Poison Me Sweetly (Long Beach Series Book 1)

by Dani Matthews

  A feminine voice calls Ace’s name, and he releases me as a redhead flings herself at him.

  I smirk to myself as I ignore them and keep walking towards the quad, leaving Ace behind to deal with her. The women on campus will never learn. Ace is just as bad as I am. He'll sleep with someone once, maybe twice if she's lucky, and then they are forever marked off his 'to-do' list. It's entertaining to me how many women think they can change Ace's mind, and be the 'one' that'll keep his attention longer than just a few quick nights of passion. They're fooling themselves. I think the only one he's ever gone back to more than twice is Bev, but that's because she's a part of the guys' extended group of friends. Plus, Bev knows the deal, and she can handle it. She's not dumb enough to fall for Ace.

  I'm almost to the heart of the campus when Ace catches up to me. The quad is crowded, and I spot our usual group sitting on the grass by a tree. I glance at Ace with amusement. “Jeremy said you were slummin' last night.”

  Ace looks at me questioningly. “Slumming?”

  “Said you didn't have the usual type over.”

  “Ah,” Ace says as a wicked smile curves his lips. “I wouldn't call her slumming. She was actually pretty hot.”

  I shake my head and walk across the grass, moving closer to the group lounging near the tree. “Someday, you're going to fall for the kind of girl that you wouldn't be caught dead going near,” I tease.

  My amusement fades as I spy Caleb with the group. It takes me a quick second to drink in the sight of him. He's laughing at something Dillon is saying, and he looks relaxed. It's hard to take him in, all those long lean lines of his body, that gorgeous face with those strong cheek bones and those sexy eyes, and it doesn’t help that I know what lies beneath those clothes. I shut down my perusal and keep my face relaxed and bored as we walk up.

  Jake, the most annoying out of the group, is lounging on the grass shirtless. His expression stating that he thinks he’s hot, and he's enjoying flaunting it. Jeremy looks up and smiles easily at us. “Hey,” he greets.

  I sit down next to him. “Hey.”

  “Hey, Zoey. I got some cuffs back at my place if you wanna try them out. I'll even toss in some whip cream,” Jake calls out to me.

  Without glancing at him, I lift my hand and flip him off. Ace and his big fucking mouth.

  “Here.” A paper bag is tossed in my lap as Ace sinks down in the grass near me.

  I sigh and look down at the bag in my lap without opening it. I know whatever is in it is going to be a joke. Ace doesn't buy anything for me unless it's a gag gift.

  Bev snickers as she tucks a lock of black hair behind her ear, her hazel eyes amused. “I can guess what's in the bag.”

  “Me too,” I say dryly as I open the bag and pull out the brand new pair of fuzzy, pink handcuffs. I roll my eyes at Ace. “Really? That's the best you could come up with?”

  Mischief flickers in his gaze as he says, “I gave the key to Caleb. Just in case.”

  That has my eyes automatically shifting to Caleb. His eyes connect with mine, and his lips curve up in a lazy smile. Without a word, he pulls a small key out of his pocket and tosses it at me. I instinctively catch it, slipping the key in the bag before bundling it up and tossing it at him. He catches it and quirks an eyebrow at me. I smile sweetly. “I'm not the one who was willingly cuffed to a bed. You can have them for the next time you feel like being the submissive.”

  Instead of being irritated, a smoldering grin spreads across his face. “I'll keep them close for the next time you're hammered.”

  My eyebrows arch. “Confident much?” I'm aware of the others watching our banter.

  “It's only a matter of time before we're back where we were yesterday. I don't plan on being the one wearing the cuffs, though,” he drawls, his voice sounding like warm honey.

  The way he says it has my gut tightening and heat spreading down south. How can this guy have such an effect on me? I open my mouth to snap a retort when my phone starts to vibrate in my pocket. The second I see Grendel's number, I grab my backpack and rise to my feet without a word to the others. I sling the bag over my shoulder and walk away. “Hello?”

  “Zoey, it's Duff,” says the manager of Grendel's. “We're shorthanded tonight, think you could pull an extra shift this week?”

  “Sure. Oh—wait, I can't. I have a lecture tonight on campus to attend. I'm sorry, Duff.”

  “Nah, don't worry about it. See you Wednesday.”

  I disconnect the call and tuck my phone in my pocket. I decide I'd rather not go back to the group, so instead, I make my way towards Lot 11B where I'd parked today. As I walk towards my car, my eyes land on the license plate. POISONU. There's no fighting back the smile stretching across my lips as I unlock the car. I'd changed my license plate six months ago on a whim. The guys have playfully nicknamed me ‘Poison’ after a huge blow out I'd had with Ace last year. Ace had told me then that I had a viper's tongue, and verbal poison spews from my mouth when I'm angry. Next thing I know, they're joking around and saying, “Oh, here comes Poison!” when I get riled up and pissed at one of them.

  My head shakes as I climb in the driver's seat of the sports car. They know me too well to take my shit seriously anymore. Ace, Jeremy, and AJ are so used to my moody antics that sometimes it scares me how well they've gotten to know me. Since my thoughts are drifting in a dangerous direction, I shut them down abruptly.

  I start the car up and carefully back the Camaro out of the parking space and out of the parking lot. As I drive the short distance back to the apartment complex, my thoughts shift to Caleb. Dang that man and his accent. It turns me on and that irks me. The man is bad news. He's too laid back, too...easy to want to be with. Nothing much seems to faze him unless he's about to piss himself.

  I can't help but laugh softly as I flick on my blinker to turn into the parking lot at the complex. I will never forget the other morning, that's for sure. His suggestive comment about handcuffing me comes back to me, and I shake my head as I turn off the ignition after parking the car. “In your dreams,” I mutter. The day I give up control will be the day pigs fly.

  I make my way inside the large building, and as I walk to my apartment door, I decide I'm in need of a good run. I can feel the tension beginning to develop in my shoulders. Not surprising. I have my highs and lows. This weekend hadn't been too bad—even with the handcuff fiasco—and after this morning's playful antics with Jeremy, I knew the pleasant high would fade and something much darker would begin to set in eventually.

  Running will help. It’ll relax my mind as I listen to my iPod while pushing my body to its limit. As soon as I open the apartment door and step inside, the hollowness of it assaults me, causing my body to tense and my breath to hitch. It's impossible to fight the thoughts and emotions that crash into me as I stare at the emptiness of the room before me.

  A broken laugh escapes me as I lean against the now closed door behind my back. During the day, I take courses at the university so I can get a BA in Fine Arts to become an interior designer. It's a life I've always wanted.

  Now it's meaningless.

  My eyes close as my head weakly falls back against the door, and I am unable to control the direction my thoughts are taking me. Decorating has always been a beloved hobby. I'd redecorated my bedroom every six months back in high school because my tastes had changed constantly. When I was sixteen, my mom decided it was time to redecorate our living room. She'd handed over the reins of control to me, trusting me implicitly to come up with a new room décor that the entire family would love. That led me to redecorating the entire house. My parents had supported my dream of interior decorating—still do—since they are paying for me to attend CSULB.

  Tears clog my throat, and I angrily wipe at them before opening my eyes. But the second they land on the bareness of the apartment, I feel bitterness washing over me. This place should be filled with Micah's things, like his posters, his car magazines, and his dragon statues he'd liked to collect. I should be trip
ping over his shoes when I walk in the door, or be yelling at him for having friends over when I want peace and quiet so I can study. He should be here like we'd planned. We both should be attending CSULB.

  Instead, I am here all alone.

  Everyone's abandoned me.

  Micah.

  My parents.

  “No!” I cry out fiercely as I shove off the door and hurry towards my bedroom. I struggle to push everything I'm feeling aside. I need to turn it off. I can't let it in. I have the lecture at the Design Department Gallery to attend tonight.

  I can't break down.

  Not now.

  I'll be fine. I just need to run for a while. My clothes are hastily stripped off, and I quickly yank on a sports bra and running shorts. I sit briefly on the bed, which is still slanted a bit crookedly thanks to Jeremy, and slip on socks and running shoes. I rise to my feet, pull my hair up into a haphazard ponytail, grab my iPod, and hurry down the hall. I'm anxious to escape the apartment and the memories that want to assault me.

  I stop in my tracks as I enter the living room. My brother—my dead twin brother—is sitting on the couch, his brown eyes that are so like my own are staring back at me with a solemnness that makes my heart ache. It clenches so painfully that I'm surprised I'm not being gripped by a heart attack or stroke. He stares at me, his eyes watching my every move.

  I can't breathe.

  I stare at him. Not moving. Chest not rising. I'm still as a statue as my eyes take him in almost desperately. He looks exactly the same as I remember. He hasn't aged a bit, forever and always seventeen in my mind. His dark brown hair is slightly on the long side, and I've always loved how it curls over his ears, giving him an adorably scruffy look that the girls in school hadn't been able to resist.

  My eyes drift to his clothes. He's still wearing the same exact pair of jeans and the white polo that he'd worn...that night. Only it’s bright white, not soaked red from his blood. He always looks this way when he appears to me. He looks whole and healthy. He's my brother, but I can't touch him or hug him. I can't beg him to come back to me. I can't change a damn thing. All I can do is suffer this life I live...without him.

  “Breathe, Zoey,” he tells me softly, his eyes cloudy now as he watches my mental struggle. I hadn't realized my lungs were screaming for oxygen. I draw in a deep breath, only to choke on a sob that escapes the same time I try to pull in air. Micah's face twists with pain. “I know you miss me. I miss you, too. So much. You have no idea, Zoey. But you can't do this to yourself anymore,” he says as he looks around the bare apartment, disappointment evident on his face.

  My arms wrap around my waist, and I am crumbling in on myself. “Go away,” I whisper thickly as a single tear makes a lonely path down my cheek. It's not really Micah, I tell myself. He's not really here. He's just a figment of my imagination that my mind has conjured up to torture me. I wish it had been me that died in the accident. It should be Micah living in this apartment.

  Micah slowly rises from the couch, his solemn eyes holding mine.

  Even though he's not real, I still scramble backwards. I move so fast that I trip over my own feet and fall backwards on my butt, my eyes wide and tortured as I stare up at him. I'd give anything to throw myself at him, to feel his arms around me one more time. I miss his bear hugs, and the way he'd always yank on the tip of my ponytail affectionately. The last time I'd tried to touch him, only to feel the empty, unforgiving space of thin air, I'd lost it for two days. Two days of suffering, of refusing to leave the apartment no matter how much the guys had tried to coax me out of my dark mood.

  Micah squats down before me, careful not to get too close. “You need to live for both of us. Quit trying to dig your own grave,” he tells me in a heavy voice.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” I ask brokenly as I gaze up at him. I'm not really talking to him though, the question is directed at my subconscious.

  Micah answers me. “Someone has to. You keep yourself closed off to everyone. You avoid mom and dad's calls—”

  “Shut up!” I shriek, covering my ears as I feel my sanity slipping. He's not here. He's not Micah. This isn't real. I can't sit here and have a conversation with the ghost of my brother that I can't seem to let go. I'm slowly and surely going insane.

  I scramble to my feet and rush into the bathroom where I slam the door shut, locking it for good measure. I stare wildly at it for a long second, half expecting him to walk through it. When he doesn't, I spin around and yank back the shower curtain. With a flick of my wrist, I turn on the water and start the shower. I step into the spray—still fully clothed. I sit down in the tub, drawing my knees up to my chest as my head drops forward to rest on them in defeat. Icy cold water soaks into my skin, seeping into my bones. I sob brokenly while trying to drag myself out of this insane episode I am having.

  I'm starting to see him more and more. I'm scared to death that I really am losing my mind. How long do I have before I lose it completely? Will I be trapped in my mind forever? Will I get what I want—my brother back—even if it's only in my imagination while my body lies unresponsive in a psych ward? I've known for a while now that my despair will be my ultimate destruction.

  Chapter Three

  By the time Wednesday rolls around, I've managed to drag myself out of my funk. Mostly. It's still there, the image of Micah sitting on the couch—it taunts me. Thankfully, I've managed to pull myself out of the dredges of my darkness all on my own without anyone knowing about it. I'd avoided everyone yesterday and claimed to be super busy if anyone text messaged me.

  One of these days, Ace, Jeremy, or AJ will go too far, crossing the boundaries that I've set. I fear that day. The last few times I've lost it and given myself up to the darkness that haunts me, they've been right beside me, eyes grim, jaws clenched as they fight back the urge to say something that might make me bolt. And they know I will, too. I don't want them to care about me. When people care, they do stupid stuff. Like Micah. He's gone because he loved me.

  I don't want love from anyone. I don't want to be held accountable for their actions. I don't want to be the reason that they do something so drastic that it can never be taken back. I don't want to love them, either. Loving means losing. Being abandoned. Because they always leave. Either in death, or they abandon you when you need them the most. Either way you look at it, love hurts.

  The minute things go too far with the guys, I'll be gone. I'll run as if the hounds of Hell are on my heels. I made this perfectly clear to them last year when Ace had gotten under my skin, pressing for answers to questions he had no business asking. I'd evaded him for a full month. After that, the boundary I keep them at became pretty clear, and they've been careful ever since. I don't know why they stick around. It's not as if they are getting anything out of our 'non-friendship.' I'm not a deep conversationalist. I don't do sweet things for them. Hell, I tend to bitch and moan at them, always ready to take them down a peg because it's fun. I suppose Jeremy's getting a little extra out of the deal since we have a bit of 'friends with benefits' going. Jeremy's not as bad as Ace, but he certainly gets around, so I know I'm not the only one he sleeps with. That’s why I continue to sleep with him once in a while. I know he won’t grow attached.

  The thing is, they shouldn't put up with me and my shit. The fact that they do, tells me something is going to have to change sooner or later.

  “You have two more tables,” Brandi tells me as she walks past, pulling me out of my dark thoughts.

  I nod, making my way through the restaurant until I approach my assigned section for the evening. I've only been working for about thirty minutes since my last class of the day ended at three-fifteen. It's now going on four. Pretty soon the restaurant will be crowded, and I'll be running around with nothing but orders swirling around in my mind. I'm looking forward to it.

  A couple my age sits in one of the earlier booths that had been available, and they seem to know exactly what they want. I quickly jot down what they’d like and disappear to th
e kitchen to place the order with our cook. I fill their drink orders and make sure they are content before moving on to the booth around the corner.

  I can't help but do a double-take when I see who's sitting in the booth. It's Caleb, and across from him sits a young girl, probably no more than eleven-years-old. The girl is unexpected because last I knew, Caleb doesn’t have family on the West Coast. So how does he know her?

  Caleb seems just as surprised as his eyes flicker over me, drifting over my name tag briefly before his face shifts into a warm grin. “Zoey, I didn't know you work here,” he says in his lightly accented voice.

  The sound of it goes straight to my southern region, and I mentally curse myself. What is it with men with accents? I smile politely. “It's not something I announce, and it's never been brought up.” I glance at the menus that Brandi had already placed before them, and look at them both, not wanting to exclude the young girl. “Do you need some time to decide what you would like?”

  The girl looks up, and as her sad brown eyes lock on mine, I feel my chest tightening in reaction. She's too young to be carrying the weight of the world in those big light brown eyes. There's a hint of uncertainty about her, and I quickly take in her mid-back dark brown hair, and her scrawny, pre-pubescent body. Her clothes look well-worn, and the way her shoulders hunch betrays she's uncomfortable. Is it Caleb that makes her feel that way or the atmosphere?

  “What would you like, Micaela?” Caleb asks, his tone deliberately light but full of warm affection.

  The girl—Micaela—blinks and drops her gaze as she stares at the menu, her teeth chewing her bottom lip. “Um. Whatever you're having,” she says quietly.

  I watch Caleb hide a frown. He seems to hesitate, as if he's not sure if he should order for her or pry to find out what she likes. It's obvious he cares about this young girl, and it's very clear she's gone through something traumatic. Something that's making her insecure and timid. I hate it when people push, so I act without thinking.