by Rae, Nikita
Maybe she’s right. Maybe I am mad. The thing is, I really don’t care. If someone told me Luke was married with a kid, well, that would be a different story. That thought wipes the smile off my face. Morgan makes herself at home, and I do what I always do when I feel stressed: I start to clean. I pick up the Super Eight from where still lays on the floor, assessing it for any visible signs of damage.
“I get it. I know what this is about. What happened with you and Luke?” Morgan asks coyly. I freeze, my back to her. Damn, the woman is too smart for her own good. I try and act cool when I turn around. “Who said anything happened with Luke?”
“You did. Or at least your bright red cheeks are telling me right now.”
I scowl. “I don’t want to talk about Luke. Why don’t you tell me about your meeting with the Dean instead? I’d love to have been a fly on the wall when you told him you weren’t taking any time off for rehab.”
Now it’s Morgan’s turn to scowl. “You’re supposed to be on my side. And he was pissed, but I managed to convince him it would never happen again.”
“I can’t believe he caved so easily. Actually, I’m surprised he didn’t expel your ass.”
Morgan rolls her eyes and tugs on the over-sized red sweater she’s wearing. Red really isn’t her color. She still looks like death warmed up. “He did mention a two year judiciary suspension but my mom managed to talk him down.”
That’s interesting. Unlike Leslie’s parents and my mom, Morgan’s family didn’t make any grand donations to Columbia. It makes me wonder what kind of swing her parents have, and why Morgan never talks about it. There are a lot of things I apparently don’t know about Morgan.
“Just make sure this is the right thing for you, okay? Your mom was right about that. A college education is going to be useless to you if you’re dead.”
A tight smile pulls at her lips, and I can see what an effort it is for her not to snap at me. She looks tired. More than tired—washed out and exhausted. Delicate purple shadows linger under her eyes, and her cheekbones protrude more than usual.
“Are you eating?” I ask as I fold away the last of my laundry. Anything to keep my hands busy and my mind off the fact that I am supposed to be back in class tomorrow. Morgan shakes her head.
“I can’t. Tate Rhodes has ruined my appetite for life. I finally managed to reach his mother in Bali. She said she hadn’t heard from him. She didn’t even sound that worried. She was more concerned about the media discovering he’s missing. She said, and I quote, “he does this sometimes, sweet girl. He’ll turn up when it suits him and I’ll have to bail him out of trouble, yet again. Just let the police look for him and keep quiet about the whole thing.”
I raise my eyebrows and sit down at my desk, twisting side to side on my computer chair. “And have the police found anything? Any clues or witnesses as to where he’s been the past week?”
Morgan turns a pale shade of green. “His credit card keeps getting used in strip bars. They think he’s just out partying.”
“Has he done that before?”
“Sounds like it,” she says, her voice hushed. “I’m so done worrying over him, Ave. We’re over. I’ve left him four voice messages telling him so. Now he can go out and perve on as many strippers as he wants to guilt free. Not that I imagine he’s been feeling very guilty.”
Poor Morgan. She and Tate weren’t really an item, not really, no matter what she told her mom, but still…he has to know she’s been sick by now and to not have even picked up the phone? What an asshole. “I’m sorry, Morgan. You know what? Fuck that guy. We’re gonna rent a movie tonight and commiserate, and then starting tomorrow we’re going to find you a smoking hot gentleman who’ll take proper care of you. Deal?”
“Okay. Deal.”
“I’ll order some Chinese as well,” I say. Morgan needs to get a proper meal in her, but as soon as I think about dialing for Chinese food, I remember Luke ordering for us in his apartment. The stack of Spiderman comics, the mountains of sheet music, the guitars, the neatly folded blankets in his cupboard. His ocean of books, and his endless supply of Jack. “Scratch that. We’re having Indian instead.”
I WAKE with the stale taste of Korma in my mouth, even though I brushed my teeth twice before bed. The taste isn’t as bad as the ringing in my ears. I reach out to slam my palm down on my alarm clock, but then realize it isn’t going off. Perhaps the high-pitched buzzing has more to do with the five beers I drank last night and less to do with the fact that it’s time to get up. In fact, when I warily crack my eyes, it isn’t even daylight yet. The only light in the room is bright blue, cast off by my cell phone as it vibrates noisily on my bedside table.
I snatch the phone up, wincing when I see it’s six am. The wince develops into a flat out frown when I see Luke’s name on the screen. I hit answer, loud-whispering, “Why the hell are you calling me at six am?” For a second I hope Luke has pocket dialled me and I’m going to be able to hang up without speaking to him. When he starts talking, I realize it isn’t so much as a pocket dial as a drunk dial.
“Wyoming’s actually two hours behind New York, so it’s…um…four am here. Your uncle said I had to wait until sun up to speak to you, but he didn’t say where the sun had to be coming up, so…is it up? It must be by now. Can you check?”
“No! No, the sun is not up! You need to go to sleep, Luke.”
“I can’t sleep. Not until I know you don’t hate me.”
“What? I don’t—” I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to keep calm. “Of course I don’t hate you. I might change my mind if you don’t let me get back to sleep, though. I have an early class and I’d like at least another hour.”
“Brandon said to tell you that you had to let me dig you out,” Luke slurs, completely ignoring me. “I have no idea what he means, but if you need help digging then I’m your man, Iris.”
Jeez, this is terrible. Brandon and Luke really shouldn’t be spending time together. Apparently my uncle can’t keep his damned trap shut. “I don’t need any help with digging, but thanks. Now go to sleep.”
“Will you see me when I come home?”
I pull my comforter over my head and consider swearing. “I don’t know, okay? We’ll talk about it when you’re sober.”
“I need to tell you some things when I see you. That’s why I have to see you—to tell you some things,” he mumbles. “Brandon says we should be honest. He thinks I should tell you what happened to me, but I’m not…you might…
I hold my fingertips up to my mouth, holding my breath. Brandon has been trying to convince Luke to talk to me. Explain about his past and his relationship with my dad. “He’s right, Luke. You should tell me.”
Silence reigns supreme down the phone for a second. And then Luke sounds like he’s sobered up a little. “I’m so sorry, Iris. I know you’re not mine but still… I can’t bear the thought of losing you. You’ll run, I know you will.”
“I won’t, I swear I won’t. I promise you.”
But it’s no good. The brief glimpse of sober Luke is gone all too quickly. “SHIT!” A clattering sound on the other end of the line cuts Luke off. It sounds like he’s tripped and fallen. He starts laughing hysterically, so loud I have to hold the phone away from my head. “Sorry, Iris. Crap, it’s Avery now, isn’t it? Avery Patterson. It’s like you’re two different people, but you’re not. I keep getting confused.”
“I know. It’s okay. You can call me Iris if you want. Everyone knows now, anyway. Now go to sleep, okay?”
“Okay, okay, I’m going. Promise you don’t hate me? I feel bad for what we… what I did.” The intense guilt in his voice and the way he adjusts his words makes it sound like he forced himself on me or something.
“Luke.”
“I know…go to sleep. I’ll see you in two days, Avery. I’m going to find something to ex…exonerate your dad in that house.”
He hangs up before I have chance to remind him it was me who’d jumped him, not the other way arou
nd. Before I can convince him to trust me with his secrets. Before I can thank him for trying to clear my father’s name even after how awful I’ve been to him. I don’t go back to sleep. I lay there until the sun actually does come up, feeling wretched and conflicted.
******
As predicted, I’m gawked at from the moment I enter the lecture theatre to moment I leave. The posters around Columbia have been taken down as requested by Amanda St. French, who always gets what she wants, but my mother can’t make people stop staring. I am kind of used to it, but not on this scale. Columbia University is a hell of a lot bigger than Breakwater High, with a hell of a lot more people. Unfortunately they all know who I am now.
The time I’ve spent living as someone else here has been wonderful, but I passed every second worrying about what was going to happen when everyone finally discovered the truth. Now that I don’t have to hide anything anymore, it’s almost a relief. A sick and twisted kind of relief, but there all the same.
Class flies by without disturbance and I almost manage to block out the gesturing and whispered conversations. What I can’t block out is Noah’s intense gaze, fixed directly on me. Every time I look over he’s watching me with a torn look on his face. It’s as though he wants to run across the lecture theatre and grab me so we can both flee the building. I know if I don’t get it out of the way he’ll be staring at me through the whole class, and I don’t want to deal with that. I shoot him my, you-don’t-get-to-threaten-and-lie-to-me-and-expect-to-still-look-at-me-like-that! glare. He tenses immediately, like he knows all of his secrets aren’t so secret anymore, and that I know there’s a woman and kid out there somewhere waiting for him to go back to them.
Ten minutes before class ends my phone buzzes. I slip it from my jeans pocket, glad I’m seated so far back, and find a text from Luke.
Luke: I don’t remember calling you but Brandon and my call history inform me that I did. Please forgive me? I really think we should talk.
I hit reply and type,
It’s okay, you’re right. We do need to talk. I’ll see you when you get back.
Luke: Thanks. And I mean it. I’m sorry.
Me: No worries. But isn’t it more my style to get rip-roaring drunk in order to handle my problems? I thought you dealt with stuff better than that.
His response makes my heart contract.
Luke: Maybe some things. But not this. Not you.
Noah’s at my side before the crush of bodies has filed out of the theatre. He’s hatless, and a few of the girls are staring. He brushes his hand back through his wavy hair and draws a tight smile. “You have another class after this?”
I come out straight out with it. “Why didn’t you tell me you were married?”
Noah reels like I just slapped him. “I…it…”
“What? It just never came up?”
“It wasn’t important.”
What. The. Fuck? I want to smack him straight in his pretty boy Irish face. “How the hell d’you figure that?”
“Because me and Kimberly, we were never really in love. We just had to get married, because…”
This is going to be interesting. Is he going to tell me he has a child? “Because?”
“Because…”
Apparently not. “Because you have a child together.” I finish for him. He blows out a sharp breath down his nose.
“Yes.”
“We’re done here, Noah.” I start walking away but he grabs hold of my arm, hard enough that his fingers dig into my skin through my coat.
“We’re not done, Avery. You fucked up, too. You slept with that guy.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t lie about it. I didn’t hide it from you and pretend like I had any business messing around with you. Plus the fact, you’re not my boyfriend!”
“Then you’re a slut, Avery. Plain and simple. You shouldn’t have been fooling around with me at all if you didn’t want to commit.”
My jaw hangs open. Some words are a red flag, can be heard over a chattering crowd. Slut is one of them. Two guys pause in the hallway; the tallest, a dark haired guy with full sleeve tattoos, steps closer and smiles. “Hey!” That smile says we know each other, but we don’t. He continues, ignoring my look of confusion. “I was wondering if we could go over some of those notes you mentioned last week? You got time now?” He eyes Noah’s hand gripped around my arm and his steely glare contains a clear message—get your hands off her or I’m gonna fuck you up.
Noah scowls but lets go. I rub my arm and step away from him, thanking the stranger silently with my eyes. “Yeah, sure. Now would be perfect.”
The stranger shoots me a smile—no judgment, nothing—and gives me a nod. “Okay, then. Let’s go.”
I start walking, hugging my file to my chest, and I don’t look back. I can feel Noah’s gaze burning into me all the way down the corridor, until the door slams closed behind us and I find myself stranded on the street with two guys I’ve never spoken to before.
“Uh…thanks. That was a little…”
“Fucked up,” the tattooed guy says.
I try hard to smile, to keep things light in order to hide the fact that Noah really scared me for a second there. “Yeah. That. Are you guys in Media Law and Ethics?” I don’t recognize the tattoos. Both of their faces are unfamiliar, which isn’t surprising given that the student populous clocks in at close to six thousand people and I generally keep to myself. The shorter guy, who I now see has a small nose stud and shockingly bright green eyes, snorts.
“Yeah, I doubt either Cole or myself would fare too well in a class that requires you to study the law or ethics, media related or otherwise. No, we just like climbing up into the towers. It’s nice and private up there.”
Okay, wow. So they’re together. My gaydar must be on the fritz these days because I really wasn’t expecting that. Then again, I was hardly expecting my mother to be gay, either. I look between them, trying to picture them together in my head and failing big time. Cole drops his messenger bag and thumps the other guy on the arm. Hard. He tugs a hand through his scruffy, dirty blonde hair, shaking his head. “Dude!” He turns back to me and points a thumb over his shoulder at the other guy. “Ignore Pete. His brain doesn’t filter anything that comes out of his mouth. Or think about how it might sound first, either. We go up there to smoke sometimes, when the monotony of college life grows too dull to handle. That’s why a little privacy comes in handy.”
My gaydar has been vindicated, if only slightly. I notice that their eyes are a little bloodshot, and it’s obvious Cole doesn’t mean they smoke cigarettes. “Oh. Sure.” I give them a cautious smile. “Okay, well thanks again for the save. I really appreciate—” I cut off when I look down and one of Cole’s tattoos, three script letters on the inside of his wrist, jumps out at me. D.M.F.
D.M.F?
I narrow my eyes at him. “You guys know Luke, don’t you?”
Cole and Pete shoot each other wary looks. “Reid? Yeah, we know Reid. Why, how d’you know him?” Cole asks.
Pete scans me from head to toe, rubbing his hand across his jaw. “You aren’t one of those girls, are you?”
“One of what girls?”
“The pathetic ones that follows his ass around, trying to have sex with him at every available opportunity? You look too classy for that.”
A hot blush leaps up at my cheeks. “Uh, no. I’m not. I’m normally trying to run in the opposite direction from Luke Reid.”
Cole bursts out laughing. He elbows Pete in the ribs, rubbing his fingertips across the stubble darkening his jaw. “Hey, y’know what? I think this might be her.”
Pete eyes me even closer now, a look of intrigue on his face. “Y’know what? I think you might be right.”
This sounds like it’s heading somewhere bad. I shunt my bag strap higher up on my shoulder, clutching at my file like it’s a shield and I can fend off whatever they’re about to say with it.
“Yeah, the past year we’ve been playing together Reid hasn’t
even looked at a groupie once. Said there was a chick he was waiting on,” Pete continues.
Cole appraises me, curiosity on his face. “I haven’t seen you at any of our gigs. How d’you recognize us?”
“I…your tattoo. Luke mentioned D.M.F. I just put two and two together.”
“You seen his D.M.F. tattoo?” Cole asks, smirking. My blush grows even deeper. Cole knows if I’ve seen Luke’s ink, then I’ve at the very least seen him shirtless.
“No, of course not. I’m not this girl, either. You must be thinking of someone else.”
It’s plainly obvious he doesn’t believe me. Not for one second. He gives me a placating smile and raises his hands—I surrender. “Fair enough. But you really should come to one of our gigs. We’re pretty good.”
“Good enough to get signed, anyway,” Pete adds.
My poorly formed sorry,-I-can’t-come-to-your-gig excuse freezes on my lips. “What do you mean, signed?”
“Y’know…an agent spots you, realizes your band kicks every other living rock band’s asses and wants to make millions off your exceptionally talented behinds. Signed.”
A hundred different thoughts collide at once inside my head. It’s hard to pick out a question, to know which one to ask first. “Luke never mentioned that he’s signed,” is all I can mutter.
“That’s because the contract’s still waiting for the bastard’s signature,” Cole says. A stern look forms on his face. “The ink on our John Hancocks dried weeks ago, and yet ol’ Lukey boy’s still ‘thinking things through’ apparently.” He bunny rabbits his fingers on either hand, throwing up some air quotes.
Pete snorts for the second time since I met him. “I have no idea why he would choose being a cop over being a fricken’ rock star is all I’m sayin’. His salary has to be terrible. If he waits much longer, we’re gonna have to try and replace him, see if the record company will still have us.”