RIOT HOUSE

by Hart, Callie

  “Show me where you sleep?” It's a small request, but I'm shot full of nerves by the prospect of showing her my room.

  “Where I'm supposed to sleep, downstairs? Or the room I claimed up here?”

  “Up here.”

  My heart skitters treacherously as I walk her down the hall and into my room. It's not much. The slope of the roof is steep and means I have to bow my head; there's only a small section of the space where I can stand up straight without risking a concussion. I smirk to myself when I realize that Elodie doesn't have that problem. She's so short that she can stand tall the whole time. She wanders around, inspecting the room from one end to the other: the bookshelf, with the well-thumbed copies of my favorite books; the small bed, bigger than a single but a far cry from the huge California king I have back at Riot House. The sweatshirt, slung over the back of the chair beneath the tiny window, that I forgot when I last came here; the old tennis shoes, and my grandfather's old, cracked compass on the window sill; the notepads, and the sketches pinned to the walls, and the candles, melted into puddles of wax on the dusty floorboards.

  She pores over each little detail of the room, assessing and weighing each little thing like she's putting together the pieces of a puzzle that have been missing until now. I watch her silently, my chest aching, my hands burning with the need to touch her. I keep them to myself, though, leaning against the wall, savoring the unfamiliar, troublesome emotions that are digging their roots down deeper and deeper into me, wrapping their tendrils around my bones.

  I always thought I'd find ultimate happiness within the pages of a book. I've been so convinced of that fact that I've devoted so much of my life to disappearing inside them, searching for that which has always eluded me. I should have known that I wouldn't find what I was looking for on ink and paper. Even the poets entrusted their foolish hearts into the hands of others. Especially the poets. That was both their salvation and their ultimate downfall; without knowing the joy of loving another human being, they would never have been able to write about the soaring joy that always made my heartbeat quicken. And they'd never have been able to capture true desolation and sorrow without enduring the kind of suffering that can only come from lost love.

  As Elodie spins around, breathing deeply, taking everything in for a final time, I admit something that I've stubbornly refused to ever admit to myself before: I am fucking scared.

  This girl has no idea the power she holds over me. She can't begin to imagine the lengths I will go to or the worlds I will burn down in my mission to make her happy.

  “Not quite as impressive as my room at Riot House,” I say, when she comes to face me.

  She shrugs, smiling. “I like this room just as much. It's yours. I can tell you've spent a lot of time here. I can imagine a younger, less jaded version of you drawing on the bed, and sitting in the chair, reading Treasure Island.

  I laugh gruffly, nodding as I look down at my feet. I did both of those things more times than I can count.

  “What's your room like downstairs?” she asks.

  “Sterile. Bleak. Empty.”

  She accepts this description without question. “I don't want to sleep down there, then. I want to sleep here. With all the memories of you, before I knew you. Would that be okay?”

  Christ, doesn't she know that I will give her anything she fucking wants? I'll rip out my mangled, blackened heart for her and set it at her feet if it’ll please her. “Yeah. We can manage that.”

  “Won't your father be scandalized if we sleep in the same bed?”

  “Probably. But he can go fuck himself.” I haven't even considered the fact that we'll be sharing the same bed. The thought of it makes my blood pound at my temples. Elodie, naked and spent, wrapped up in the bedsheets next to me. Surrendering herself to unconsciousness, laying in my arms, not knowing what kind of a man I truly am and all the awful, hideous things I've done. I don't deserve it. Fuck, I don't deserve any of this.

  A loud slamming sound disrupts the peace outside, sharper and more jarring than a gunshot. Elodie jumps. I head over to the window, irritation digging its claws into my back when I see the black Range Rover that's pulled up in front of the house. Even four floors up, I can hear my father's aggravated bark as he enters the house.

  “Where is he, then? Where the fuck is my son?”

  31

  ELODIE

  Donald Jacobi was a general in the army before he retired a month ago. But men like him never really retire. Not in any way that counts. He was a general when he hung up his uniform, and a general he will remain until the day he dies. His very presence seems to swallow up the room, as Wren leads me into an enormous high-ceilinged space that I suppose would have been used as a formal reception room back in the day. I see the back of him first. Standing with one hand braced against the mantle of a looming fireplace and the other planted firmly on his hip, he strikes an imposing figure. Wren stands a little straighter, his shoulders pulling back as he clears his throat, announcing our presence.

  “It's only good manners to call ahead if you're planning on bringing guests to the house,” General Jacobi drawls. He affects a lazy, playful tone, but there's a very real reprimand in his words. He pivots with a flourish, pushing away from the fireplace, and a pair of cold, assessing eyes land on me. His gaze feels like a knifepoint being driven up, between my ribs.

  Wren was right; he’s nothing like the man in the painting in the attic. His face is a roadmap of lines and crevasses that tell a clear story—one of anger and unhappiness. The deep brackets around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes speak of bone-deep unhappiness.

  “Introductions, please,” he says tightly.

  “This is Elodie Stillwater. We're at the academy together. Her father's stationed in Isreal.” Wren gives him this sparse rundown of me in as few words as possible. “Elodie, this is my father, General Donald Jacob, retired.”

  I think Wren tacks retired on the end of his father's title just to piss him off. Looks like it works, too.

  “Pleased to meet you, General Jacobi,” I say.

  He gives me a curt nod. “Sir will suffice. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, too, young lady. Your father's reputation precedes him. I don't doubt that, with a father like him, you've had quite the proper upbringing. Your manners do him proud.”

  I couldn't give a shit about doing my father proud. The colonel is obsessed with making an impression with his betters, though, even if they're no longer an official service member. He'd have a fucking fit if it got back to him that I somehow disgraced myself (and ergo him) during my introduction to Wren’s father.

  “Israel's a prestigious posting. I've heard things are calm over there these days, but you never know when that might change.”

  I’ve never wished for conflict to break out anywhere. The innocent and the downtrodden always suffer. That doesn't mean that I haven't hoped that something would happen while my father was outside of the base, though. Some freak accident, or an isolated attack of some kind, that resulted in Colonel Stillwater's untimely demise. If I'm hell-bound for thinking such things, then that's a price I'm willing to pay. Stoke the fires and lay out the welcome mat, I say. So long as I no longer have to bow to my father's crippling authority while I'm alive, then there's no price I'd be unwilling to pay.

  “Thank you, Sir. That's very kind of you to say.”

  “You've just joined the academy?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And you're enjoying it so far? You're enjoying spending time with my son?”

  I blush furiously. There's something underhanded about the question—a distasteful insinuation that makes me feel like he's accusing me of something. “Uh, yes, Sir. The academy itself is beautiful, and the curriculum's challenging. Plus...yes, it helps to have friends there to spend time with during our downtime.”

  “Friends?” General Jacobi looks sharply at Wren. Wren stares right back at him, the muscles in his jaw popping.

  “Not friends,” he says. �
��We're together. She's my girlfriend.”

  The general gives a curt nod. “Ah. I see. So you're fucking.”

  Wren doesn't flinch. His eyes narrow ever so slightly, but only for a heartbeat; his facial features are under his complete control. “Yeah. We're fucking,” he answers flatly.

  It's one thing having someone's parents know that you're probably having sex, another thing entirely to have it laid bare like this. And in such blunt terms? I'm so stung that I feel like I've just been slapped. By Wren, or by his father, the shock of it feels the same.

  General Jacobi sighs. “Nice to know you're behaving like a gentleman up there, Wren. That school's one of the most expensive academic institutes in the country. And you're sleeping around now? Sullying a family name that's been held in high esteem for many generations?” He shakes his head, disappointment radiating off him. “Honestly, I had hoped you'd conduct yourself a little better.”

  A cold, searing fire burns in Wren's eyes. “I'm not sleeping around. I'm sleeping with one person. I'd say I was doing a better job at preserving the Jacobi name than you are, Father. Given your past indiscretions.”

  Oh my god.

  My shoulders hike up around my ears. I would never...could never speak to my father like that. It wouldn't matter who was near. He'd beat the back teeth straight out of my head. It doesn't even bear thinking about. General Jacobi snarls. He's seething. He nods, running his tongue over his teeth. “All right. Well, that's enough of that. Dinner won't be until seven. Why don't the two of you make yourself scarce until you hear the bell? Elodie, in amongst rubbing your body on that boy, why don't you see if you can't rub some of those manners off on him, too.”

  What...the actual...fuck.

  He did not just say that.

  Again, Wren doesn't show any sign of emotion. I'd be impressed if I weren't so fucking angry. I've never expected a knight in shining armor to ride in on a white steed to rescue me. But some flicker of annoyance on Wren's face would be nice right now.

  He just blinks at his father. “For someone who puts so much stock in manners,” he says. “You're the rudest motherfucker I've ever met.”

  General Jacobi laughs. Harsh. Unfriendly. “Oh, my darling boy. I'd respect you so much more if you had the stones to come and say that to my face.”

  Wren doesn't hesitate. He walks right up to his father, and oh god, I cannot watch hi—

  WOAH!

  Holy fuck!

  Holyshitholyshitholyshit!

  General Jacobi's ready for his son to spit angry words in his face. He's unprepared for the powerful right hook Wren lands on his jaw. I watch, horrified, as the old man staggers into the mantlepiece, throwing out a hand to try and catch himself as he topples backward. It's no good, though. He lands in a heap in the grate, his feet up in the air, in the most undignified display I've ever seen. His face goes bright purple.

  “Out! Out of my house!” he sputters. His arms and legs are everywhere as he tries to get up again. It takes him three attempts to right himself, and when he does find his feet, it turns out that the seat of his expensive black pants is covered in ash. He tries to grab Wren by the scruff of his t-shirt, but Wren smacks his hand away, laughing coldly under his breath.

  “Try it,” he seethes. “Go ahead and fucking try it. See what happens next.”

  The general lowers his hand, but he's not done with Wren. Not by a long shot. “Stupid boy. You’ve finally gone and done it, then. Fucked yourself over beyond measure. No more prissy, posh school for you now. You're finished. You're heading straight for military sch—”

  “What’s the date?” Wren asks.

  His father jerks back. “What?”

  “What’s the date? Today’s date. Come on. You read the paper every day. You must know.”

  “Don’t be obtuse. Of course I know today’s date. It’s the seventeenth of March.”

  Wren feigns surprise. “Oh. Cool. And what happened on the fourth of March, Father?”

  “I don’t know! Lots of things, I’m sure. The fourth of Mar—” He stops short. His face goes blank.

  “Yeahhhh, that’s right. Good ol’ fourth of March. You forgot your children’s birthday again, didn’t you, Dad? Only this time, you forgot our eighteenth birthday. Which means…” Wren steps closer to his father, getting up in his face. He stabs a finger into General Jacobi’s chest with every point he makes. “No more orders. No more commands. No more threats. No more hanging military school over my head, every chance you get. I’m an adult. I’ve come into my majority. And you’re done talking to me like I’m some unpleasant thing you’ve found stuck to the bottom of your shoe.”

  General Jacobi glows with rage. “Fine. Then your tuition's finished. I won't pay for another thing, boy. That house you and your friends live in—”

  “Is mine,” Wren spits. “The deed's in my name. And I'll pay for my own damn tuition. I'll cover my own expenses. You can't touch a cent of my money, and you know it.” He blows down his nose, hard, nostrils flaring. “Why don’t you sit back down, old man. You're fucking embarrassing yourself.”

  Spinning, he crosses the formal dining room, taking me by the hand and pulling me away.

  I guess he was angry about that comment, after all.

  32

  ELODIE

  We escape Monmouth House with armloads of paintings and all of Wren's personal belongings from the attic. We check into the Hubert Estates County Inn, and Wren paces up and down like a lion, silent and furious. It takes four hours for him to calm down, by which point it's gone dark, and my jaw is aching from clenching it so hard.

  At seven, Wren's phone starts ringing, and it won't fucking stop.

  “My sister,” Wren grits through his teeth. “She probably wants to scold me for hitting the fucker. She's always just tolerated his bullshit, like none of it fucking matters. But it does. It fucking does.”

  “I know. It matters.” I'd say more, but there are so many fucked up things ping-ponging around in my head that I can barely think straight. My own memories are hitting hard. I feel like I'm trapped, walled in by panic.

  It wasn't you. It wasn't you, Elodie. You're safe. You're okay here. He's a million miles away. He can't hurt you.

  Wren has no idea how similar our upbringings have been. The only difference is that he's big enough now to stand up to his father. I'll never be able to confront Colonel Stillwater the way he did just now. And that makes me feel hopeless.

  The room we've checked into is beautiful, but neither of us has stopped to take in our surroundings. We've both retreated into our own little worlds, and I think it's going to take a while for either of us to return to reality again.

  Wren's phone shrieks again, his ringtone blaring out in the tense silence.

  “I thought you never kept that thing switched on?” I say.

  “You're right. I should just turn the fucking thing—” He cringes when he looks down at the screen. “Fuck. She's messaging now, too. Apparently, he's gotten Harcourt involved.” He turns the phone off.

  “Shouldn't you check in if the Dean wants to speak to you?”

  “Better if they all have a beat to calm down. Everyone's heightened right now. I'm trying not to be, but—” He sits down on the edge of the bed next to me, lacing his fingers together, blindly staring down at his hands. “I'm sorry, Elodie. I told you he was gonna be polite and charming, and he really wasn't. I'm—I don't even know what to say. I could tell he was in a bad mood, but I didn't think he was gonna turn like that. I would never have taken you there if I thought for one second that he was going to be that shitty to you.”

  “It's fine, Wren. Seriously. A few crass words from your dad aren't enough to affect me these days. I mean, Pax calls me a whore on a daily basis. I don’t mind.”

  “Yeah. Well.” Wren's eyes harden. “I mind. I really fucking mind. Elodie,” Wren whispers. He's looked up now, but he isn't looking at me. His focus is locked on the window opposite the bed, which overlooks the hotel's swimming pool. “T
ell me what's wrong.”

  “Wrong?” I blow my cheeks out, pulling my shoulders up around my ears. “I mean, I just watched you put your father on his ass. That wasn't exactly a fun time.”

  “No. You're anxious. I've never seen you this jittery before. You're scared of something, and I'm hoping to god over here that it's not me. 'Cause if it's me...” He laughs unhappily. “I don't think I would cope with that very well.”

  “No! God, it's not you, I swear. It's just the whole thing. It reminded me of how things were with Colonel Stillwater back in Tel Aviv. Your father's a lot like mine. I guess...it brought back some difficult memories.”

  He nods, clenching his jaw. He’s suddenly even angrier than he was a minute ago. “I wanna talk about something with you, Little E,” Wren says. “I know now's not a good time, but I don't want to wait anymore. I thought I could keep my mouth shut until you came to me, but…” He shakes his head.

  Oh god. No. No, no, no. This is bad. “Wren, I don’t—”

  “I did a bunch of research on you before you arrived,” he says stiffly. “I checked your social media. Dug up your school reports. It’s severely fucked up, I know, and now that everything’s changed between us, I feel like a fucking predator just thinking about it.”

  “This…isn’t news,” I say. “You already told me that you looked into me. I got over that a long time ago. We don’t need to—”

  “Elodie. Stop.”

  “Can you stop staring out of the window? You're beginning to freak me the fuck out.”

  He bows his head, closing his eyes for a second. Only after a deep breath does he finally look up at me. “I didn’t tell you that I was also sent some official documents from Tel Aviv. I put in a request with a friend who lives out in Israel, and he sent me an envelope. There was a police report inside it.”

  I go very, very still. “What police report?”

  Reality fractures, shatters to tiny pieces when he takes a deep breath and speaks again. “The one that was filed the night they found your mother’s body.”