The Rush (The Siren Series)

by Higginson, Rachel

  She only ate enough to support her exercise-addiction and fill out her size two cocktail dresses. She expected me to have the same infatuation with non-eating and treadmills. I expected myself to not faint in the middle of the morning because of hunger and add something to my tiny little b-cups.

  So this Saturday morning I was going to rebel with a latte and a pastry.

  Maybe even two pastries.

  I lived a dangerous life.

  Damn the man.

  Or in this case my mother.

  I crawled out of bed and rubbed at my still sleepy eyes. I had taken my makeup off late last night and even though it was a pain to go through the beauty regiment my mother had strictly laid out for me, I was thankful now to have a scrubbed face. I tossed my boy shorts and cami on the floor and wiggled into some gray skinny jeans. I grabbed the first bra I could find and then slipped an off the shoulder soft pink cashmere sweater on before pulling my hair into a ponytail without bothering to brush through it. Later today I would take the time for a shower, and blow dry and all that, right now my mind was firmly set on a twenty-four-ounce caramel macchiato and a cream puff. I had tunnel vision and that prompted the single swipe of mascara and lip gloss that constituted my make-up and the ballet flats I left near my bedroom door on my way in last night.

  Not my best effort at looking good, but the coffee shop was only across the street and it was still too early for my mother to have skulked from her own bed and joined the land of the living. She stayed out later than I did, and where my drinks consisted of water on the rocks, her drinks were filled with Grey Goose and Bombay Sapphire. She wouldn’t need coffee. She needed an injection from the fountain of youth to recover from that kind of licentiousness. To be fair though, whenever the women of our circle were gathered together in small quarters like they were last night, they all needed copious amounts of alcohol to forge through the fake friendships and plastic pleasantries. These women did not play well together.

  I grabbed my apartment keys and wallet and slipped out of the house unnoticed. The entire condo complex was quiet and still as I walked to the bank of elevators and waited for one to take me down to the lobby. Our complex was one of many brand new pieces of trendy architecture in this part of Omaha. Sleek, modern and artfully chic, this living arrangement fit my mother’s personality perfectly. I walked out the front doors of our building and through the drive up circle that included a hotel, a posh gym and a fancy restaurant. Across the street stood a three story dine-in movie theater, one of a kind in this city, and a coffee shop recently transplanted from downtown.

  I crossed the street without waiting for the walk sign; there was virtually no traffic this early and not even the shadows of the building fell on the empty street. The autumn sun was bright this morning, warming the chill in the air and igniting the crisp smell of leaves falling from the trees that lined Farnam Street in decorative pots.

  Delice was a European bakery with simply the best orange and raisin scones ever, in the history of scones, and even better fruit tartlets. The small gourmet coffee shop used to live in the epicenter of downtown but when midtown started to rebuild so did Delice. The shop migrated a little west, upgraded their rent and opened for business directly across the street from me. It was love at first sight between the two of us, we were young and lonely and couldn’t get enough of each other. Well, until I was banished until my brain got better…. my long six-month absence stretched out between us like a tragic Shakespearean play.

  But I was back now, and walking through these doors felt more like coming home then well…. coming home did.

  The small shop was all but empty, save for an elderly couple cuddled together over the morning World Herald in the corner. I walked straight to the counter so that I could eye the case of pastries up close. The racks were filled with elegant, precisely decorated goodies that triggered my taste buds into an immediately hungry frenzy. Yesterday I had 87 ounces of water, a snack sized bag of pretzels, a banana and one arugula and ricotta cheese canapé.

  Oh and a half glass of champagne that went straight to my head.

  I deserved to eat this entire case of unnecessary calories as far as I was concerned. I wiped my thumb against the corner of my mouth, discreetly checking for drool and then lifted my head to address the cashier. I hadn’t been here in a long enough time that I didn’t recognize the college-aged hippy across the counter. But then most of the girls that worked here were imported from the local universities and so job turnover flowed with the school schedules and breaks.

  “Can I help you?” the dread-locked twenty-something girl asked, but her eyes moved from mine to the door that opened behind me. A smile lit up her face and she gave a tiny wave to whoever just walked in.

  “Yes,” I announced, drawing her attention back to me. “I’ll have a caramel macchiato and an orange scone.” The girl started to ring in my confident order and suddenly I felt panicked to add onto it, desperate to break the rules and fill my empty stomach, “And a chocolate croissant.” I cringed at how frantic I sounded, treating this breakfast like my last meal before the electric chair, but that didn’t stop me from throwing in another pastry, “And a cream puff!”

  I reached forward, clutching at the counter until my knuckles turned white. I didn’t want to give up one of the pastries or even any of them, but even as she pushed the right buttons on her computer screen the unwanted guilt of eating such an extravagant breakfast started to sink in through my skin like acid eating away at my resolve. I looked down at my wallet on the counter as if it would have the answers for me, either enough guilt to make me change my mind or enough solace to wipe away the remorse completely. Meanwhile the girl behind the counter rattled off my total without noticing my internal struggle.

  I decided that I really only needed the chocolate croissant and was just about to tell her that when a deep, recognizable voice from behind me spoke up first, “I’ll get that for her Tarryn, just add it to my total.”

  I spun around on my heel, shocked more than I should be to stand face to face with Ryder Sutton. “I can pay for my own breakfast,” I snapped quickly. I trained my eyes on his gunmetal grays, refusing to take in his sleep-mussed hair, morning scruff that outlined his chiseled jaw or the thin black t-shirt and loose jeans that hung on his body deliciously. I simply refused to notice all that.

  Besides he was just wearing jeans and a t-shirt. There was absolutely nothing special about his boring outfit. In fact, allowing myself one, tiny, insignificant glance, it looked like he had dug them out from underneath his bed, everything was wrinkled! There was so nothing attractive about that….

  “I never thought you couldn’t buy your own breakfast,” he sighed, already agitated with me. I couldn’t really blame him, but that didn’t mean I dropped my defenses. “I’m just trying to do something nice for you, Ivy.”

  “Is this for here?” Tarryn asked from behind me.

  “Yes,” I replied without turning around. My eyes stayed narrowed on Ryder, not really sure what to do or what to say next. “Thank you” seemed drastically out of the question.

  “Excuse me,” he strong-armed me out of the way, his sharp elbow connecting playfully with my ribs. A jolt of electricity zinged up my spine and a lone butterfly flapped its nervous wings in my stomach. “You know what, Tarryn, why don’t you hold off on the two regulars and just make my Chai. I’m going to stay and eat breakfast with my friend here.”

  I whipped back around to face the counter, mouth hanging half ajar at Ryder’s announcement. I was assuming he meant me since there was no one else in the café, unless he meant the elderly couple but then I was pretty sure he would have said “friends.” “We’re not friends,” I defended on instinct, more for his sake than mine.

  “Fine,” Ryder agreed never looking at me. “Then I’ll be right over there,” Ryder pointed for Tarryn’s benefit, “with my arch-nemesis.”

  My mouth dropped the rest of the way opened and I stifled the hysterical giggle that was bubbling u
p inside of me.

  “Come on, Dr. Evil,” Ryder called to me, and then took a seat at a secluded table with a view of the street. He had my plate of pastries in front of him and was busy tearing the corner off my chocolate croissant.

  I watched him for a moment as he placed the stolen piece of food in his mouth and chewed on it thoughtfully. His jaw worked at the food, his throat moving once as he swallowed. I tore my eyes from his Adam’s apple just in time to watch his eyes lifted under his thick eyelashes and he just stared at me, waiting for me to do something, waiting for me to make the next move. Obviously he planned on eating everything on my plate. And obviously I couldn’t let him do that. I settled something in my heart, something that felt like warning, and decided that I was obligated to eat breakfast with Ryder after he paid for it…. and before he could eat it all.

  “Why am I Dr. Evil?” I followed him over, wondering if I had ever wanted to put up a fight. “I should be Inspector Gadget and you should be Dr. Evil.” I sat down heavily on the chair as if I was being held there against my will and forcefully pulled at the plate so that it was more on my side of the table than his.

  “Inspector Gadget?” Ryder’s face clouded in confusion and then cleared just as quickly. “You’re thinking of Dr. Claw. Dr. Evil is from Austin Powers.”

  It was my turn to be confused. “I’ve never seen Austin Powers.”

  “Are you serious? That’s kind of like a crime against humanity,” Ryder shook his head at me and then reached for my croissant again.

  “It’s not a crime against humanity,” I announced obviously.

  “It’s kind of a crime,” Ryder argued. “I can’t believe you’ve never seen Austin Powers. It’s like your life isn’t even complete right now.

  He had no idea.

  I rolled my eyes at him and then made room when Tarryn brought over our hot drinks. I took a long sip of my macchiato suddenly realizing what I looked like. I brushed at hairline, pushing back nonexistent frizz. “I think I’ll survive.”

  “Well, just to be sure, we can watch it at Phoenix’s tonight. He has the complete set,” Ryder finished decisively. “Really, thinking you’ll survive and knowing you will are two totally different things.”

  A thought occurred to me, an ugly, horrible, awful thought and before I could talk myself out of it I had to find out. “Why are you being nice to me?” I blurted out with no tact whatsoever.

  Without even a second to digest my question, Ryder answered, “I’m not being nice to you. We’re arguing about a movie.”

  I slumped back in my chair, completely dizzy. He was right of course. But arguing also kind of felt like flirting…. not any kind of flirting I had ever done before, not the kind that guaranteed a boyfriend that same day or the kind that would help groom me for my future career.... but still, maybe this was a different kind of flirting altogether? A more normal and safe version. Or maybe Ryder was right; maybe we were just fighting over an obscure movie.

  “You look confused,” Ryder noted. He was staring at me over the rim of his Chai Tea. I could smell the strong spices from even over here. I felt my insides melt a little at the picture of Ryder, holding his coffee cup with both of his absurdly masculine hands. I imagined his fingertips calloused from playing his guitar and his palms rough like sandpaper. His gray eyes were depthless silver, intense but playful. His lips twisted to a soft smile. This was Saturday morning Ryder, this was relaxed and playful Ryder and my heart started beating double time on instinct.

  Because relaxed Ryder couldn’t be more dangerous.

  Good thing he had Kenna.

  Good thing I had Chase.

  Or anybody else I wanted.

  “I was just wondering what you were doing here and how you know the staff so well,” I improvised, dropping my gaze to the pastries in front of me.

  “I know Tarryn because I work here too. I am the staff. I usually work after school though and Sunday afternoons. I’m here now because my dad has been in love with this place since we moved here and even though we live downtown, he makes me bring him coffee every Saturday morning…. and every night after work…. and every Sunday afternoon…. and every time we are in a ten mile radius.” Ryder’s face lit up into a huge smile while he talked about his dad. His home-life happiness was infectious and I couldn’t stop the smile that turned my mouth. I took a big bite of scone to hide my reaction and stared down into my drink.

  “So does your mom like the coffee here just as much, or is this strictly Mr. Sutton’s addiction?” I asked with a mouth full of food.

  “Dr. Sutton,” Ryder corrected gently. “My dad’s a music theory professor at the University of Omaha. A doctor of music theory.”

  “Dr. Sutton,” I corrected in a soft voice. “And mom?”

  “My mom passed away when I was little,” Ryder explained a bit roughly. “So it’s just me, and my dad and my Uncle Matt.”

  “My dad died when I was a baby too,” I announced and then immediately regretted the casual proclamation. I meant to sound understanding but it came out like I was bragging. Or maybe not bragging, but definitely not remorseful. Ryder stared at me from across the table, taking me in. He didn’t offer a reply but his brow furrowed together between his eyebrows like he was seriously thinking this conversation over. Ugh. “Your uncle lives with you?” I asked just to change the subject.

  “Yeah, he’s my dad’s much younger brother. He’s only ten years older than me and he’s living with us while he goes to college.” Ryder explained, the light returned to his face and I relaxed a little bit into the comfort of having an interesting conversation.

  “So your house is like a bachelor pad? Three guys living together? I can only imagine what your laundry situation is like,” I joked even though my own laundry situation was currently a nightmare. My mother insisted on leaving everything for our housekeeper though and since I didn’t even know how to turn the washing machine on I was inclined to follow at least that edict.

  “Hey, it’s not so bad. My dad has all the chores divvied up. Uncle Matt cleans the house, dad does the laundry and I do the cooking. We make it work,” Ryder’s grin widened and I couldn’t tell if he was joking or telling the truth about the division of work.

  “You do the cooking? Like on a regular basis?” I almost choked on scone. I did not like knowing Ryder could cook, not at all. The knowledge did funny things to my bones, making them clack together at the same time they felt like they were melting into warm puddles inside my skin.

  “Don’t look so surprised! I can grill a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with the best of them,” Ryder laughed, reaching for what was left of my chocolate croissant.

  “Did you say grill?” So obviously he was joking.

  “Yes ma’am,” he answered seriously. “Are you telling me you’ve never slathered your PB&J’s in butter and then fried them?”

  I shook my head quickly at the disgusting idea. I wasn’t allowed to eat peanut butter ever, let alone slathered it in butter….

  “Ivy, you haven’t seen Austin Powers, you’ve never had a fried PB&J…. I’m starting to seriously worry about you. What kind of life do you live anyway?”

  “You don’t even want to know,” I mumbled unable to keep the depressing truth out of my tone.

  “Speaking of food, this is the most I’ve ever seen you eat. Hangover cure?” Ryder eyed the crumbs on the plate, the only evidence left of my delicious breakfast.

  “Mmm-mmm,” I contradicted. “I was just hungry. I’m six-months sober remember?”

  “Yep, how could I forget? You act like such a desperate drunk usually,” Ryder sounded unconvinced and skeptical of my alleged stint in rehab and for some absurd reason his cynical tone made my heart swell in my chest, pushing against the cage of my breastbone, flaring hope in the darkest places of my soul. When I didn’t say anything though, Ryder continued in what could have been considered an attack. “But seriously, you never eat at lunch. I thought you were one of those girls with an eating disorder or th
at thought you could impress boys by how little you consume. Because here’s a piece of advice, boys like girls that can eat entire meals.”

  “I don’t need you to tell me what boys like. And I’m not one of those girls,” I rasped out in a defensive whisper, knowing I basically did have an eating disorder but not because I didn’t see myself correctly or was worried about weight gain. It was my mother and her completely f-ed up view of reality. “I love to eat.” I said that part louder; confidence was easier with truth behind it.

  “So why not at school?” Ryder pressed. “Are you trying to impress Chase? Because I promise you, he could care less what you eat for lunch.”

  “It has nothing to do with impressing any boy,” I argued, feeling myself bristle at his ridiculous accusation.

  “Then other girls? Kenna?” His voice dropped to a concerned whisper. His gray eyes pinned me to my seat no matter how desperately I wanted to bolt from the café. This conversation was awkward and intrusive and there was absolutely no way I could open up to him. Even though suddenly, desperately… I wanted to. For the first time in my life I wanted to explain everything to someone outside of our circle. Those kinds of feelings were stupid and dangerous and yet there they were anyway.

  “Not Kenna,” I forced myself to hold back the sarcastic bitterness that came out of nowhere. Ryder really thought I would compare myself to perfect Kenna Lee? Not a chance.

  Like his girlfriend was this icon of everything I wanted to be in life. Psht.

  Still it kind of bothered me how much it bothered me…..

  Ryder looked at me expectantly. He sat waiting for me to open up to him about some fake disorder, like a random breakfast was enough to appoint him my sobriety sponsor.

  I had enough of counselors during rehabilitation. If you could even call them that…. droves of women constantly coming to Nix’s defense, singing his praise and bragging about his bedroom prowess. God, it was disgusting. And then when we did get down to business, to my issues, there was no real help offered or solutions given. They were sponges that absorbed every last piece of information and sent it right along to Nix. Six months in intensive therapy was merely a tool to uncover every last one of my secrets and scoot me right back to the assembly line with all the other mindless Stepford robots.