Entice (Hearts of Stone #2)

by Veronica Larsen

  Monday morning, an alarm blares so loud it jolts me as though someone drove a knife straight into my brain. The sound comes from my phone, so I reach for it and hit one of the side buttons to silence the alarm.

  Burying my face back into the pillow, I try to will myself to get up. I doze off for what feels like another minute or two. Lifting my head and squinting against the brightness of my bedroom, I peer at my cellphone again. My eyes widen at the time displayed on the screen. Eight in the morning. Precisely the time I should be getting into work.

  Panic jars me and I shoot out of bed. If I leave right now, in the next few minutes, I will be forty minutes late to the office. Cursing under my breath, I rush into the bathroom and splash water on my face. I barely glance at my reflection long enough to smooth my hair up with my fingers and twist it into a bun. A minute later, I'm wiggling into my dress pants and pulling on a blouse. Grabbing my shoes, I slip them on my feet as I walk to the door, my keys in my hand, remembering only at the last moment to grab my purse.

  I settle into my car and am relieved to see a bottle of water in the cup holder. I take it and chug down the few inches left inside, my mouth still impossibly dry.

  It's not until I've pulled out onto the road that I begin to realize I'm not disoriented from being jolted awake and rushing out the door. Something is wrong, my eyes sting and the road ahead blurs ever so slightly. I press down on my brakes. A car horn blares from behind me, long and angry.

  I clutch the steering wheel tighter, the blaring sound exasperating my panic. From my peripheral vision, I catch the reflection of the car that was behind me swerving into the lane beside me. A blue Honda, it speeds by, passing me with obvious flair. And when I half roll my eyes at their dramatics, the driver of the car swerves once more, pulling into the lane in front of me and slams on his brakes, as though to teach me a lesson. My foot is already hovering on the brake, but I immediately know the car won't stop fast enough to avoid colliding into the car. I'm left with no choice but to yank the steering wheel to the right and swerve onto the side of the road, slamming on my brakes once again and coming to a complete stop.

  "Fuck!" I punch the steering wheel, dizzy from all the blood rushing to my head. My hands are shaking and I feel I might throw up. Laying my head on the steering wheel, I try to take deep, calming breaths.

  What the fuck is wrong with people?

  And what the fuck is wrong with me? God, I don't feel good, at all.

  Another sound blares behind me, this time a sound that never fails to plunge me into a mild panic. Sirens chirp twice and, glancing up at the rearview mirror, I see a police cruiser pulling up behind me.

  Fantastic. As though I'm not already late enough, and now I have to explain why I've swerved onto the side of the road. The cop will probably want to see my identification and ask me a few questions. This is going to take at least another ten minutes.

  The man that gets out of the car isn't just any cop. It's Owen. And despite the situation, despite the uncomfortable churning in my stomach, a smile tugs on my lips as I watch my insanely sexy, uniformed boyfriend walk up to my car.

  "Hey," he says when he reaches the window, which I've rolled down expectedly. "Are you okay? Is your car stuck?"

  I try to speak, but have to press my head back onto the headrest as my surroundings seem to wobble. I swallow back the acid rising in my throat.

  "Emily?" Owen's voice grows stiff, as though he's drawing backward in realization.

  My eyes fly open at his tone. "Yeah," I groan. But even as I say it, my hand flies up to cover my mouth and I heave. Owen opens the car door and steps to the side just as I bend forward and throw up over the doorframe of my car and onto the dirt path. Nothing comes out the first time. The second time, there's some liquid.

  "Jesus christ," Owen says, lowering his voice. "Emily, have you been drinking?"

  I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, fear surges through me.

  Drunk? I'm not drunk.

  I just woke up.

  "No," I say in a low voice. I feel small, and disgusting under his critical glare. And embarrassed that he saw me vomit.

  "Get out of the car," he orders, none too friendly.

  I do so, careful to step around the vomit. Owen's expression is one I've never seen from him before, an anger I can't quite reconcile.

  "I'm not drunk, Owen," I say. "I swear, I just woke up…and ran out the door."

  "Were you drinking before you went to sleep?" He eyes my gaze in a strange way, as though testing it for sharpness.

  "I…well, yeah. But—"

  "How much?"

  "What?"

  "How much did you drink?"

  "I-I don't know. That was hours ago. I went to sleep and—Owen, that was hours ago."

  "You're slurring your words," he says, evenly. "Obviously you're still drunk."

  I shake my head, sicker to my stomach than before with not just embarrassment squirming in me, but self-loathing too. I can't be drunk, can I? Not if I slept through the night. I slept six…five hours, I think.

  I try to recall how many drinks I had, try to mentally pull the statistic of how many hours it takes for alcohol to work its way through a person's system. But trying to think so hard just makes everything spin again.

  "Don't move," Owen says, before heading back to his cruiser, and I notice for the first time there's another person there in the passenger seat, a female cop. He talks to her for a few minutes, nodding over at me a few times. I can't tell what he's saying. I can't gauge what's going to happen next.

  When he returns, Owen tells me to get back into my car. In the passenger side.

  "Where are you taking me?" I ask as he pulls out onto the road.

  "Home."

  "What? No! Owen, I have to be at work!"

  "Emily," he pauses to take a deep breath, as though so frustrated he could scream, "you have no business being at work. Do you understand that? You're intoxicated."

  "That's impossible—"

  "What time did you have your last drink."

  "Eleven," I say immediately. Then I hesitate. I watched another movie…it might have been closer to one in the morning. Or even later. I glance at the side view mirror and in a low, guilt-ridden voice, ask, "What did you tell your partner?"

  His eyes snap in my direction as though my question irritates him more than anything else. "I told her you're my girlfriend. That you have a stomach virus and that's why you had to pull over onto the side of the road to throw up."

  Owen drives the rest of the way in silence. The worst silence I've ever experienced in my life. When we reach the parking lot behind the building of my loft, he pulls something out of his pocket. It looks like an outdated cellphone, a small blue device with a screen and a number pad. Except there's a small white tube sticking out of the side.

  A breathalyzer.

  My stomach tightens as Owen turns it on.

  "Blow."

  I stare at him.

  "Blow," he says again, more forcefully.

  Closing my lips over the tube, I let out a breath into the machine. It beeps a few times then a number appears on the display.

  .07

  "That's not too bad, right?" I ask, my voice small.

  He lets out short a breath, though it does nothing to relax his posture. "You don't drive with alcohol in your system, period."

  "I know that—"

  "Is this something you do?" he asks. I frown—not so much at his words but at the way he can't seem to look at me. Hands closing tighter over the steering wheel, he presses further, "Have you ever done this before?"

  "No! I thought I slept it off. Owen, I'd never get into the car knowing I was drunk. I don't even feel drunk, I just feel sick…."

  I can't remember the last time I ate.

  My words fall away awkwardly. I press my lips together, realizing every word I speak paints a worse picture of me.

  "Emily, you need to get inside. Drink water and sleep it off for a few more hours. I need to bo
rrow your car to get back to work. I'll bring it back tonight."

  "What do I tell my boss?" I ask, almost to myself.

  "I don't care."

  I wince in surprise at the force of his tone. I've never seen him this way. He's incredibly intimidating, not just in uniform, but when his displeasure is a beam aimed in my direction.

  Shutting his eyes, Owen pinches the bridge of his nose. "I didn't mean to yell. I'm just frustrated you would let this happen. You shouldn't have been on the road. You could've hurt someone, do you realize that?"

  "It was a mistake, Owen." I take a breath, hating the way my eyes burn, hating how angry I am at everything. At myself. Hating how much mental effort it takes me to keep my words coherent. "I thought I was fine."

  He considers me, his expression softening by a hair, and then nods in the direction of the loft. "Emily, go home."

  "Are we okay?"

  A beat passes. One long, heavy beat.

  "We'll talk about this later. Just get inside, I've got to get back to work."

  I hesitate, wanting so badly to lean in and kiss him on the cheek. Needing to feel some sort of familiarity, connection. But I think better of it. Something's shifted between us. I suddenly feel we are on shaky ground, ready to topple over.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  It's only my fourth week on the job and I have to call my boss and tell her I've had an incident on the road and will not be able to make it in today. Four weeks isn't enough time to establish yourself as a dependable employee.

  Elizabeth's usually friendly voice stiffens as she accepts my vague description of the emergency that kept me out of work today. But really, I know she's rolling her eyes and wondering if she's hired someone who isn't dependable. A flake. A drama queen. Someone that will constantly complain of unfortunate events that might hinder her ability to follow through at work. Coming in late, missing days, leaving early. All of this is the silent implication in her brief pause before she tells me she hopes everything is all right.

  I'm not sure the sickness in my stomach is the alcohol anymore. It's more from disgust in myself. I crawl into bed, almost paralyzed with embarrassment.

  Owen brings back my car later in the evening. By then, I'm so painfully sober, the night air presses onto my face and stings every inch of my skin. Owen doesn't come in, he stays on the landing of the front steps, and quite frankly, his tone is clipped. It's obvious he's still upset with me. I get it, I do. I just don't know what to say to make him not be mad at me anymore. 'I'm sorry' just isn't cutting it.

  He drops the keys in my hand, mumbles something about his sister waiting for him downstairs. She followed him here in order to give him a ride back. I ask if I can meet her and his response is so quick, it slaps me on the face.

  "No. I told her you're sick. You'll meet her some other time."

  He says goodnight but when he goes to turn away, I pull him back and kiss him. His lips don't part right away, but then they do. And as his hands move to my waist, his mood yields ever so slightly to his craving for me.

  I ask him to come inside, to spend the night with me, but he says he's tired from a long day and just wants to go home, his disappointment in me still evident on his face.

  "Hey," I say, "this won't happen again."

  "Okay." His simple word plunges through me. It's shaded with doubt.

  The next morning, my alarm is set to go off earlier than usual and I'm at work long before anyone else. I sit behind my desk, catching up on emails and making notes of all the things I need to take care of for the day.

  My boss comes up to my door; she's an ice queen frosting over everything in her wake. I don't blame her. I blame myself. I'll have to work ten times as hard to prove to her that she didn't make a mistake by hiring me.

  I'm willing to do whatever it takes.

  Owen and I don't get to see each other over the next few days. It's his week to work the night shift and our schedules leave us missing each other by mere minutes. This doesn't help my efforts to make things right between us.

  We talk on the phone when we can but with each passing day, I sense him gradually resisting the urge to warm up and let our silent, passive aggressive fighting finally be over. I start to just wish he'd truly believe me in his gut when I tell him it isn't going to happen again. His quiet reluctance just fills me with uncertainty about myself. And I hate it. I hate how important his opinion is to me. I hate how much I care.

  I've been anticipating these consequences. Before I knew what could go wrong, I knew that something would. Once again, I'm unsure of everything in my life. Feeling as though I'll never be able to prove myself worthy again. Feeling as though maybe I'm just not worthy of all the good things life has given me, at all.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Shortly after nine o'clock on Friday night, I'm sitting on the floor of my living room, sorting through the boxes I've yet to unpack. The television is on low, just a discernible rumble throughout the empty loft.

  When a soft knocking sound reaches me, I lift the box I'm holding and scan the floor, thinking I've dropped something. The second knock is purposeful and my eyes dart to the front door. I'm not expecting anyone.

  When I pull open the door, I'm greeted by the sight of a slouchy, grumpy-faced Landon. He's wearing a dark jacket with the hood of a gray sweatshirt pulled up around his head, a backpack strapped to his shoulders.

  It's chilly out tonight and I'm in a tank top. So, I motion for him to come inside before I even say anything. I shut the door behind me, dreading the questions I need to ask because I already suspect the answers.

  "What are you doing here? Did you just rob a bank or something?"

  "No. I just need a place to crash for tonight. Can I stay here?" His expression falls even further as he notices the instant hesitation forming on my face. "Never mind." He tries to push past me to open the door but my hand lands on his shoulder.

  "No, wait—" I have about four questions that attempt to erupt out of me at once, causing me to falter in my speech. I pick the most important of them. "Does your dad know you're not home? Does your aunt?"

  "They'll know when they can't find me."

  I throw my head back and pinch my nose.

  Landon says, "My aunt's out of town and I can't be home anymore. It's just constant yelling and fighting."

  I bite my tongue, not wanting to ask who is doing all of the yelling and fighting because I'm sure it's Landon.

  I'm resisting the overwhelming urge to tell him he's being a brat. But I remember what it's like to be that age. To think that problems were so heavy and permanent. To feel as though all you want is for someone to tell you it's okay to feel the way you do. Tell you it's okay to not feel okay.

  Right now, I have two options. I can scold the kid and demand he goes home, or I could give him what he's looking for right now: a safe-haven.

  I rub the space between my eyes. "You can take the couch. I'll go get you a blanket."

  Relief floods his face as he rushes to take his shoes off at the entryway, setting them down beside mine. I leave the kid behind and start dialing Owen's number before I even close my bedroom door.

  "Hello?" Owen's voice is pulled taut, so tense it pulls me with it.

  I lower my voice to a whisper. "Landon's with me—"

  "Jesus Christ, this kid's going to kill me…I'm on my way—"

  "I can drive him back."

  "No—I'll head over now."

  "Owen…" I hesitate. "Maybe he can stay the night? I'll make sure he doesn't get into trouble."

  "That's not necessary. You don't have to do that."

  "No, I know. I just…he's on the run and came to me. He trusts me. I feel awful turning him into the authorities."

  Owen laughs a little, albeit reluctantly.

  I go on, "At least you know where he is. Maybe a little time apart will help you two cool off?"

  He takes a measured breath. "Are you sure?"

  "Yes. It'll be fine. Come in the morning."

&nb
sp; Owen thanks me and we end the call. When I go back out into the living room, Landon is watching television, but the volume is still low. The remote is nearby but I sense he didn't feel comfortable touching it without asking permission first.

  "I was about to put on a movie," I lie. "Want to join me?"

  "No. Thank you. I just want to sleep."

  I glance at his cellphone on the coffee table. The power is off.

  He takes the pillow and blanket I hand him, mumbling his thanks. I motion for him to scoot over and sit on the other end of the couch, facing him.

  He's looking at the television, avoiding my eyes.

  "Landon, I know it's none of my business but…what's going on?"

  He opens his mouth then closes it again. Then he shakes his head, running his hands through his hair.

  It's clear he isn't going to answer me. "Okay. How about this? I'm just going to throw out a few theories and you stop me when I'm warm. California is lame and you want to go back to Arizona."

  He shoots me a look, half amused, half annoyed.

  "You and your dad don't get along because you both think you don't have anything in common—" I pause, noticing how he starts to drum his fingers on his arm, impatient. "Your school is too—"

  "Just stop, please," he says. "You don't know what it's like."

  "So, why don't you tell me?"

  I can tell he's surprised by the genuine question. I wonder how often he's asked anything at all versus being told things. That's part of why kids end up so angsty. While growing up, they are constantly told what to do, what to feel. No one really listens to them because, really, what the hell should they know about anything?

  He hesitates, takes in a sharp breath, and lets the words out quickly. "One day everything is fine, the next everything's taken away."

  "By everything, you mean your mom?"