by Nashoda Rose
I looked down at my black jeans and my long sleeve baggy shirt. There was nothing sexy about my clothing and I liked it that way.
Dana spun on her heel calling over her shoulder, “See ya at seven.”
I watched her flounce down the hall and then I slipped inside the large auditorium where Professor Neale cleaned the chalkboard from the previous lecture. I heard my phone vibrate against something hard in my bag.
I walked up the steps to my usual seat at the back right then unpacked my writing book and saw the bright glare of words on the screen of my phone in the bottom of my bag. I took it out and glanced at it.
You reading this?
That was all he said. I went to put my phone away when it vibrated again.
Do you realize that reading my texts and not responding is considered bad etiquette?
I sighed. I was pretty sure if he texted one of those girls in the cafeteria, she’d have texted back within milliseconds.
I’m ego-dented. You realize that, right?
I huffed and felt the corners of my mouth curve up. I dropped my phone into my bag hearing it vibrate again, but I ignored it as Professor Neale wrote on the chalkboard in big capital letters Heads-Up.
A Heads-up was where we wrote non-stop for an allotted amount of time. Our pens had to remain moving no matter what, even if we had to write ‘I can’t think of anything to write’ over and over again.
I hated it at first and that is exactly what I wrote over a hundred times the first day. The second time, I wrote that only fifty times then my mind got sick of it and I started writing about Urma’s shed.
I don’t know where the memory came from because I’d been high most of the time. Ream and I huddled in the corner of the shed, between the rake and the snow shovel. He’d found an old smelly brown blanket with oil stains all over it, which he tucked around me. I tried to share it with him, but he always insisted he wasn’t cold.
I closed my eyes. God, I failed him time and again. I’d been so broken and weak and scared, spiralling out of control into the escape of the drugs, needing anything to make the pain disappear. And Ream . . . Ream never gave up on me. He kept trying and I kept screwing up until Olaf finally found me in the hospital after one of my overdoses and took me away.
Pathetic. I’d been our poison, our weakness. But not anymore. Despite the minor hiccups like what happened in the cafeteria, I had control.
“You thinking about what you’re going to write?”
I tensed at the male voice sitting beside me and the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stood up. My pen dropped from my grasp and rolled down the decline of the smooth surface of my desk and fell to the floor. I leaned over to grab it and so did my new neighbour and our heads hit.
“Owww,” we said simultaneously.
I rubbed my head and he smiled. “I’ll get it.” He leaned over again and grabbed my pen, then held it out to me. But I was looking at him. I was aware of everyone around me. I made it my business to know who was near me and this guy I hadn’t seen before. He was nice-looking, in the clean-cut sort of way, with a sharp, angular jaw and high-cheek bones. Probably over six-foot with how far his legs stretched out into the aisle.
When my eyes reached his, I saw the curiosity in them as he waited patiently for me to take my pen back. “Thanks.” I took it and glanced away. There was a building of a familiar unease in my chest as I felt the burn of his gaze on me.
I didn’t bother looking back at him as I said in an abrupt tone, “You want something?”
“Your name?”
I wrote the date on the top of my page. “Why?”
He laughed quietly. “Because it’s polite and I’m new—transferred to this class a few days ago. I was in the eight o’clock class, but there was a conflict.”
I remained silent, but I felt his eyes still on me. I didn’t like it.
“Be nice to talk to someone in this class.”
I thought about it. And I really had to think about it hard because I didn’t like strangers and to me everyone was pretty much a stranger. I doodled on the corner of my notebook while he shuffled through his bag beside me.
“I’m Lac,” he said as he placed his laptop on his desk and opened it.
I didn’t say anything and it may have been rude, but silence was my best friend. It kept people out.
Being a prisoner for endless years taught me one important lesson: life wasn’t precious; it was cruel and selfish and people looked for ways to make their lives better by using others. Make themselves happy. Human nature, I guessed. But I wasn’t happy and didn’t pretend to be, nor would I pretend to believe that it would change. I accepted who I’d become and I didn’t regret when a few months ago, I coldly stared at Alexa and pulled the trigger.
I hadn’t once felt remorse for ending her life or the two men she’d hired to kidnap Ream and Kat. And I should have. I killed and I had no emotion over it. I never hesitated or thought twice about it. I merely pulled the trigger, poured gasoline all over the basement and set it on fire.
Olaf thought I died with them. Deck assisted in the investigation of the house fire I started, meaning he knew people who knew people and it was squashed and deemed an accidental fire. And to keep anyone from knowing I survived it, Deck made certain the bodies were unrecognizable. That guy was scary and had too much power.
The thing was, my jagged pieces were beginning to show through, like today in the cafeteria. It was like a paper cut that was merely an annoyance at first, but it was getting infected and I was afraid the pus would ooze out and make me fragile again like I had been in the beginning. I couldn’t let that happen. I’d never let that happen.
And then there was Crisis. He was breaking through. There was a burning spark that contained my smiles, and I felt as if . . . that maybe I could trust him with parts of me. Never the secrets, but the parts of me that lingered from before all the bad.
Dr. Neale said, “Today, heads-up is fifteen minutes. Go.”
I wrote. I’d planned on writing about my run this morning, but my mind took over. The purpose of the exercise; no planning and no thinking about every sentence and just write whatever was sitting on the edge of your mind. No constrictions. And that was why it was so hard for me.
Partway through, I glanced over at Lac when the clicking from his fingers on the keyboard stopped. He must have noticed because he titled his head and looked at me.
I expected him to frown because I’d been rude before, but instead, he cocked a half-grin and nodded to my notebook where my hand was paused over a half-written word. “Looks intense.”
I’d written two pages with messy scribbles lining the page. “Not so much.” Maybe to others it would be, but they were just sporadic ramblings about . . . I looked at my page and started reading, just what we weren’t supposed to do as it was an exercise in freeing the mind from constraints of grammar and rules. But I had rules all my life and now . . . I didn’t have any, so I read what I’d written then stopped. I tore it out of my notebook and crumpled it up.
“That bad, huh?” Lac chuckled and it was a nice sound, kind of soft.
Yeah, it was bad. It had been a rambling about Crisis. How he made me smile, the feeling in my stomach when my phone vibrated, knowing it was probably him texting. The way my heart raced when he showed up today and how he didn’t push me when I’d had a minor glitch and froze.
“Is there a problem, Haven?” Professor Neale asked and students shifted in their seats to peer in the direction he was looking.
I raised my chin a little and clearly said, “No, sir.” I hadn’t realized he even knew my name.
“Heads-up are not to be judged by you or anyone else. Next time, I’d prefer if you didn’t crumple up your work in the middle of the exercise.”
There were a few snickers, but it didn’t bother me. They had no idea what it was like to feel embarrassed or made to feel like nothing but an object.
“Yes, sir.” I met the eyes of the few students who were still lookin
g at me—each one of them turned away first. I put my head down and started writing again until he announced time was up.
I looked at my page and saw Charlie written over and over and over again. My breath hitched and my heart pounded so hard against my chest that it hurt. I quickly closed my notebook, put it in my bag and pulled out my textbook, trying desperately to swallow the lump in my throat that was crawling upwards, ready to break apart the buried memory that brought with it horrific anguish.
Why? Why did that come up now? It was gone—over. Charlie happened years ago. Why didn’t it just go away?
Stop.
I closed my eyes and sang to myself. It took two verses before a wash of cold settled over me. My heart slowed and my hands uncurled from the death grip on my textbook.
I opened my eyes and stared straight ahead, listening to Professor Neale.
Lac remained quiet the rest of the class and it wasn’t until class was over and I was walking out that he tugged on my sleeve outside the door. “Have a good weekend, Haven. Like the name by the way.”
Most people would assume I was named after a sanctuary, a safe haven . . . ironic that there’d been nothing safe in my life. And my mom had named me after Haven Dust—cocaine.
I forced a smile because I’d been a bitch when he’d been nice. It was difficult being around people who were kind, as I searched for a deeper purpose as to why they were kind. I was accustomed to cruel and selfish, and I could handle that. I was prepared.
I wasn’t prepared for nice.
“REAM’S GOING TO kick your ass when he finds out,” Kite said, coming down the stairs, barefoot, towel wrapped around his waist, and another in his hand as he rubbed his wet hair. “I’d load up on painkillers before he gets back tomorrow.”
I shut the fridge with my foot and cracked open my beer. It hissed and fizzed, the foam spilling over the top, soaking my hand and splattering my jeans. I jumped back, holding it away from me as the cold liquid dripped to the ceramic tiles. “The fuck—” I shot my gaze to Kite who half-smirked. “Kite, fuck, man—you ass. What a waste of good beer.” Half the bottle was empty.
Kite stopped drying his hair and tossed his towel over his shoulder. Fucker looked smug as hell with that silver studded brow raised. “Next time, you pick up the groceries, instead of fucking off after a chick you shouldn’t be lusting after.”
“Not lusting.” She did look fuckin’ hot today. But no, it wasn’t lusting; it was way more than that. “We talk.”
Kite huffed. “No, you text and that’s because you want in her pants.”
“It’s different.”
“Yeah, she kneed you in the balls instead of licked them.”
She had, after I jumped off the cliff with her at the cottage. Maybe it was then that I knew it was different with her; well, it was because no chick had ever kneed me in the balls. But the snippets of who she was lay beneath that cold exterior and I liked the snippets—a fuck of a lot. Shit, I liked her cold exterior, too. She was strong yet vulnerable at the same time. What I didn’t like was that I’d never seen her smile, but she could be playful, and that surprised me and solidified that she was different.
“Mind your own fuckin’ business.”
He sighed, shaking his head. “Oh, man, it’s all our business when we need to find a new guitarist because you’re in the ground after Ream finds out you’re getting close with his sister. Especially, when you have this shit happening with some crazy chick you fucked. Seriously, not a cool move.”
“Not my fault I’m so good in bed they can’t forget me.” Kite half-laughed. “And Haven . . . we get along. It’s not sexual.” That was total bullshit. I got hard when she playfully texted with me. That couldn’t be helped. She was beautiful, with stunning gray eyes with a hint of green in them. Then she had this soft, flawless skin and honey blonde hair that hung past her shoulders in waves. Of course, it was sexual, but there was more to it.
“Yeah, tell Ream that,” Kite said.
Kite was the type of guy you never saw coming. Quiet. Subtle. Didn’t say much to strangers, but it wasn’t because he was shy. He had the confidence of a bull. There was something quietly sinister about him. Known him since high school and he’d never done anything to make me think that, except Kite was aloof. He stood and watched. It was like he was getting the play on how to defeat his opponent.
Anyone looking at him would reach the conclusion that the pierced-up, tatted drummer was a rebel with an attitude.
But Kite was a gentleman, polite and kind, at least on the surface, and had one fuck of a good head on his shoulders. Which meant he was probably right. And the asshole had been riding my ass ever since he saw my phone flash Haven. Yeah, well, screw him. I liked talking to Haven, and it may have started out as lust, but now . . . well I wasn’t sure what you’d call it, but I wasn’t giving it up.
“And Logan . . .” Kite adjusted his towel hanging around his hips. “He’s pissed and is going to fire your ass next time you cause a scene like that.”
It was my turn to snort. Like hell I’d be fired. We’d been together since high school and stuck together through some serious fucked-up shit with Logan and his dad. “That chick needed a rude awakening that I’m not fuckin’ interested.” Who the hell let her backstage anyway? “And Logan can’t fire me. Band would be nothing without me. Besides, Emily loves me.”
Kite grabbed bottled water from the fridge then walked toward the stairs. “She loves Logan. You’re an afterthought,” he called over his shoulder.
Afterthought, my ass.
I set the beer on the counter, dried off my hand with the horse print dishtowel, courtesy of Kat, then turned on the stereo in the living room. I cranked the volume and the bass instantly broke the silence and pounded through the house. The floor vibrated under my bare feet like electricity pulsing in my blood stream.
My head bobbed to Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb,” the music coming alive, breathing a potent energy inside me. It was as if I lived in a drab world of grey until music hit and color darted with strings of light through me in every direction.
I strummed on my naked chest, legs braced as the music blared. There was nothing in this world better than music. I’d give up chicks before I gave up music. Besides, music was timeless, chicks weren’t. Who the fuck was I kidding? I’d already given up chicks.
I dropped to my knees as David Gilmour’s guitar solo hit, leaned back, eyes closed, one hand holding the imaginary neck of the guitar while the other strummed the ‘strings’ on my abdomen. Working out had its advantages and my ripped abs were made for playing fake guitar.
I told myself a lot of bullshit.
The music died down to a soft murmur.
Fuckin’ Kite. “What the—” I stopped abruptly when I opened my eyes and saw that it wasn’t Kite. I straightened, sat back on my heels, then smirked.
Haven stood looking at me with raised brows and a subtle smile. Okay, it wasn’t quite a smile, more like a lip twitch. It was something that was better than her usual nothing. And she obviously witnessed my rockin’ display of godliness.
“Pink Floyd,” I said. She didn’t respond and I took great delight in the fact that her eyes flicked, albeit briefly, to my naked chest. “I’ll take you to their concert next time they come to Toronto. And if you’re really nice to me, I’ll even get us backstage.”
“I’ll pass.” She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back against the entertainment wall unit.
I grinned, as this time, her eyes trailed slowly and deliberately down me. I didn’t think of it as anything sexual, although I liked to pretend it was. The first few months I’d known her, Haven looked at everyone like that—it was like a quick assessment.
“So, you have a good afternoon, honey?” I hopped to my feet and strolled toward her. Her back stiffened and her slender shoulders straightened. It pissed me off that she did that. It was like I was going to attack her or something and she braced herself.
Her hard grey eyes n
ever left me. She was confident as hell, but skittish. A snow-white lynx. That was what she reminded me of. Quiet and elusive, agile, with a sleek toned body and soft white skin that I was betting my prized guitar . . . felt like velvet beneath my fingertips. And the attitude, predatory and ready to fight, or if necessary—bolt.
But I’d managed to peel back another side to Haven these past few months. She had an elusive sense of humor, at least in text.
Instead of continuing my approach, I backed off, leaned against the back of the couch a couple feet from her and rested my hands on either side of me. I crossed my ankles because it looked casual and relaxed, despite the thread of energy shifting through me and it wasn’t from the music any longer. It was her.
“Why are you here? Ream said you and Kite wouldn’t be living at the farm anymore.” The strap of her book bag slipped off her shoulder and fell into the crook of her arm. She let it drop to the floor. I heard a loud thonk and was betting my right testicle that it was that gun.
Well, at least it moved from being on her to in her bag. When I’d told Luke, he’d freaked, said she couldn’t have it. I knew legally she couldn’t, but if Luke tried to take it from her, I was betting there’d be a fight, one that didn’t end well for one of them.
Luke conceded to let her keep it, but I also told him none of the guys, his or the band, could know she had it. Part of my deal with her to keep it quiet. Luke agreed with the stipulation that if she ever pointed it at anyone, it was gone.
“Slight exaggeration.” And this was where my charm should have some effect, but Haven’s face was locked up tightly and I was getting to know her well enough that she was shutting down on me.
I thought about our cliff jump at the cottage. She clung to me like a smooth silk blanket; unfortunately, it wasn’t due to my magnetism like I first thought. It was because the girl couldn’t swim. But for a brief moment—I’m talking a lightbulb spark before it burned out—she smiled. Then we reached shore and she kneed me in the balls once we were out of sight of the others, who were still in the water. It wasn’t hard, but any hit to the jewels fuckin’ hurt. She ignored me for the rest of the time at the cottage.