Mayhem

by Jamie Shaw

  He stares down at his phone, his fingers waiting patiently against the touch screen. And then I say the first thing that comes to my mind, which also happens to be the dumbest. “Why?”

  His eyes swing up, his cocked eyebrow showing how highly amused he is by my train wreck of a question. “Uh, because I’m going to call you?”

  “You’re going to call me?” I almost start laughing—­I can’t even imagine how many girls he’s fed this line to.

  But he just stares at me expectantly, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  I hold out my hand, and he gives me his phone. I hand him mine as an exchange. “You first,” I tell him, and he flashes me a smile before he starts typing his number into my phone.

  “Alright, I’ll call you,” he says after I type in my number and hand him back his phone. He slides it into his pocket.

  This time, I actually do let out a laugh. “Okay.”

  “I’m going to call you, Peach.”

  “I bet.”

  Adam’s eyes narrow, but there’s a goofy grin on his face. “You really don’t believe me, do you?”

  “My faith in you only goes so far, Adam Everest.”

  He reaches forward, gripping my fingers and pulling me to him as he pushes away from the trunk. His arms wrap tightly around me, his chin resting on my head. It’s exactly what I wanted, and I smile against his soft-­worn T-­shirt, allowing myself to hug him just as tightly.

  “You know,” he says, “I think I’ll call you tonight.”

  Even though my heart is doing back-­flips from being held by him like this, I can’t help giving him a hard time. “If you say so.”

  We stand there like that for a long time. Way longer than friends would. I don’t want to let go. What I really want is to slide my fingers under his T-­shirt to see what the contours of his sun-­warmed back feel like against my fingertips. Heat spikes through me, and I close my eyes. He’s so tall, and he just feels so right. I sigh and pull away just enough to look up at him. “Hey, Adam?”

  My eyes stare up, up, and his soft brown hair tumbles over his brow as he drops his chin to meet them. “Yeah, Peach?”

  “I’m glad I met you.”

  He smiles sweetly down at me, the corners of his mouth crinkling. Part of me—­the part that can’t be trusted—­wants to touch those crinkles. His lips. His cheeks. “So am I,” he says sincerely. His eyelashes look so soft, I want to touch those too.

  Finally, I summon enough strength to step away from his embrace. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  He nods once, looking like he doesn’t want me to leave any more than I want to leave him.

  “You had better be on time,” I warn over my shoulder as I roll my suitcase toward the door to the apartment building.

  That cocky smirk I love so much finally returns, brightening his eyes. “Promise to do a body shot with me and I’ll even be early.”

  I chuckle and shake my head. “See ya, Adam.”

  When he says, “See ya, Peach,” I don’t look back. I can’t, because my knees are already shaking. I hear his driver’s side door click open and closed just before I step up to the apartment building, and then I open the door and force my legs to carry me inside.

  I immediately walk to the inside wall and press my back against it, squeezing my eyes shut and sucking in a deep breath. That was so much harder than I imagined it would be, and I’d already imagined it being pretty damn hard. Nothing is going to be the same when I see him tomorrow in class. Deep down in my clenching gut, I know I’ll go right back to just being another girl to him. If I’m lucky, he’ll say hi to me in passing. And then my heart will trip over itself to pump blood into my arm so I can wave at him before I take my usual seat beside Leti.

  Eh, who am I kidding? There will be no words or waves because Adam and I will never actually pass each other. He gets to class after me and leaves before me. There won’t even be any passing words or smiles, no friendly phone calls or breakfasts at IHOP. He said he wants me to come to Mayhem when his band performs in two weeks, and I’ll go—­hopefully Peach will still be on the backstage list. And if I actually get backstage, I know he’ll let me stay, even if he’s . . . preoccupied.

  Which is my own damn fault.

  For good reasons. Good reasons, good reasons. If I just keep reminding myself of that, maybe this will stop being so damn tough.

  After collecting myself, I muster the courage to climb the stairs. Two flights, and then I’m standing in front of Brady’s door. I probably should’ve called. Hell, I should probably call now. But this is my apartment too, and I’m not going to pretend it’s not. I rummage around in my purse for my keys. If I’m going to be living here, I don’t need to call or knock or anything, and I don’t need to forgive him either. I don’t owe him anything—­if he wants my forgiveness, he’s going to have to earn it, and no one said I had to make it easy.

  I’m pretty sure that entering a conversation with him when I’m this irritated isn’t the best way to start things, but it’s too late for that because I’m already getting myself worked up, putting up a wall between us before I even step foot inside the apartment.

  Good. It’s probably for the best.

  I could have called Dee and told her this is where I was coming, but I didn’t want her to feel like she pushed me back into Brady’s arms. Or worse, I didn’t want her to jump in her car and speed over here to physically restrain me from making what I know she would think is a mistake of epic proportions. The real mistake would be allowing my best friend in the entire world to get kicked out of her dormitory her first semester of college. Dee’s always been an amazing friend to me, and now I have to be one to her.

  I’ll call her after Brady and I talk—­when it’s too late for her to do anything drastic. I’ll call her after resolutions have been reached and decisions have been made and all the uncertainty I’m feeling right now has been erased by a long, dramatic, exhausting conversation that I’ve been putting off for far too long.

  I take a weighted breath and squeeze the key to the apartment between my fingers. Then I twist it in the lock and push open the door—­to see the last thing in the world I ever fucking expected. My sort-­of-­ex-­boyfriend and that girl from the fucking club, half naked and writhing on the couch.

  “You’ve got to be fucking KIDDING me!”

  Brady looks up from where he’s buried balls-­deep in what I’m assuming is a herpes-­infested vagina. A look of shock and then of absolute horror washes across his face, and he scrambles to pull on his pants. I’m already racing back down the hallway.

  “Rowan! Wait! No!”

  Suitcase in hand, I reach the end of the hall and throw myself into the stairwell, slamming the door behind me. I take the stairs faster than anyone with a sense of self-­preservation would take them, thanking God that all I brought with me on the trip were flats.

  Seconds after the door bangs closed, I hear Brady throw it open, and then his voice is echoing after me down the well. “Rowan! Baby, please!”

  I’m practically tripping down the stairs, missing one here or there and stumbling to catch my footing. I’m not even looking where I’m going because my eyes are on my phone and Adam’s number is on my screen.

  “Baby! I can explain!”

  Hah! Oh, if that isn’t the line to end all lines. If he catches up with me, I am going to slap him across his goddamn face so hard he goes cross-­eyed. We’ll see if that bitch in my apartment likes him when he can’t see straight.

  Adam’s phone is ringing for the second time without him picking up, but when I burst through the door, I see his car hasn’t even finished pulling out of the parking lot. His brake lights are on, and then they flash white as he throws his Camaro in reverse. I run to him as he speeds back to me, and then I’m tossing my suitcase into the open backseat and literally jumping over the passenger-�
�side door to get in. Brady bursts out of the apartment building like a cannonball, my name sounding all wrong as he shouts it across the lot.

  “What happened?” Adam growls, throwing his arm around my seat, watching Brady run toward the car. “What did he do to you?” He jerks the car into park and reaches for the door handle, and I grab onto the sleeve of his T-­shirt.

  “Nothing! Just . . . he was with someone!” Brady is getting closer, and I’m full-­on panicking. “Just get me out of here, okay?”

  “Sorry,” Adam says with a resolute shake of his head, and then he opens the door and gets out of the car.

  Brady barely has the time to shout “Who the hell are y—­” before Adam’s fist punches him so hard that my ex flies backward and lands in a heap on the pavement. I gasp, and Adam shakes the sting from his hand.

  “Peach, come here.”

  I do what I’m told because I’m really just too shocked to do anything else. When I step up to Adam’s side, Brady is on the ground nursing his jaw, clearly too frightened to get up.

  “Say what you want to say to this asshole,” Adam turns to me, his expression deadly serious, “because I’m taking you home with me, and I never want you seeing him again because you’re too fucking good for a cheating piece of shit.”

  My eyes swim with tears, but I keep them directed at Adam so that Brady doesn’t get the satisfaction of seeing how much he hurt me. Again. “There’s nothing left to say.”

  Adam tucks me under his chin and plants a kiss against the top of my head. I feel him turn his chin toward Brady, and then he says, “You hear that? You fucking blew it, and if you ever try talking to her again, I’m not the only guy you’ll have to fucking deal with.”

  Chapter Twenty-­One

  IN FRONT OF Adam’s apartment building, I find myself in his arms again.

  “It’s okay,” he says to calm me. “It’s okay. Just . . . take a deep breath or something.”

  When we pulled up to his five-­story apartment complex, I tried to pull my suitcase out of the backseat but ended up bursting into tears instead. Adam pressed up behind me, wrapping me tightly in his arms. Now, his chest is against my back, his cheek is against my temple, and his arms are laced around my stomach. He’s holding me together like I might fall apart.

  I just might.

  “That guy is a fucking douchebag. I mean, that hair? Come on.”

  An airy laugh pushes its way out of my nose. Brady’s blond hair is cropped short and always perfectly gelled, parted on his left side and swooped to the back. It’s nothing like Adam’s shaggy brown rocker hair.

  “See? You’re too good for an asshole like that,” Adam says, planting a chaste kiss against my cheek. “Now, I’m going to take you upstairs, and we’re going to get you a drink, and . . .”

  And? What comes after “and”? Because the last time Brady made me feel like this, Adam took me to his bus, got me a drink, and then taught me all of the wonderful things he could do with his tongue.

  “And?” I risk asking. If he doesn’t finish that sentence soon, I’m pretty sure I’ll need to sit down—­right here in the middle of the parking lot while I wait for my head to stop swimming.

  “And . . . we’ll do whatever it is friends do when shit like this happens.” Adam’s gentle hands urge me to turn around. “I’ve never really done this before.”

  I imagine he hasn’t. He’s been on the other end though, I’m sure, making girls like me cry. They’ve probably called him every name under the sun. And maybe he deserved it . . . which is probably why he’s stuck here with me now, losing what’s left of his weekend. Karma’s a bitch.

  “Have you ever cheated on anyone?” I ask impulsively. I suddenly need to know, because . . . because I just need to.

  “Cheated?”

  I nod, afraid of the answer.

  Adam leans against the car door, drumming his fingers against the shiny black metal. “Cheated . . . no. You have to be in a relationship to cheat on someone, right?” When I nod, he says, “I don’t really do relationships. One crazy girl tried to accuse me of cheating, but she knew what she was getting into. They all know. It’s not like it’s a secret.”

  He’s right, after all. Anyone who spends any time at all with Adam can see how he is. Flirty and reckless and noncommittal. But even though those qualities are what should warn girls to stay away, they’re the exact things that draw girls to him. Girls like me. Adam is a bad boy, damaged goods. He’s the boy that every girl in the world hopes she can fix.

  Only I know better.

  “Don’t you ever want a girlfriend?” I ask, too numb to care about what I’m saying, even though I know I’ll be kicking my own teeth out later.

  Adam smirks down at me. “Why? Want to be my girlfriend?”

  I force a chuckle, pretending to find the idea absurd. Hell, who needs to pretend? It is absurd. “I’m just wondering.”

  With a smile, he says, “Do I ever want a girlfriend . . . hm . . .” He fiddles absent-­mindedly with a stringy black bracelet on his wrist, thinking. “Girlfriends are a lot of work.”

  “So that’s a no?”

  He chuckles and scoops my suitcase from the car, carrying it across the parking lot to the door of his apartment building. “It’s an observation.”

  I take his cue and let the conversation drop as we walk through a lobby with polished granite floors and a five-­story-­high ceiling. We take an elevator to the fourth floor and then walk along a narrow hall to Adam’s apartment. 4E.

  The door opens into a large living room, and even if I didn’t already know Adam and Shawn live here, I’d know that college-­aged bachelors did. Hardwood floors stretch into the space, which features a plush gray couch and two mismatched recliners. They frame a wooden coffee table and face a massive entertainment setup with a large flat-­screen TV and big, big speakers. In the corner of the room are more speakers and three guitar stands, two with guitars propped on them. The walls are muted gray and bare, except for a small patch where someone has written, in bright blue marker, DON’T COLOR ON THE WALLS! I recognize the handwriting from Adam’s notebook and smile widely.

  After setting my suitcase down, he walks into the kitchen to our left and sets two glasses on the counter. Then he opens a pair of cupboards filled to the brim with liquor bottles, his restless fingers drumming against the wooden doors. I hop onto a bar stool in front of the breakfast bar separating the kitchen from the living room and watch him. His back is to me, his black T-­shirt hanging loosely over his shoulder blades, when he says, “Alright, I have an idea.” He turns around with a mad-­scientist glint his eye. “Let’s make a new drink. We’ll call it a forget that fucker cocktail or something. Just tell me what’s in it.”

  I laugh. “Forget that fucker cocktail?”

  “Hey, if you can come up with a better name, be my guest.” He smiles warmly at me. “So what’s in it, Peach? You name it, we’ve probably got it. And if not, there’s a liquor store down the street.”

  I think about it for a while, staring up at bottles stacked in front of bottles. A full fifth of gin catches my eye, reminding me of the only time I ever saw Brady get truly shit-­faced. At a homecoming party my junior year, he drank way too much gin and was still throwing up a day and a half later. He hasn’t touched the stuff since.

  “Brady hates gin,” I say, and the corner of Adam’s lip curves up in approval.

  “I love gin.” He grabs the bottle from the cupboard and sets it on the counter. “What else?”

  “He hates anything grape flavored.” Grape lollipops, grape gum, grape soda—­he’ll scrunch up his nose and turn his head away like it’s trying to escape from his neck. It’s actually kind of adorable. But right now? I want to bathe in grape juice, wrap myself in grape-­flavored taffy, and shove my grape-­clad fist down his lying, cheating throat.

  Adam roots through the cabinet, bottl
es clinking as he slides them around. “Aw, come on, I know we must have—­Aha!” He pulls out a half-­empty bottle of grape-­flavored vodka, smiling triumphantly as the liquid sloshes around. “Anything else?”

  I shrug. “I’ve discovered a love of tequila.”

  Adam leans in close, resting his elbows on the counter with his chin in his hands. “You have, have you?”

  I chuckle and cover his goofy face with my hand. “I have.”

  With his black-­nailed fingers, he pulls my hand to the side by my pinky so he can grin at me some more. “Good to know.” He stands back up, turning around to root for the tequila. He mixes gratuitous amounts of all three liquors in both of the glasses, and then he slides one over to me.

  I pick it up and study it. When I dip my nose over the rim and sniff, the scent is like a pool of acid behind my eyes. “This is going to be nasty,” I cough.

  “Good. More reason to make sure you never have to drink it again.”

  He has a damn good point. I raise my glass, and he clinks his to it. “On one?” I say.

  He nods, and then I count down from three, trying not to think too hard about the last time I counted backward with Adam and all of the toe-­curling things that happened afterward. On one, I gulp my drink down, and it blazes a river of fire all the way from my tongue to the pit of my belly. Eyes watering, I look back up to see Adam still holding his full glass, grinning at me.

  “You have to drink yours too!” I complain, my throat and eyes stinging like unholy hellfire.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to be extra forgetful?” he asks, setting his glass in front of me.

  “Adam!” I scold, sliding it back over. My hoarse voice alone is evidence of how strong the drink is.

  Adam laughs and sighs, steeling himself. Then in one quick movement, he tilts his head back and empties the amber liquid down his throat. “Holy Christ,” he chokes, setting the glass down and vigorously shaking his head back and forth like he might be able to shake the acid-­hot taste away. “If that doesn’t make you forget, I don’t know what will!”