The Certainty of Violet & Luke
Page 23
“I’m fine,” she says and then picks up her pace when a guy shouts something out the window she fell from. “Now go away.”
I look down at her ankle, hidden under her boot. It’s obvious it’s causing her pain by the way she won’t put pressure on it. “You shouldn’t be putting weight on it if it hurts. You could fuck it up more.”
At the corner of the sidewalk, she veers to the left, and steps into the light of the lampposts surrounding the parking lot. I finally get a good look at her and recognition clicks. She’s got long black hair with streaks of red in it that match the shade of her plump lips. She’s wearing a leather jacket over a tight black dress and her boots—the ones that put a lump on my head—go all the way up her long legs, stopping at her thighs.
“Hey, I know you,” I state as we step off the curb. “Don’t I?”
“How should I know?” She peers over her shoulder at me, giving me a once-over. I can tell she does know me, by the recognition in her expression, just like I’m almost certain I know her.
She continues to hobble toward a row of parked cars and I walk with her.
“Wait… I’ve seen you around at UW… We have Chemistry together.” I make the connection as she stuffs her hand into the pocket of her jacket. “And I think you’re Callie Lawrence’s roommate?” I point a finger at her. “Violet… something or other?”
She shakes her head as she removes her keys from her pocket. “And you’re Luke Price. The stoically aloof and somewhat intense man-whore/football player who dorms it up with Kayden Owens.” She stops in front of a battered up Cadillac. “Yeah, we know each other. So what?” She extends her hand toward the lock on the door, holding the key, but I grab her arm and stop her.
“Wait, ‘stoically aloof’?” I ask, slightly offended. “What the hell does that mean?” I’ve crossed paths with her quite a few times, but never actually talked to her. I’ve heard Callie say she’s intense, which I’m getting right now. But people say that about me, too, and it’s for a reason. A dark reason I don’t like to talk about. I wonder if she has a reason, too, or if she’s just a bitch. Plain and simple.
“It means whatever the hell you want it to mean.” She jams the key into the lock and unlocks the door, glancing over the roof of the car. “Now will you please let go of my arm?”
I’d completely forgotten that I was touching her and I instantly let go, tracking the line of her gaze to the sidewalk and a guy heading toward us. When I look back at her, there’s panic in her eyes, but when she notices me staring at her, the look quickly disappears and is replaced by indifference.
“Is that guy messing with you?” I ask. “Because if he is I can kick his ass if you need me to.” I cringe as I say it because most of the time when I start swinging punches I have a hard time stopping.
She seems shocked for a very intense split second but then again the look vanishes. “I can take care of myself.” She leans into the car and falls into the driver’s seat. She puts her hand on the steering wheel and takes a breath before looking up at me. “Look, I’m sorry I kicked you in the face during my fall.” She carefully pulls her leg in, wincing from the pain. “I didn’t mean to.”
I touch my finger to my forehead, feeling the forming lump. “It’s not a big deal,” I tell her. “But I’d really like to know why you… fell out the window.” I’m not sure if “fell” is the right word. She could have jumped. On purpose. For so many reasons.
“I didn’t fall… I jumped.” She stares up at me and I see something in her eyes. I have to search my hazy brain for what it is, but finally I get there. Detachment. Like she feels and cares about nothing. For a brief second I envy her.
Before I can say anything else, she glances through the windshield at the guy who’s reached the border of the parking lot and then she slams the car door. She revs the engine and I have to jump back as she peels out of the parking lot, driving away like her life depends on it and all I can wonder is what the hell she’s running from.