Killing Ruby Rose (The Ruby Rose Series)

by Jessie Humphries

  “See you next week,” she said with a sympathetic nod. “Have a safe weekend.”

  “You, too,” I said.

  And she shut the door in my face.

  CHAPTER 8

  Equation of the night: Muggy air (smelling of equal parts beer and sweat) + hip-hop (blaring from the Napoleon-complex speakers) ÷ the throng of horny teenagers (rubbing up against each other like animals in heat) = sensory overload.

  “I can’t believe you brought me here!” I yelled into Alana’s ear. “Can you get a ride home? I don’t feel comfortable—”

  “Oh, shut up and relax,” she yelled back, fist-pumping to the music. “This is just what you need—mindless social interaction. No one is worried about you and what you’ve done or haven’t done. They’re too busy having fun!”

  She was wrong. This wasn’t just what I needed. I didn’t need to be manipulated into coming to some stupid high school party when she promised we could talk. What I needed was to figure out who was messing with me. And fast, before anyone else got hurt or Martinez discovered that I’d been stalking LeMarq long before I put a bullet between his eyes.

  As soon as I could, I was going home, locking myself in my room, and poring over my notes on the Filthy Five. There had to be a connection between them and my whole life falling apart.

  I watched as Alana slipped into the pulsating heart of the dance floor. Her wavy black hair bopped to the beat, and her skinny little Daisy Dukes–wearing legs jumped up and down with the crowd. I couldn’t help wondering why she still put up with me after all these years. Me, the epitome of Buzzkill. She remained ever loyal, even when I failed to reciprocate. I imagined Dr. T would probably say that as opposites, we needed each other to balance out our weaknesses and strengths. She kept me normal, and I kept her in excellent couture. Except lately, I worried I was more of an anchor, pulling Alana down into the depths with me.

  As she got sucked further into the riptide of flesh, I found a wall to lean on, my anxiety growing. I shouldn’t be here, hanging out, doing nothing. But I didn’t want to feel the consuming guilt and anger threatening to break me, either. Maybe Alana was right: I needed a good distraction.

  I scanned the massive room, observing other people’s issues for once instead of concentrating on my own. It appeared that Declawed Taylor and unnamed friend were lushing their way to happiness. Jell-O shots and tube tops were all they needed. A pack of football players surrounded them as they slurped themselves into oblivion.

  As my eyes roamed the room, I found so many examples of kids with major problems: Brianna Hartley, who’d spent last spring in rehab; Miles Brown, who’d gotten two girls pregnant in the same year; Ted Cohen, who’d once eaten a handful of worms on a dare…

  But even after some therapeutic people watching, or as Alana liked to call it, “people judging,” I still felt like a wolf in sheep’s clothes. Well, a wolf in four-inch Jimmy Choo wedge heels. Yeah, these kids were crazy, but I was almost 99 percent sure that none of them were violent-crazy. Like me.

  I caught eyes with a guy named Jace I dated freshman year—if dating meant kissing a lot and then being constantly harassed about “moving to the next level in our physical relationship.” He was a charming guy, but his smooth talking got old. And when I told him I thought we should go back to being friends—the kind without benefits—he took it hard. If hard meant spreading rumors about what a boring prude I was.

  While I was still looking in his direction, he shaped his hand into a gun and took aim at me. I couldn’t believe it. He’d been a jerk-jar before, but this was crossing the line. I had half a mind to cross the room and break his little gun-shaped hand (and equally little boy parts) but the thought of the story getting leaked to Access Hollywood kept my back against the wall. When he cocked his hand and made a blasting gesture, I finally looked away. What a piece of—

  “Don’t pay attention to Jace.” Liam’s familiar voice caught me off guard. And his warm breath against my ear almost made my Jimmy Choos give way. “He only acts like an ass because he’s never gotten over you.”

  I turned my head to find him leaning on the wall next to me, the disco ball sprinkling light on his face like diamond reflections.

  When the freak did he get here?

  “Oh, hey,” I said, taking a firmer stance against those eyelashes. “Right. Jace. Ass. Totally.” What was that? California Cavegirl–speak?

  “It’s hot in here. Wanna come out on the balcony with me?” This time his lips brushed the side of my neck as he leaned in. How could he still want to talk to me after I stared down his scars and then lamely left him at the beach?

  I looked around for something to hold on to. A lifeline to keep me from jumping off this cliff. Where was Alana when I needed her?

  I found nothing and no one. I looked down instead, trying to steel my resolve. Except his classic white Nike Air Force 1s might have just turned me on even more. This boy, his lashes, and his shoes were going to break me.

  “Sure,” I said.

  He took my hand and weaved me through the bouncing bodies, up the stairs, through a master bedroom, and onto a balcony overlooking the shore with a spiral staircase leading down to the beach.

  “Should we be up here? I don’t even know who lives here,” I said, out of breath. I wasn’t trying to do that seductive-bunny voice girls like Taylor use to unhinge guys. Honestly. Hiking the massive staircase after months of no physical training and the close proximity of Liam’s lips to my ear had sincerely winded me.

  “Don’t worry,” he assured me, letting go of my hand and plopping down on a love seat facing the railing. “This house is just a party pad. You know Chase?”

  “I think so. Is he on the football team with you?” I asked, even though I knew exactly who Chase was. Alana used to have a thing for Chase like I still had a thing for Liam. At one point, she’d even had the joint wedding all planned out.

  “Yeah. Well, this is his uncle’s third or fourth house. He’s some billionaire from Texas or something.”

  “It’s amazing,” I said, still standing in the doorway where he left me.

  “Yeah, I know—sick, right?”

  “Totally. Sick.” I felt sick. I had no idea what to do with my hands. Pockets, no. Behind the back, no.

  “Come sit down,” he said, sounding sort of winded himself. Which made no sense since he was in peak physical condition.

  “OK.” I rounded the seat and sat down next to him, wondering why I was being so weak. I had firmly resolved not to allow him to get close to me again. And here I was, obeying his every command.

  “So, what’s up with you leaving me high and dry the other day on the beach?” he asked with a slight hitch in his voice. Almost like he was just as tense as I was.

  “There’s this thing called school. And you aren’t supposed to be late to it.”

  “Whatever. We had plenty of time.” He leaned toward me.

  It was a bright night, and the moon provided an unfortunate spotlight on my awkwardness—and a better view of that scar on his ear.

  “Have you thought about what I told you?” he said. “About that guy watching you? Have you told the police?”

  “No, I mean yes, well…” I stopped to gather myself. “Yes, I thought about what you said, but I haven’t told the police.”

  “Have you told your mom?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? Don’t you think it’s sort of pertinent?” He put his hand on my knee. I jerked away, far jumpier than necessary.

  Of course I thought it was pertinent. But football players shouldn’t use such big words. Or pretend to be seriously interested in me. And certainly not touch me like that, or look at me like this—with tenderness and intimacy.

  “What’s going on? Why wouldn’t you help them protect you?”

  “You don’t understand. There’s more to it.”

  “Tell me, then. Help me understand.” He turned his body to face me.

  I stared at his lips. Were they telling t
he truth? Or were they like chocolate—promising happiness, providing a few moments of heaven, then ultimately betraying me, going behind my back and putting junk in the trunk?

  It didn’t seem like a fair choice. Chocolate had total power over me—there was no denying my addiction to the dark, creamy crack. Those few moments of bliss were always enough for me to disregard the consequences. So, even if Liam was only chocolate, I wanted to taste a piece.

  Just imagining the moment our lips would touch made me light-headed. There was no denying how strongly I’d wanted this. An energy buzz overtook all my logic, all my pain. Overwhelmed by it, I gave in.

  I softened.

  Briny air swirled across the veranda, mixing with Liam’s musky cologne. The scent swept over me, and I closed my eyes to breathe it in. But then something inside me turned over. It smelled like the same cologne my dad used to wear.

  A deep pit formed in my stomach as I remembered him walking out the garage door for the last time. I didn’t know then he would be ambushed and blown to pieces. I didn’t know then that I would never see him again.

  “I gotta go.” I opened my eyes and started to get up. But Liam stopped me, reaching for my wrist. Instinctively, I rotated my hand clockwise and thrust it down with the full weight of my body to break his grip.

  “Jeez!” He jumped up and grabbed at his wrist in pain. “What the—?”

  “Don’t grab at me then if you don’t want to get hurt!” I moved behind the couch, to put some space, and furniture, between us.

  “I wasn’t grabbing at you,” he said with a grimace. “I was just trying to stop you from running away from me again.”

  “First of all, you did grab me, and second…” I didn’t really have a second. “Look, I’m way too messed up for you to bother with.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to grab,” he said, moving toward me slowly, like I was a bomb in need of dismantling. “And just so you know, it’s OK to be a little messed up.”

  “I don’t know what you want from me.” I backed up. “Or why you’re acting so interested in me all of a sudden. Is it the fame thing? Do you want to see yourself in the newspaper next to Bleeding Ruby Rose again? Or did one of your football buddies bet you that you couldn’t get laid by the most dangerous girl in school?”

  Not likely. My virginity wasn’t exactly a secret. One of those trashy magazines had even broadcast it in an article called “Ruby Rose: The Virgin Vigilante.”

  He stopped and looked at me with the mug of a kicked puppy. “Wow.”

  “Wow, what?” They were simple questions.

  “I had no idea that’s what you thought of me,” he said, lowering his head to stare at the red marks developing on his wrist.

  “Well, I told you,” I said, a little less abrasively. “I don’t know what to think. Things are complicated for me, and I don’t know what your intentions are.”

  “My intentions?” he asked, as if he didn’t readily know the answer. “I just wanted to help. That guy—he used me, too, you know.”

  “What? What do you mean he used you?”

  “He pretended to be me when he sent you that text, remember? My name was in the police report. That Detective Martinez guy came to my house and interviewed me. And when it went public, reporters tried to talk to me. My friends never leave me alone about it. So, yeah, I feel a little involved, OK?”

  “OK,” I said, taken aback. I felt horrible that my stupid life had already affected him, and like the biggest B-word for giving him such a hard time. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know—”

  “Plus, I know what it’s like to be misunderstood.” He paused and did that self-conscious ear-touching thing. Again, I wondered what could have possibly happened to him. “It’s a lonely place to be, and I can see how talented you are at pushing people away. Or maybe I should say karate chopping people away.” A sliver of a smile formed in the crease of his eyes.

  Oh, no. I was softening under his charm again. “But you’re still not answering my question, Liam. Why do you want to help me? Are you upset that you’re involved?”

  He rubbed his forehead. “C’mon, isn’t it obvious?”

  “If it were obvious, I wouldn’t need to ask.”

  “I like you, all right?” He was red in the face and clearly frazzled. “I’ve liked you for a long time, but you haven’t given me the time of day.”

  It couldn’t be that simple. He couldn’t have wanted to help me simply because he “liked” me. I “liked” watching lobsters play in their tank at the restaurant, and I still “liked” to eat them. I didn’t trust that word. For two years, I practically went all googly-eyed at him every time he looked at me. Now he was saying he “liked” me?

  “I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, but I’ve always given you the time of day.”

  “Let me be clear, then, so you know what I mean,” he said, stepping forward again, a glutton for punishment. “I’ve been wanting to ask you out for a while, but when your dad died I figured you needed some time. Then, just when I got the courage to ask you to Homecoming, well, the bottom of your world dropped out again.”

  He knew that my dad had died. And he’d cared enough to give me time. I softened even more.

  “So what about Taylor?” I asked, wondering why my brain had brought her up at a time like this. It was like my logical brain had a firewall and was trying to override the invading emotions.

  “Taylor?” he asked back. His eyebrows creased together in confusion.

  “You know, the girl you actually did take to Homecoming. The girl who’s always hanging all over you. The girl nobody turns down.” Shut up!

  He reached out to take my hand, apparently unafraid of what other sudden movements I might make. And, inexplicably, I let him take it.

  “I’m not going to say anything bad about Taylor,” he said, moving his head even closer to mine. “But I’m not going to say anything good about her, either.”

  Wow. I couldn’t help but be impressed with his maturity and refusal to trash-talk.

  “But you on the other hand,” he said, looking me in the eyes. “I think you’re amazing. And brave. And totally different.”

  Firewall disabled, I let him pull me into his arms.

  I let him put his body against mine.

  I let my eyes close, appreciating the heat between our bodies. His heart beating against my ear drowned out all my wild, neurotic thoughts. I was giving in to him again. I was the glutton for punishment.

  Until I felt a pinch on my neck. Like a bee sting, it burned. But surely there were no effin’ bees at the beach this time of night. I tried to pull away, but by the time I reached to get the bee’s stinger out of my skin, I realized I was dealing with something else entirely.

  A syringe.

  And I was losing consciousness.

  CHAPTER 9

  I heard the voices before I could identify where they were coming from. Swirling human forms floated around my mind. And pain. I felt that rising with my consciousness. In my head, mostly, but also on my wrists. They were bound behind my back.

  I ordered my eyes to open, but they were as heavy as theater curtains. I needed pulleys or something.

  When my eyelids eventually creaked open, I almost wished they hadn’t.

  I lay on the cold floor of a large metal cage, like one used for lions at the circus. I had awoken in my very worst nightmare. I hated bars. Like, I really, deathly feared them. Dr. T said it was a “seminormal/common phobia,” and not to give it too much importance, but that was easy to say when she wasn’t the one with the recurring dreams of bars slowly closing in on her until she was crushed to death.

  The men behind the echoing voices were nowhere in sight. Hyperventilation and claustrophobia drained me of my wits. I closed my eyes and tried to steady my breathing. I couldn’t lose my cool now. I had to fight. I had to look past the bars and pretend like they weren’t there in order to gather my survival instincts. The inanimate cage couldn’t beat me when the very animate m
en beyond them were far more likely to do so.

  Forcing open my eyes, I saw a spacious warehouse filled with boxes and old machinery, not unlike the one at the harbor where I’d put a hole in Charlie LeMarq’s head. And I wasn’t alone. There were two equally drugged and bound bodies just outside the cage, except they were tied at the ankles as well as the wrists. I wondered why they weren’t in here with me—and why they weren’t stirring.

  I looked closer at them through the dim light. It was Alana and Liam. The last time I’d seen Alana, her dark hair was bouncing to the beat of the music. Now it was as limp as a doll’s. And Liam’s beautiful lips, the ones I’d come so close to kissing, were now gagged and covered in bloody cloth.

  My chest tightened with a crushing force. I hated myself for getting them involved. If only I’d done a better job of pushing everyone away, they wouldn’t be here.

  “I’m not going to tell you again!” a deep voice echoed across the warehouse. “It’s time, so make the call!”

  “Come on, jefe, this ain’t right,” another man replied in a much younger and more hesitant voice, with an accent that made me think of the East LA gang crews. So not bueno.

  I couldn’t see them, and they couldn’t see me behind the row of crates piled haphazardly toward the ceiling.

  “What ain’t right is you acting like a little bitch. Now get your phone out and make the call.”

  “Bro, calm down and think about it. All we’re supposed to do is babysit these drugged kids for a while and then take the money and run? Rick, it’s a setup.”

  Rick. I knew a Rick. Rick “The Stick”—one of my Filthy Five. But I’d never heard him speak, so how could I be sure if this voice belonged to him?

  “You’re wasting time,” Rick said.

  “You’ve done deals with this guy before?” the younger guy asked, sounding more skittish.

  “Yeah, two nights ago, OK? It didn’t go as planned, and I had to get rid of a girl. Let’s just say he owes me tonight.”