?” he asks as he flips on the brights, the road ahead getting brighter, yet it feels like I’m falling farther into the dark.

I stare at him, noting that his voice doesn’t sound like the guy’s on the phone. I wonder what he’ll want from me in exchange for the ride. Will he want me to suck his dick? Will he hurt me if I refuse? Try to hit on me? Or is he simple just a nice guy giving a girl in need a ride. “I’m not sure,” I mutter as he drives down the road.

“Not a problem, gorgeous,” he replies. “I know just the place where we can go, if you want to have some fun?”

I don’t respond and contentment settles in my chest as I step farther and farther into the unknown, just like I have been since I was six.