by Mary Frame
“Freya, wait,” he says from behind me.
“Go suck a toaster.”
I don’t care anymore if someone sees me. I take the brightly lit sidewalk and march down it like a woman on a mission. And I am on a mission, a mission to get away from Mr. Hottie McGrumpy Pants.
He easily catches up to me and stops me with a hand on my arm.
I spin around, ready to read him the riot act. I open my mouth, but before any words come out, he’s kissing me.
It’s awkward at first. You really shouldn’t begin a kiss—especially a first kiss—with your mouth open. It should start with your mouth closed and then progress from there.
Not this one. Somehow, the situation rectifies itself, but it takes a few long seconds of me figuring out what’s happening to my mouth, while he nibbles at my lips and my anger fluctuates into something else entirely.
He’s kissing me. Dean is kissing me. The most remarkable part is that I’m not flinching. I don’t want to run away. Exactly the opposite, actually. I want to get closer to him. I want him to surround me, I want him over me. I want him everywhere.
Dean is like the vaccine to the Cameron virus.
I think he feels the same way, if his actions are any indication. His lips are hungry and firm, yet somehow soft all at once and the way he’s holding me against him makes me feel fragile and desired. Not at all like when Cameron kissed me, like he was trying to spell the alphabet with his tongue or something.
My hands are gripping his shoulders, holding myself upright to avoid dissolving into a puddle at his feet. His fingers trail along the line between my shirt and pants, and when he slips his hands under my shirt to span my waist, I can’t help but arch against him and moan into his mouth.
“Holy hell,” he says. His hands flex against my skin, and he presses me away, fingers still on my waist.
I feel a bit dazed as I look at him and try to catch his expression. He looks just as out of it as I feel, and his lips are swollen.
“I…” he says.
In the light of the moon and lamps littered along the sidewalk, I can see the confusion and uncertainty in his eyes.
“We should go,” I say after a moment, putting him out of his misery.
He nods.
We walk back to his car in silence. I’m not sure what to say. I’m not sure what any of it means, if anything.
We get into the car, he still opens my door for me, but then the drive home is shrouded in…nothing. Absolute silence, except for the hum of the tires against the road, and the occasional tick of the blinker when Dean has to make a turn.
I’m not sure what to think about what just happened. Should I think about it? Did it mean anything? My thought is no. I mean, maybe he was just trying to shut me up so I would still help him. I know he’s not interested in me that way, he can’t possibly like me. He doesn’t act like it. And while it’s intriguing to me that I didn’t flinch away, like I’ve done with every other guy since Cameron, I know it would be a bad idea to pursue anything with him. He doesn’t exactly fit the criteria that I need. I’m done with jerks. Been there, done that, got the souvenir that says “I dated the world’s biggest douche and all I got was this T-shirt,” and I can’t go back there.
I made a promise to myself after Cameron that I would have more self-respect. I wouldn’t be that girl, the one who goes for the guy that treats her like crap. No matter how hot he is and how much he resembles Thor. Although…Cameron was incredibly charming and sweet to begin with and turned into a jerk. Dean has never pretended to not be a jerk. He’s been the same way the whole time.
Either way, I can’t risk it.
I glance over at Dean while he’s driving. It’s too dark to make out his expression. He’s staring out the windshield, eyes on the road, of course. I wonder what he’s thinking. Is he thinking to himself, smooth move, keeping the girl involved because I need her. Or maybe he’s thinking, wow Freya is an awesome kisser and I really want to bang her. Probably a combination of the two.
He must feel my gaze on him, because he glances over at me and I quickly avert my eyes.
Doesn’t matter. No banging will be happening here. I cannot let myself get involved, I cannot lose my heart again to someone who doesn’t love me back. And unfortunately, sex tends to lead to emotions. Dammit. Why can’t I be like a dude?
I was twenty-one when I lost my virginity—way later than everyone I’ve ever known. Most of my friends lost theirs in high school. I was…a late bloomer. Seriously. I mean, I dated guys, but I never really felt that spark or attraction, at least not enough to let them stick their penis in me. Not until Cameron. And I am so scared that I will never find it again. I mean, if it took me twenty-one years to find it the first time, will I have to wait another twenty-one to feel it again?
But now there’s Dean.
I’m definitely attracted to him. But what if I make the same mistake? Isn’t that the definition of insanity, trying the same thing over and over and expecting different results?
He drops me off after an abrupt “Good night” and “I’ll call you.” I trudge up the stairs to my apartment, all the while trying to push him from my mind.
As I’m unlocking my door, my phone starts ringing again, this time the ring tone is “The Calculation” by Regina Spektor.
Lucy.
I open my door and then pull my phone out of my bra. “Hey Luce, what’s crack-a-lackin’?”
“I was able to get into a portion of the police files and obtain some information.”
Good ol’ Lucy, right to the point. I lock my door behind me and flick on the lights. “Anything good?”
“A few things. The coroner calculated the time of death for both victims at approximately 11:00 p.m. They were able to confirm that the same weapon was used in both homicides. Also, Daisy McHenry made two statements. One when Jesse was murdered, detailing her whereabouts and alibi for the night. But, the way it’s written isn’t good for Dean. She describes him as a sociopath, and it’s very incriminating. The second statement she submitted after Matt’s death. She’s the one that informed the police that he was the connection.”
I throw myself onto the couch. “Hippie beyotch. Peace and love my ass!”
“I find it interesting that she seems determined to implicate Dean. It makes me suspicious. I think we should investigate her alibi a little more closely than the cops may have.”
“Sounds fun. When?”
“Her friend who verified her alibi is out of town at a basketball game. We’ll have to question her when she returns, which will be Thursday. We can go to her place of residence after your last class.”
“I’m in. I’ll pick you up.”
We hang up and I lie on the couch for a few minutes, thinking. I’m glad Lucy called, but it means I’ll have to call Dean and let him know.
I think about his mouth on mine, the way he held me and the way my body responded like a firecracker. Then, I think about him stepping away and not speaking the entire way home.
I really don’t want to talk to him right now.
I really don’t want to think about him right now.
Maybe I’ll call him tomorrow.
Maybe.
Chapter Thirteen
Dean
I think that if you live long enough, you realize that so much of what happens in life is out of your control, but how you respond to it is in your control.
—Hillary Clinton
Most people think the worst thing about hospitals is the food. That’s not true. The worst part about hospitals is they tell their patients to sleep, and then they wake them up every hour to monitor their vitals.
It’s two o’clock in the morning, and I’m trying to finish a paper that’s due tomorrow without waking up my mom. She caught some kind of flu and became so dehydrated, I had to take her to the hospital. They wanted to keep her for observation and now we’ve been here for two days.
Sarah’s staying with our neighbor. I’ve been running ragged between
the hospital, school, making sure the fights are lined up, and making sure Sarah has everything she needs.
The only bonus is that I’ve been at the hospital so much, I’m on a first-name basis with most of the nurses and they let me stay when they probably shouldn’t.
I stare at the glowing screen of my laptop in the darkened hospital room and watch the cursor beat in time to my heart.
I should be thinking about my paper. Or my mom. Or my sister. Or the fact that I could very likely be charged with murder at any given moment. Instead, I’m thinking about one of the most infuriating women I’ve ever met. Who also happens to be the silliest, most kissable woman I’ve ever met.
I’m an asshole.
I didn’t mean to kiss her.
I can’t say I’m sorry I did.
She probably wanted to talk about it or something, after. I know how girls are with these things—I have a mother and a sister. I do feel sorry that I said nothing. But what could I say? I can’t promise her anything. I have nothing to give her. I have nothing to offer. It’s not like she likes me. She thinks I’m an ass. I have been an ass. And after she dated that piece of crap Carmichael, she deserves someone who can give her everything.
Or something, anything, which is more than I have. I have no time for relationships. I don’t even have time to sleep. I also don’t have time to dwell. I have work to do.
I tap out a few sentences and pause when Mom shifts on the bed and mumbles something in her sleep. After a moment of watching her until she seems to be sleeping peacefully again, I turn back towards my computer. Instead of seeing the words on the screen, I see Freya’s face the moment after I kissed her. Eyes dazed, lips swollen. That damn black shit under her eyes.
The thought makes me want to laugh out loud, but I stifle it into a grin that spreads across my face.
“What are you looking at that’s giving you such a goofy smile?” my mom says.
My head jerks in her direction. I didn’t realize she was awake.
“Nothing,” I say quickly, schooling my expression into seriousness. “Sorry if I woke you. I was just working on a term paper.”
“You didn’t wake me. I think my body is in tune to the next time I can expect to be woken by a diligent nurse.” She offers me a sleepy smile. “You should go home, you’ll probably get more done,” she says.
“It’s okay. I don’t want to leave in case you need something.”
“I don’t need anything, Dean. You don’t need to sacrifice your life all the time. I’ll be fine.”
The nurse walks in then—a dark-skinned woman with sleek black hair tied back and soft pink scrubs. She clicks on the bedside lamp and exchanges quiet pleasantries with Mom while she takes Mom’s temperature and blood pressure.
“As long as everything is still good, the doctor should release you tomorrow,” the nurse tells my mom while she wraps up the cords and puts them on her little trolley.
“Oh, good,” Mom says. “As much as I love your company, I can’t wait to go home.”
“Well, as much as we love having you, I don’t want to see you again anytime soon.”
They laugh softly—hospital humor—and the nurse leaves on quiet feet, the only sound is the squeak of the wheels as she pulls the blood pressure machine out with her.
Once she’s gone, Mom looks at me. “Are you going to tell me what you were smiling about, before?”
“No.”
“Is it a girl? Because I’m pretty sure term papers don’t make people smile like that.”
I hesitate. I don’t want to lie to her, but my reluctance to answer gives me away.
“It is a girl!” She smiles at me, looking entirely too excited at the prospect. “What’s her name?”
“Mom, I don’t have time for girls.”
“Just because you don’t have time, doesn’t mean it’s not going to happen. Do you love her?”
“What? No!”
She makes a face. “Is she mean, like Angelica?”
“No.”
“Based on that smile earlier, I didn’t think so.”
“Can we not talk about this?”
“What would you rather talk about?”
“Anything? How are you feeling?”
“Ugh.” She waves her hand at me. “I do not want to talk about me or my health. We need to talk about you, Dean. You deserve more happiness, and less chaos and work.”
“Deserving something doesn’t entitle you to it.”
She watches me for a few long seconds. “You’re right. It doesn’t. But if you don’t consider yourself once in a while—your needs, and what makes you happy—you’re going to burn out and crash. And then you’ll be no good to anyone.”
I turn away from her caring face and stare back at my computer screen that needs at least 2,000 more words on it before I can let myself relax.
“I have regrets, Dean,” she says after a moment of silence. “My life is full of them.”
I look over and I can see her eyes shining in the dim light.
“You only get one turn on this planet. What’s the point, if you’re not living it?”
I want to argue with her. I want to tell her I am living it. That she and Sarah are my life and I have no point without them. But I can’t lie.
“Maybe you’re right,” I finally say.
“I’m your mother. I’m always right.”
Chapter Fourteen
Freya
The pursuit of truth will set you free; even if you never catch up with it.
–Clarence Darrow
“And then he kissed me,” I tell Lucy.
“How was it?” she asks.
I pause for a second, trying to come up with the best way to describe it. “Amazing,” I finally settle on, but then have to add, “Mind-numbingly amazing.”
“Good. Now keep your eyes on the road.”
I do as told and squint at the street signs. “Where did you say this place was?”
“It’s not far. You’re going to turn right after this next street.”
“But then,” I continue, “he pushed me away.”
We’re heading to some student housing, a few blocks away from campus. Daisy’s statement said that she had spent the night at her friend Natalie’s house. Natalie lives with three other people. All four residents verified that Daisy had been there all night.
“He pushed you away?” She raises her eyebrows at me.
I turn where Lucy told me, and we pull into the parking lot. The student housing looks like regular apartments, but I had been to parties here before and each house has four bedrooms for four residents, and they share a living space, kitchen and two bathrooms.
I park in front of the building where Daisy was (allegedly) the night of Jesse’s murder and turn towards Lucy.
“Not like that,” I assure her. “He was gentle. He didn’t really push me, he sort of set me away from him.”
“And then what?”
“And then he took me home. That was it.”
“Did you discuss what happened between you?”
“No.” I shake my head. “He didn’t say anything the whole way home.”
“You didn’t say anything either?” She wrinkles her nose at me. “I find that difficult to believe.”
“Hardy har har.” I roll my eyes at her. “I didn’t know what to say. When he dropped me off, he said he would call me later. That was five days ago, Lucy. Five days! I don’t know why I’m tripping about it. It’s not like I like him. He’s a jerk.”
“You haven’t heard from him since?”
“Well,” I concede. “He texted me the next day to let me know that Tommy was still alive. That was it. And I tried to call him back because I haven’t been able to find Liz the slut and ask her about her brother. Then, I tried again yesterday to tell him about this lead.” I gesture to the building in front of us. “I wanted to talk to him about that stuff at least, but he didn’t answer.”
“Did you leave a message?”
“
No,” I scoff. “I don’t want to seem desperate. Or like, I’m into him or something. Because I’m not. I’m totally not. It means nothing that he’s the only man I’ve met since Cameron who doesn’t make me want to vomit my intestines all over his face.”
“Well, I would—”
“Bully him into submission? I know,” I interrupt. She totally would, too. You should have seen when she first decided she wanted to use Jensen to learn about romantic relationships. She seriously stalked the poor fool and harassed him until he caved. He had no idea who he was dealing with.
Of course, it actually worked for her.
“I was going to say,” she gives me a pointed look, “that I would wait until he calls you again. You know he will. As a matter of fact, he was the one who contacted you in the first place to enlist your assistance, and it doesn’t sound like he has anyone else.” She pats me on the leg. “Just sit tight. It will all work itself out.”
“There’s nothing to work out. In fact, we shouldn’t even be having this conversation. I don’t know why I brought it up, because I don’t care about Dean. He’s an ass.” And with that complete lie, I get out of the car and wait for Lucy to crawl out the driver’s side before shutting it behind her.
We walk up to the door and knock. A few seconds later, it swings open to reveal a tall, gorgeous black girl in short-shorts and a tank top.
“Are you Natalie Winchester?” Lucy asks in her standard, formal tone.
“Who’s asking?” the girl at the door asks, one hand on her hip.
“My name is Lucy London, and this is Freya Morgan. We want to ask a few questions about the night of Jesse Carmichael’s death.”
“Why?”
“Our friend is suspected of the murder, and we want to verify Daisy’s version of events.”
If it had been up to me, I would have come up with some cockamamie story about doing research for my thesis or something, but not Lucy. Right to the point and too damn honest. We’ll be lucky if we aren’t thrown out on our ear, and this Natalie Winchester doesn’t look exactly friendly.