by Aubrey Irons
“Hey, sorry, Andi’s—”
I freeze.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I blink, my jaw on the floor as I look up into the dark-lashed, crystal blue eyes of none other than Dylan Forbes.
He chuckles.
“Sorry, I’ve been using that line on fucking everyone over the last few weeks. It’s not old yet.”
“You’re—” I shake my head. “You’re awake.”
“Back from the dead.” He shrugs and glances past me. “Mind if I come in?”
It occurs to me that even if I really don’t know him that well, aside from in passing back in high school, Dylan might just be the nicest one of the princes. The others would have just shouldered their way in.
Hell, Bastian would have broken the door down.
I move aside as he fills the doorway and steps inside.
God, why are they all so big. It’s like the four tallest, most broad-shouldered boys in South Neck all decided to be best friends.
“I’m- I’m just staying here for a little while.”
I frown, wondering why the hell I feel like I have to validate me being here to Dylan. Maybe it’s because he’s one of the princes of South Neck, which also means his apartment back in New York is probably twice the size of this entire ranch-style house.
“I like this place,” he nods, glancing around at the vintage 70’s furniture, the instruments strewn around the living room, and the framed rock posters tastefully arranged collage-style on the walls.
“You want anything to drink?”
He shakes his head, his hands in the pockets of his hoodie as he turns and lets his eyes settle on me.
“You talked to him yet?”
“Who, Bastian?”
He nods, and I scowl. “Uh, no.”
Dylan nods again, sucking his teeth as he glances over the framed posters. He turns and takes a seat on the worn tobacco-brown leather couch, stretching his long legs out in front of him.
“He’s not returning my calls.”
“You know I hate to be the one to tell you this, but knocking on his front door would have been a lot easier than mine.”
Dylan grins.
“Why didn’t we ever hang out back in high school, Bell?”
“Because you and your friends were sadistic assholes who delighted in lording your power over everyone around you and reveling in your own privilege?”
His brows go up like he’s amused.
“You write that one down ahead of time, or just come up with it?”
“The muse struck me.”
He chuckles, bringing a hand up and raking his fingers over the stubble on his chiseled jaw.
“Sadistic?”
I give a half smile. “Fine, I’ll take that one back.”
“Shit, you barely even gave me the time of day after I asked you out.”
“You mean the ridiculous flowers and the plagiarized Shakespeare poem?”
He grins when suddenly something hits me.
“That have anything to do with the bet?”
His grin turns sour, his hand coming up to scratch his chin again. “There a right answer here?”
“Maybe you should go.” Anger clouds my face as I turn away from him.
“Ana.”
With Dylan, it’s just my name. With Tyler, it’s just my name. And truthfully, with any other man who’s ever uttered my name out loud, it’s just been that: a name.
Only with Bastian was it ever a spell. A drug, a crippling addiction that I craved more of. A magic word that could bring me to my knees and send a knife through my heart.
“Hang on, I didn’t come here to bring up old shit or be an asshole.”
“So why did you come all the way to LA, Dylan?”
His face turns serious as he stands from the couch. “Because I thought you might be the one that could reach him.”
“Well, you thought wrong.”
“Look, Ana,” his eyes narrow, “something happened that night. His birthday I mean.”
“Yeah, you guys got wasted and crashed a car through a guardrail.”
He gives me a dark look.
“It wasn’t Bastian.”
Something about the seriousness on his face makes me pause.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, yeah, we had some drinks, but it was like two.”
“There’s a reason the legal limit is one,” I snap.
“You’ve met Bastian, right?” Dylan frowns at me, shaking his head. “He wasn’t drunk, Ana, it was something else. We had one fucking beer at Brent’s house, and then he insisted on toasting the birthday boy with some halfway decent scotch he’d picked up.”
“Dylan,” I shake my head. “I’m not the one to talk to about whatever happened that night, okay? Look, I’m glad you’re awake and alive, and all of that, but I’m done with South Neck, and I’m done with—”
“I think we were drugged, Ana.”
I freeze, blinking.
“What?”
“Something was fucking off in that scotch, I’m telling you.” Dylan’s face is drawn and lined. “Didn’t taste right, and we were wasted the second we finished it. Shit, I barely remember getting to the car.”
His eyes burn fiercely as he looks right into mine.
“Listen to what I’m saying,” he says tightly. “Bastian and I were drugged that night, and I’m one hundred percent sure it was Brent fucking Carmichael who did it.” He gives me a hard look. “The same Brent who’s pulling every single one of Bastian’s strings right now, Ana.”
“Go to the police, Dylan.” I shake my head. “Look if this is real, I’m sorry this happened to you, but I have no interest in helping him.”
Dylan nods. “He’s a bastard, this we agree on.”
I don’t answer.
“He’s obsessed with you, you know,” he says quietly. “Always has been. He’d fucking kill me if he knew I said that so maybe keep that to yourself.”
“Obsession isn’t healthy.”
“Nothing much about that guy is healthy.” Dylan shrugs. “You take Bastian how he is. He’s a little bit broken, he’s a little bit fucked up, and he’s a little bit of an asshole.”
I raise a sharp brow and he grins.
“Okay, a lot of an asshole.”
“And a psychopath.”
Dylan shrugs. “Eh, maybe. Just a tiny one though.”
The door to the basement bangs open suddenly, and Andi comes to a stuttering stop. Her eyes narrow, and before I know it, the electric guitar around her neck is in her hand, brandished like an ax.
“Is this him?” she hisses, advancing on Dylan. “This the asshole?”
“Andi—”
“Friend of the asshole, actually,” Dylan says smoothly, unmoving and only grinning at the pint-sized punk chick with pink and silver hair menacing him with a neon blue guitar.
Andi makes a face at him, though she lowers the instrument. “Guilty by association. Get the fuck out.”
“I like your hair.”
“Out.”
“Now, is that natural?”
Andi rolls her eyes. “Seriously dude?”
“I’m just curious if the color appears anywhere else on you.”
Dylan’s grin curls wickedly. Andi’s brows arch sharply.
“Oh, you’re one of those guys.”
“Inquisitive?”
“Sleazy.”
“I prefer the term charming.”
Andi’s face goes a shade that resembles her hair as her eyes dart over Dylan Forbes’ handsome, arrogantly smirking face.
“You know, I’ve got an idea.” He grins as he pushes his fingers through his hair. “You and me, dinner tonight? Maybe some drinks?”
Andi rolls her eyes. “Maybe no?”
“Maybe I show you the killer view from my penthouse hotel suite while you sit on my face?”
Andi’s eyes dart to me.
“Is he for fucking real?”
I shrug. “Unfortunately, probably.”
She turns her gaze back to Dylan, her eyes narrowing.
“I’ve got a better idea. How about you get the fuck out of my house and get your dick mangled up in a bike chain?”
“Honestly, I’m leaning more toward my idea.”
“Out.”
“Look, we can skip the dinner and drinks part if you want to just skip to the view—”
“Andi I’ve got this,” I say quickly, stepping forward as I see my friend’s hand clench around the neck of her guitar like she’s considering murder.
“Go practice. Dylan’s leaving, I promise.”
She glares at him, her face flushed as she points a finger up at his face.
“I don’t like you.”
“Call me?”
“Fuck off, douchebag.”
The basement door slams shut. Moments later, a particularly raucous song blasts through the floorboards.
“I like her.”
I roll my eyes at Dylan. “You’re going to get me kicked out of my living situation.”
“Nah, give me one date with that—”
“Dylan.”
His smile fades as he turns and sees the serious look on my face. He meets my eyes with an unblinking look.
“Look, Ana, Bastian needs to know about this. He needs to know before—”
“Dylan.”
He stops as my voice cuts through the room.
“I am glad you’re okay.” I slowly shake my head. “But I am done with this. Bastian made plenty of his own beds. He can fucking sleep in one of them for once. I’m done with anything to do with South Neck, okay? I was done with it nine freaking years ago and, nothing has changed my mind about that since.”
He frowns. “Yeah, you took off after graduation pretty fast. But c’mon, Ana, it wasn’t that bad.”
I stare at him. “Are you kidding me?”
“Look, Bastian was an asshole, and you weren’t the most popular chick in school, but it’s not like you had it that—”
“I know you’ve seen the fucking pictures, okay?” I hiss, my face bright red with mortification. “Are you seriously surprised that I up and left after all that?”
He frowns, giving me a confused look.
“What pictures?”
“Dylan.” I look away, my face heated in embarrassment. For years, I imagined the four of them - probably more - cackling away at the pictures Bastian snapped that night.
Stupid, inexperienced, naive, drunk, naked Anastasia Bell, for all the world to see. Courtesy of Sebastian fucking Crown.
“Look, it was a long time ago, and I’m over it, but you don’t need to lie about—”
“Ana I have no fucking idea what pictures you’re talking about.”
I look up, sighing. “Bastian’s graduation party, Dylan. Ring a bell?”
He grins, and I start to whirl away from him when he chuckles.
“Shit, you mean the party where he got blackout drunk and fell asleep alone on his boat like an idiot and missed the whole thing?”
I freeze, swallowing thickly before I turn back to him.
“What?”
“Bastian’s graduation party.” He shrugs. “Shit, we haven’t stopped riding his ass about that in almost ten years. The guy blacked out at his own party while the rest of us cleaned up when it came to last-chance fuck—” He stops, clearing his throat. “I mean, you know, he missed the party.”
He gives me a funny look.
“What pictures are you talking about?”
6 Months Ago:
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…”
The song fades in and out, lights flashing, blackness clawing at everything. I try to move, I try to open my eyes, but it’s like I’m trying to run a marathon twenty feet underwater - everything coming in slowed, dragged-down apathy.
And then there’s the pain, and the pain is everything.
It’s consuming, and in every single fucking part of my body, all at once. I hurt in places you don’t even think about, like the tip of your nose, the inside of my left elbow. My insides - places where I vaguely think my kidneys live. Or maybe spleen.
It doesn’t matter because right now, it’s all just agony. Right now, I want to be literally anywhere but here, inside this body.
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…”
It’s my birthday.
I force my eyes open, and I want to scream at the pain, but I can’t because something’s blocking my throat.
A tube.
The cold feeling is like death itself, clawing at me and trying to drag me under. But it’s the cold, frozen certainty that I’m paralyzed that has my hands yanking up against the pain.
Not paralyzed.
Just really, really fucked up.
I choke, clawing at the tube. Alarm bells blare next to me, there’s a sudden commotion, and faces I don’t know are leaning over me. Hands push me down, a big guy presses on my chest with a beefy arm, and I’m screaming and sputtering as loud as I can as the tube is pulled from my throat, one agonizing inch at a time.
I blink, my head swimming and my vision going in and out.
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…”
“It’s my birthday,” I mumble, to no one.
Well, it’s more like, “iiiffs muh birrfdaay.”
The big guy in ignores me, still holding me down as he shines a light into my fucking eyes.
It comes back in flashes then. There was a toast, I think. Maybe more. Brent was there, someone else. We had some drinks. I don’t know how many.
But it’s before that that seems clearer. Before that, it’s the email from the private investigator I hired in LA to make sure Chris held to his side of the deal. There’s been no sign of him, though I already know that since I’ve got another one watching him in his new life in New Hampshire.
But then, it was never really Chris I was interested in, now was it.
It’s the picture though that did it. Somewhat grainy, shot through a telephoto lens. Shots of her at work at her part-time barista gig or coming out of a show. Sitting alone at her kitchen table - a new one, in a new apartment - alone, and sad. And thin. She looked too thin.
I remember the phone call I made before I stepped in for the toast, where I fired the guy in LA, told him to bill me and never watch her again.
Enough.
Enough, is enough, is enough. My obsession has become a sickness. For a long time, I told myself I was doing this to make sure no one as fucked up as me got to her. I told myself I was doing this for her. I told myself they never deserved her in the first place if they took the money to walk away - that I was helping her. Like doing this atoned for being truly awful to her for pretty much the entire time she lived next to me.
But this has become a fucking cancer, and eventually, it’s going to kill me. Because eventually, I’m going to watch her break one time too many. One day, she won’t bounce back. One day, it won’t be about keeping the “guys like me” away from her, it’ll just be her heart breaking one time too many, and going dark forever.
And that really will kill me.
So that’s what I remember. Closing the chapter, something breaking inside, and stepping into Brent Carmichael’s place for a toast. Fuck if I remember what we were toasting to, but I sure as hell hope it’s not me.
I don’t know where I am.
“Where the fuck am I!” I scream, my throat on fucking fire and the tears stinging my eyes as the hellish pain from earlier comes swimming over me.
“Mr. Crown, I need you to stay calm.”
My eyes dart feverishly, looking for the voice until I spot the guy with silver hair and a mustache standing on the other side of where I’m lying.
“Happy BIRTH-day dear Jonathan, happy birthday to you!”
“That’s not my name,” I mumble, my lips like fucking Jello.
“What’s that, Mr. Crown?”
I look back up at the silver musta
che dude, and then past him to the family gathered around a white bed on the other side of the room. They’re holding balloons, and a kid with a cast on his arm is blowing out candles on a cake.
“It’s my birthday.”
Silver mustache glances quickly at the big guy and then back to me.
“Mr. Crown, do you know where you are?”
And I suddenly do, I just wish I didn’t.
I’m in a hospital.
I was at Brent’s. I had some drinks. I got in a car—
I freeze, my face going numb as I look back to him.
I got into a car with Dylan.
And suddenly, the replay hits - the roar of the engine, the fucking Justin Timberlake song playing on the Ferrari’s speakers, the metal smashing through the windshield out of nowhere.
The weightlessness before the fall.
The long drop.
The rush of water drowning my screams, and the realization when I turn to my right that I’m the only one still in the car.
The scream catches in my throat as I roar at the world and God and life itself. And then they tell me, about Dylan, and this time, it’s an agony worse than the pain in my body and the fire in my right leg.
I’m still screaming as they give me a shot of something, but by the time the cops show up, I’m numb.
Present:
I sit on the floor, knees bent with my arms resting on them as I watch another petal fall.
The last of my mother’s roses are dying. The hydroponics system isn’t working, or maybe the dirt I planted them in sucks, or it might be that I got ripped off with that three thousand dollar a bag crushed-fossil fertilizer shit from Paris.
Or maybe at the end of the day, she was right: maybe I don’t know shit about gardening.
I don’t know how to make things grow at all, apparently. In fact, there’s a good chance I’ve got the opposite effect on things - whatever I touch withers and fucking dies, like some sort of shitty version of a Midas touch.
I can see that pretty clearly now. There are a lot of things I can see clearly now actually.
Another petal falls, and it’s almost like I can see the stems darkening and the flowers turning grey before my eyes.
I’ve called her about one bazillion times. Fuck my pride, or whatever that stick up my ass is that I call pride. I’ve called again, and again, and again, like a fucking punch line to a sad, pathetic joke. Like everything I always said I’d never be.