“What is that?” I asked, eyeing it with suspicion.
“Iced tea.” He snatched two cups from the counter and dunked them into the container. “You’ll like it. It’s from Long Island,” he said, laughing as he handed me a cup.
“Thanks.” I swooshed the liquid around mindlessly, surveying it as it swirled around the edge of the cup.
I peeked up at my surroundings, gauging my enemy’s territory. I couldn’t help but wonder how many times Trace had been in this kitchen; hanging out with Nikki after school, eating dinner with her and her family...
“Cheers,” said Caleb, raising his cup to mine.
“Yeah, sure. Whatever.” I tilted my cup back and chugged it down as fast as my stomach allowed.
“Easy,” laughed Caleb, pulling my cup away from my mouth. “You’re going to want to slow down. Trust me.”
I’ve taken more than a few sips of my dad’s wine in the past and was perfectly fine. “I know what I’m doing,” I informed, wiping my mouth with the back of my arm. “If I need your input, I’ll let you know.”
“You got it,” he said, raising his hands as though backing down from some deranged mugger.
I polished off the rest of my drink and then filled up another one. Whatever was in this stuff, it was making me feel better, and I wanted more of it.
Caleb was going on about something beside me, but I couldn’t hear a word of what he was saying. I was too focused on my escape—on getting it down fast enough, on forgetting. I wanted to forget the devastation that had implanted itself inside my life, the heartache that followed me around like a curse. I wanted to obliterate every last painful memory that imprisoned my mind, no matter how short-lived the escape would be.
Tomorrow was another day. Tomorrow, I would dive back into my reality and let the crushing waves of expectation wash over me again as it drowned me under its unrelenting weight.
I filled up another cup.
“Seriously, Blackburn. Slow down.”
“You should probably listen to him,” said a familiar baritone voice from behind. “Unless you want to get sick tonight.”
I felt the humming sensation even before I turned around to see him. Trace, that is. He was standing there with his hands in his pockets and an innocent look of concern on his face. Obviously fake concern. I looked him dead in his eyes and took another long, deliberate sip.
“Can we talk?”
“Nope.”
“Jemma.” He reached out and tried to slip his arm around my waist.
The gesture threw me off. But only for a second, and then I realized what he was trying to do. He was trying to touch me—to read my thoughts. I slapped his hand away and took a step back. My cup—and defenses—went back up, and I took another sip.
“Knock it off,” he said, grabbing the cup out of my hands. “You’ve had enough.”
“As if you even remotely have a say in the matter.” I swung around to get another cup from the counter and stumbled forward, losing my footing like a blundering ballerina.
Caleb's arms quickly caught me before I could face-plant into the oversized punch bowl. Iced tea bowl. Whatever. I looked up at him and tried to focus. He appeared to be swaying a little. Or maybe it was the room that was moving?
“You have really pretty eyes,” I said to Caleb, staring up at his Sahara Desert-colored eyes. “They’d look smokin' with some black mascara.”
“Thanks, I think,” he laughed. “Yours are pretty nice too.”
“Alright, that’s enough,” said Trace, clutching my hips as he pulled me off of Caleb. “You’re going home.”
“And miss Nikki’s bitch-bash? Nah-uh,” I quipped, pivoting around to face him. “I—” My words drifted off into nothingness as I glanced up at his gorgeous face—at those eyes—those beautiful, shimmering, storm-churning eyes.
His dimples appeared as his plush lips hiked up at the corners. Apparently, he liked what he’d heard.
“Only if you meant it.”
“Let me go,” I demanded, though it lacked punch. Being this close to Trace was no good for me, and I knew that, but the room was definitely spinning now and I wasn’t even sure I could stand upright anymore.
“I’m not letting go.” He lowered his head to mine, bringing our faces within a dangerous whisper. “Come home with me.”
My heart rate picked up its thrum, a desperate song that begged for my submission, for my utter destruction. I couldn’t allow it to take me under.
“No.”
“Jemma—”
“I said no.”
“Then let me take you home.”
“I have no home.” Bitter, angry tears pooled in the corner of my eyes without my permission. “I have nothing.”
“You have me.”
“And that’s the biggest nothing of all.” I shook my head, but it was small and tethered, like a dog on a leash. “You’re nothing but a liar and a fraud.”
“It’s not what you think, Jemma. I wouldn’t lie to you. Not about us. Not about this,” he said, veering his eyes down to our touching bodies.
“I don’t believe you.” I pushed him hard, causing him to stumble back a step.
“Come on, Jemma, don’t do this,” he said, closing the gap again. He drew me in, holding me possessively as though he owned me in some small way. “This isn’t the place.”
“It’s never the place, Trace. And yet here we are.” I peeled his hands off from around my waist, slow and measured.
Every inch of my body ached from the withdrawal. I was like an addict, addicted to his brand of toxicity. There was no rhyme or reason to it, no understanding of heart. The smaller, more lucid part of me knew the truth. I had to hold onto that part and stay strong. I couldn’t let the addict within me lead me back into the pits of Hell.
Not until I was sure I could withstand the inferno.
I turned to Caleb. “Dance with me?”
“Jemma—”
“You got it,” said Caleb, snatching up my hand.
Somewhere in the peripheral of my awareness, I knew Trace was watching me as I disappeared into the crowd with Caleb. I knew I’d hit a nerve, and I knew it was what he deserved.
I pulled Caleb in closer and glanced over my shoulder at Trace. He met my gaze with what looked like pain-filled eyes and then lowered his head. A strange heaviness filled my heart, and I had to look away.
By the time my eyes found their way back to the spot Trace had been standing in, he was gone. I’d done exactly what I set out to do, and yet the satisfaction of hurting him the way he hurt me never came.
Inside, I still felt broken.
Fragmented...
Incomplete.
3. THE PURGE
The rest of the night was a messy blur, like a palette of colors that weren’t meant to blend. I remember dancing with Caleb and then with some guy from my chemistry class, and I remember bumping into Hannah and her blindsiding me with questions about Taylor. I remember lying to her through my teeth about it and doing a piss-poor job of it at that. Mostly, though, I remember the guilty ache in my stomach, followed by the mad dash to get another drink down fast enough to drown out the uncomfortable feelings—sink them all deep enough so that I couldn’t feel anything anymore.
And then I remember a toilet.
“Here’s some napkins,” said Carly, kneeling down beside me. Her silky, chestnut-colored hair was parted down the middle and fell just below her shoulders in straight sheets of satin. She looked so put-together and beautiful with her lightly bronzed skin and kind caramel eyes.
It was an embarrassing stark contrast to my puke-covered face.
I took the napkins from her and wiped around my mouth before slumping down onto the bathroom floor. Definitely not one of my finer moments in life.
“Knock, Knock.” Caleb tapped on the door as he peered his head inside. “You ready to get back to the party?”
“Seriously, Cale? Get out of here!” yelled Carly. “Can’t you see she’s sick?”
I never really thought they looked alike before, despite the fact that they were twins, though under the bright bathroom lights, I suddenly saw a striking resemblance...though it could have just as easily been that demonic iced tea talking.
“Move!”
Caleb stumbled forward into the bathroom as someone behind him pushed their way through the doorway.
Gabriel Huntington, my transitory Handler slash full-time savior stared down at me unimpressed.
“It’s Gabriel, you guys. My knight in shiny leather.”
He didn’t look amused. “Can you walk?”
“No, but I think I can crawl.”
“Jemma, don’t!” cried Carly.
Nikki joined the intervention just as I dropped on all fours and started my trek over to Gabriel.
“Oh, this is rich. Are you seeing this?” I heard her say. “This is what he’s leaving me for?”
“Jemma.” Gabriel knelt down to my lower-than-dirt level and picked up my chin, his moss-green eyes bouncing around my face as he inspected my current state of affairs. “I’m taking you home,” he said, slipping his arm around my waist and then lifting me up to my feet.
My head pounded in protest as the room began circling around me like a merry-go-round I couldn’t get off of. I tried to focus my eyes on Gabriel. “Can you take me home, please? I don’t feel so good.”
“I already—never mind. Come on,” he said and led me out of the bathroom, his arm fitted securely around my waist.
I stumbled through the packed house wearing my own version of a searing scarlet letter. Judgment-filled eyes followed me at every turn, whispering mistruths and spreading their lies like a flesh-eating bacteria. I felt like some pariah being ushered out of a party I was never meant to attend in the first place.
I bet they couldn’t wait to get rid of me. I bet they were all cheering and singing victoriously as they rid themselves of the outsider who couldn’t hold her liquor. I could probably hear them if I listened close enough...
“Speech it up,” I yelled, though my drivel was promptly swallowed up by the dance track blaring through the speakers. “I can’t hear a goddamn thing!”
The room suddenly flipped upside down, and I found myself face to face with Gabriel's butt.
Honestly, the view wasn’t half bad.
“What were you thinking?” scolded Gabriel as he carried me out to his truck. He had me strung over his shoulder like a listless sack of potatoes. “This isn’t you. This isn’t the girl I’ve been training with.”
“Maybe that was the point,” I mused, my arms dangling down towards the fog-kissed ground. “Maybe I didn’t want to be that girl anymore.”
“Unfortunately for you, you don't have that luxury.”
He opened the passenger door to his black SUV and plopped me down into the front seat. After buckling me in, he hurried around the front of the truck and climbed into the driver’s seat.
“This isn’t a game,” he said, continuing his tirade as we pulled away from the scene of my apparent crime. “You’re not entitled to blow off steam. You’re not entitled to a night of teenage idiocies. You’re a Slayer. Every minute of every day for the rest of your existence. Don’t you understand that?”
I squeezed my eyes shut in an effort to slow down the incessant spinning in my head. “Please, Gabriel. I seriously can’t handle a lecture right now. Have at it tomorrow, but please, just give me tonight.” I rolled down the window and stuck my head out. The cold wind slapped at my cheeks like a reality check.
“If Tessa finds out about this—”
“She won’t find out as long as you keep your freaking mouth shut!” I flopped back into my seat and rubbed my temples, trying to stave off the beginnings of an epic migraine. “Dammit.”
Gabriel leaned over my leg and popped open the glove compartment. “Here,” he said evenly, handing me a bottle of over-the-counter painkillers. “Take two of these and drink plenty of water before you go to sleep.”
I instantly felt horrible about being short with him. “Thank you,” I muttered, fumbling with the bottle in my hands. “Look, I’m sorry about what I said before. I know you’re just trying to help, okay? I get it. I made a mistake. I messed up tonight. I’m not perfect,” I defended, though I’m pretty sure that fact had already been clearly established tonight. “It won’t happen again.”
That was the absolute cold, hard truth. I’d learned my lesson. I had no intention of ever taking another drink from an oversized container ever again. The momentary escape wasn’t even almost worth the aftermath.
He nodded once, seemingly satisfied with my guilty plea.
“How did you know where I was anyway?” I asked him after a few beats of peaceful silence. I was fairly certain, even in this inebriated state, that I hadn’t shared my plans with him.
He didn’t meet my eyes when he answered. “Trace called me.”
“Figures,” I said, shifting my gaze to the window.
The liar was also a snitch.
Sunday came at me like a freight train. My eyes snapped open to a pounding headache as a mess of lights and shadows danced behind my lids like some kind of hellish kaleidoscope I couldn’t turn off. Flashbacks from yesterday came cloaked in regret, making me cringe at the prospect of having to face anyone from last night—ever again.
Rolling onto my side, I glanced over at the clock on my nightstand. It was almost noon and I had less than an hour to get myself ready and head over to All Saints for my shift. Undoubtedly, my cosmic punishment for last night’s slip up.
To my relief, my uncle was already gone by the time I came downstairs. I wasn't in the mood to answer any questions about my whereabouts last night, or be forced to lie to yet another person. I was doing so much of it lately, it was getting harder and harder to keep all my stories straight.
The doorbell rang just as I pulled a cereal bowl from the cabinet. I assumed it was somebody selling something I wasn’t going to buy anyway, so I ignored it, hoping they’d get the message and go away. By the third ring, though, I could see that wasn’t going to happen. Pulling in a calming breath, I set my bowl down on the kitchen island and went to answer the door.
Trace was standing on the other side of the threshold. His long, dark hair was wet from the pouring rain and clung to his jawline and neck in a way that robbed me of all my attention. He lifted his eyes to mine, and my breathing ceased.
I so didn’t need this right now.
I slammed the door shut in his face. Two seconds later, another knock. I squared my shoulders and opened the door again, working hard not to get distracted by the brilliant blue eyes that seemed to glow against the dreary gray backdrop.
“Can I come in please?”
“No.”
He pumped his jaw as his eyes had their way with my face. “We need to talk.”
“Yeah? About what?” I asked, my tone rich with merciless sarcasm.
“Come on, Jemma. Please.”
As mad as I was—as much as I hated him—I knew I had to hear him out. The clock was ticking and I needed to find a way to mend this thing with him if I had any hopes of getting the Amulet back for Taylor.
I only hoped I had enough willpower to do it.
I stepped back and held the door open for him. Neither one of us said anything as he stepped inside, careful not to brush up against me as he passed.
“How are you feeling?” he asked as he followed me into the kitchen. “After last night, I mean.”
“As if you even care,” I said, grabbing the cereal box from the counter and dumping some into my bowl. “And thanks for snitching on me by the way.”
As if my night wasn’t enough of an epic walk-of-shame, I had to have Gabriel see me in all my post-underage drinking glory.
Trace watched me from across the island. “You refused to let me take you home. What was I supposed to do?”
“Mind your own business, maybe?”
“You are my business.” It came out hushed, like a secret he didn’t
want anyone knowing.
I speared him with contempt from across the island. “I stopped being your business when you left me for dead.”
His head snapped back. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m not in the mood for your games, Trace.” I couldn’t believe his audacity. “Just tell me where it is.”
“Where what is?” His eyebrows pulled together as if to demonstrate his utter confusion.
Not only was he fine, but he was a fine actor too.
“Stop playing games with me,” I warned, my fists balled up at my sides. “Where’s the goddamn Amulet?”
“What the hell are you talking about, Jemma? How would I know where the Amulet is?” he asked, his iridescent eyes piercing holes right through me. “I thought this was about Nikki.”
“Nikki?”
“Because I went to her party,” he said with a hint of guilt spattered over his otherwise perfect face.
“I don’t give a crap what you do with Nikki,” I hissed back, lying through my clenched teeth. “I’m talking about what you did to me at the church after the dance. You set me up. You stole the Amulet from me and left me for dead!”
“What church? I didn’t leave you anywhere.” His volume kicked up several decibels. “You left me at the dance.”
I shook my head at him. He was lying. He was trying to confuse me—throw me off. “You took it. You were there. I saw you do it. Stop lying to me!”
“I’m not lying, Jemma. I swear it.” Palms down, he pushed forward across the counter and locked eyes with me as if to drive home his point. “I didn’t take anything from you. I don't know what you think you saw, but it wasn’t me.”
“Then who was it?” I shouted indignantly. “I spoke to you, Trace. I saw you. It was you!”
“You spoke to me?” he repeated incredulously as though I were making the whole thing up. He started to shake his head, but the movement weakened and then his eyes shifted away as though he'd become distracted by his own thoughts. “You saw me?” It came out in a whisper this time, almost as though he were asking himself the question, and not me.
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