by Sara Ney
I like my privacy; I want my privacy.
I want Kyle gone.
I want my bed and to be in it by myself.
“Kyle is sleeping peacefully. There’s no reason for me to stay. Are you sure you don’t want me to leave?”
“Only if you want to; there’s no rush.”
“Where are your roommates?”
“No idea. Probably with Jameson.” Mental groan.
“Who’s Jameson?”
“The nerdy girl my roommate is dating.” Then I hear myself add, “If you don’t want water I can make you some hot chocolate or something. It’s motherfucking cold out.”
Shut up Zeke. For fuck’s sake, shut up.
Violet smiles shyly, tripping up on her speech. “S-Sure, I can do a quick hot cocoa. That sounds toasty and delicious.”
Toasty.
I have a girl in my house that says shit like sounds toasty.
Wonderful.
She lingers in the doorway of the kitchen while I open cabinet after cabinet, scavenging for hot chocolate mix. Crap, do we even have it? I’m positive I’ve seen Jameson drinking it every once in a while, especially when it gets cold out, because she’s always getting fucking cold. I’m positive she has some here somewhere—that froofy shaved chocolate shit from Williams Sonoma, not the grocery store kind like normal human people buy.
The good, fancy shit.
I jerk open the lower cabinets, then the top. The cubby above the fridge and microwave, not really questioning why I’m so hell bent on locating it.
Finally, peering into the very last cabinet along the wall, I find what I’m looking for: a red and white peppermint-striped canister of hot cocoa, specifically, shaved chocolate. Fucking handcrafted, it says on the metal container.
Directly next to it? A bag of square, vanilla handcrafted marshmallows—ooh la la. I grab those too.
Mug. Chocolate. Mallows.
Jackpot.
“You want regular milk, vanilla soy, or almond?” I ask over my shoulder, yanking open the fridge and bending at the waist to peer inside.
“You have all three?” She sounds surprised.
I glance over my shoulder.
“This is a house of athletes.” I grunt. “We like variety and anything with protein in it.
She shoots me a shy smile. “Well in that case, I think I’ll go with the soy.”
“We have that ’cause Elliot is lactose intolerant.” I root around, shifting shit around to free the carton of soy. “So we always have it.”
“Oh! I don’t want to use Elliot’s stuff.”
“Chill out, it’s fine.”
I don’t mention that I’m the one doing all the grocery shopping, or that my roommates almost never pay me back for food, so technically, it’s all my mine.
“Okay, if you’re sure he isn’t going to get upset, then I trust you.”
I trust you.
Those three words have me standing there holding the milk, staring at her, weighing the words but just fucking staring at her like a moron because she said she trusts me.
Obviously she doesn’t mean it in a deeper sense—it’s fucking soy milk—but no one has ever said those words to me before.
Violet doesn’t even know me. I doubt she even likes me—no one does. I’m not nice, and I’m not an idiot; I know what they say about me behind my back and the way girls look at me. They’ll fuck me because of my body and because I’m a wrestler for Iowa, but that’s where the desire ends.
My friends put up with my shit because they have to; I own the house they live in and I’m on their wrestling team. They’re stuck with me until we graduate or I get kicked off the team because of my shitty attitude.
Sucks to be them, I guess.
Violet’s large trusting gaze meets mine as I take her measure, still holding the milk. Her black leggings hug her slender thighs. Her black long-sleeved t-shirt is tight and pulls across her small chest. I can see the outline of a bra beneath the thin fabric, but continue traveling up her torso. Her long slender neck is checkered with red splotches.
Her blonde hair is a wild, sexy mess.
She isn’t hating me right now; I can see it in her eyes.
I trust you.
I twist the top off the milk and pour the mug full, muttering “Fuck,” when some spills over the side.
Her laugh is sweet. “Want help with anything?”
“I got it. You relax.” What. The. Fuck. Am. I. Saying.
Robotically, I set the mug inside the microwave, hit the quick minute button twice. We stand there in an awkward silence for one hundred twenty seconds, the countdown on the clock taking a fucking eternity.
Thirty more seconds.
Twenty.
Eighteen.
“Thanks for the hot chocolate,” Violet says when the microwave beeps and I yank the door open. Take the mug out, set it on the counter, and pull the top of the peppermint-striped canister.
I dig a spoon in and add three heaping scoops, hoping she likes her shit extra chocolatey. Stir it rapid fire, toss in a handful of marshmallows, and hand it to her.
“Thanks,” she says again, sipping the white froth off the top. “Mmm, this is delicious.”
I watch her tongue dart out and lick the melted chocolate off the lip of the cup, then the melted mallow. Watch to see if any of it clings to her top lip, wanting desperately to see her pink tongue dart out again.
Desperately?
Shit, I need to get laid. Or at least a blow job.
I’ll definitely be jerking off later.
“Mind if I have a beer?” I ask, going back to the fridge, hand halting mid-reach for an amber ale. “Oh shit, that’s right—I probably shouldn’t have a beer because I have a kid in the house, should I?”
“Probably not a good idea.”
I twist the top of a water bottle instead, leaning my hip against the kitchen counter as she takes a seat at the table.
“So,” I begin. “What’s with you doing shit for little kids all the time?”
Her light brown brows go up. “What do you mean?”
The cynical part of me—the part that appears most often—chuckles.
“Come on Violet, what’s with you always doing shit for little kids? You know, babysitting and taking them to parks and being so patient. Was your childhood like, the goddamn Brady Bunch so you want everything to be magic and unicorns shitting rainbow dust all the time? I bet the Tooth Fairy came to your house, and all that other made-up bullshit.” I pause to take a chug of water. “Did your parents kiss your blonde little ass growing up? Bet you never got into trouble.”
She stretches out the silence, letting it grow heavy in my tiny green kitchen, expression going from shy and delighted to pensive and reflective.
“No actually, it was nothing like that at all.”
I snort. “Yeah right.”
“I wish it had been but…” A small shrug. “My parents are gone.”
“Gone? What do you mean gone? Like on vacation?” It isn’t an unreasonable question; that’s where my parents are—gone.
Violet shots me a peculiar look. “No. Gone.” Her voice is quiet, her features impassive. “They’re dead. They died.”
Well…
Shit.
“When?”
“A long time ago. I was young. Four years old.”
The halo of white blonde hair suddenly makes her look incredibly vulnerable now that I know yet another personal thing about her, something I didn’t necessarily care to find out, but…
Too late now.
Violet plays with the handle of her mug, running a finger up and down the polished white ceramic. Two hearts are painted on the mug with the initials J and S—two smudged, shitty-looking hearts my roommate Ozzy painted at one of those lame pottery painting places. Jameson made one, too, so it would be a matching set.
Puke.
“Anyway,” Violet is saying. “It was a l-long time ago and hardly matters anymore. I’ve managed to move on.”
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“So, is that why you’re always so quiet? Why you’re so timid and shit?”
“Am I quiet? I hadn’t realized.”
My yes is vehement and curt.
She considers the question. “I suppose I am. I guess I haven’t thought about it that way, but it probably stems from losing my parents so young. M-My…” She inhales, taking a deep breath to steady her speech. “I wasn’t raised by family, but my cousin says my stutter started after they died.”
She lifts a hand from the mug, swiping it through her long hair, her lips tipping up. The bangles circling her wrists jingle. “Not to bore you with details, but I withdrew into myself for a few years. I was that lonely little girl waiting day in and day out for them to come back.”
Round hazel eyes lift to meet mine and we regard each other.
It occurs to me then that maybe we have something in common, and I can’t remember the last time I made any parallels between someone else’s personal history and mine. Can’t remember the last time I connected with someone who had it worse growing up.
“Sorry to hear that.” And I am; even though my parents aren’t dead, I was a lonely little boy who spent most of his childhood waiting day in and day out for them to come back.
The mug of hot chocolate is suspended at her lips, the steam from the warm milk rising, and she blows on it before taking a sip. “Anyway. The Tooth Fairy made very few appearances when I was little. Magic and unicorns, on the other hand? Totally a thing.”
Man she’s fucking cute.
“I think you’re trouble.”
Her eyes gleam behind the cup. “Thank you.”
“Thank you—for coming to rescue me.”
She casts her gaze down to the tabletop. “I hardly think you need rescuing, Zeke.”
My laugh is humorless. “You’d be surprised.”
Violet shifts in her chair. “I bet you’re full of surprises.”
I shift on the balls of my feet. “Are you being coy with me?”
She’s spared from a reply when the front door swings open, followed by a chorus of loud voices filling the entry hall of the house, signaling the return of two roommates, and one Jameson Clark.
Oz, Elliot, and James are laughing hysterically.
Elliot gasping for breath at something Oz just said, probably something perverted.
I lean to the right, staring out the kitchen to glimpse James brushing the cold from her sleeves. Removing her hat and mittens, shoving them both in her pockets. Peeling off her Thinsulate puffy coat and hanging it on a hook by the door.
That chick is always freezing cold; I know for fact it was her that cranked the thermostat instead of adding more blankets to her boyfriend’s bed, as if sixty-five degrees isn’t warm enough.
“…and then he looks up from the ground, right, and this girl is just staring down at him. And I yell, Hey Gunderson, why don’t you—”
Sebastian Osborne’s gruff voice comes to an abrupt halt when they round the corner, the entire trio stumbling into the doorway of the kitchen.
Three sets of round eyes, wide with shock.
“Holy shit.” Oz laughs. “Are we in the right house?”
It’s not every day I bring a girl home, but when I do, it’s not to sit around making small talk, it’s to screw. Also, it’s certainly not usually a sweet, naive-looking girl wearing all her clothes and sipping a mug of hot chocolate.
Violet has chocolate and mallow on her upper lip.
Her blonde hair and rosy cheeks and pale skin are perfection.
She sets the mug on the table, runs a hand down her silky hair, flattening the errant strands nervously, and stands.
“Hi. You must be Zeke’s roommates?”
“Unfortunately,” I mutter under my breath.
“Yes. Hi!” Jameson pushes through the guys, shiny black ballet flats tapping against the wooden floor. She unwinds her gray scarf and extends her hand. “I’m Jameson. I don’t actually live here, I’m Oz’s girlfriend.”
She throws him a thumb over her shoulder.
“I’m Violet.” She’s blushing furiously.
“You work at the library, don’t you?” James asks with polite interest, eyes shining, shit-ass grin widening. She directs a few smiles my way, glowing with excitement over this new development, wheels turning in her diabolic girl brain.
Shit. I don’t need anyone getting the wrong idea about what’s happening here, least of all Jameson, who can’t seem to mind her own business.
“Yes, at the circulation desk.” Violet clears her throat. “Well, I-I’m actually the everything desk.” Nervous laughter. “I-I tutor, I shelve books, I babysit…”
“You’re Zeke’s babysitter?” Oz pipes up from behind his girlfriend. He taps her on the arm. “I knew it. That would explain her presence. Told you he needed a nanny.”
“Shut up, Ozzy,” I growl. “That’s not what she meant.”
My roommate rolls his eyes.
“How the hell are you putting up with him? You’re a saint, aren’t you?” Oz asks, pushing through so he can be front and center in the whole, fucked up conversation. “I’m Oz, and this handsome fellow is Elliot.”
Elliot waves sheepishly, flipping shaggy brown bangs and pushing up his glasses. “Hey.”
“So what are the two of you doing?” Oz wants to know. “Having a tea party?”
“Leaving!” I blurt out. “Violet was just leaving.”
I don’t know why I say it, don’t know why I said it with so much insistence in my voice, but the words are out before I can curtail them or wipe away the wounded expression crossing Violet’s face.
You could hear a pin drop it gets so quiet.
The whole damn house is silent.
I’d chance a look at her from under the brim of my ball cap, but I don’t want to see whatever hurt I know is pasted on her face. Embarrassment. Humiliation. Shame.
Take your fucking pick.
Steaming hot, heavy mug still in her hand, she sets it quietly on the table. Stands ramrod straight. Fakes a smile. “I-I guess I-I was just leaving.” Wipes her hands on the front of her leggings. “It was n-nice meeting you all.”
Oh Jesus, the stuttering is my fucking fault.
“You don’t have to go!” Jameson starts in with her special brand of nagging as Violet awkwardly skirts past, sleeve brushing my arm. “Don’t listen to Zeke; he’s a grouchy old bear.”
Nonetheless, they let Violet pass.
“Shit. Hold up a second!” I follow her as far as the living room, hands half raised, palms up, beseeching. “What am I supposed to do about Kyle?”
She slides her tiny feet into her black Chuck Taylors, presenting me with her back. “He’s sleeping Zeke. You’ll be fine.”
Everyone stands uncomfortably, giving us a wide berth, and I expect one of them to say something snarky. Instead they actually all look disappointed.
Well, they’re about to become more disa-fucking-pointed because I have zero romantic interest in Violet. Do they honestly think I’d bang a chick like that and let her loiter around the house? She has long-term commitment stamped in the center of her goddamn forehead.
My taste in women is simple: one-night stands. Not someone you’d bring home to your parents.
Women with dark hair.
Blue eyes.
Disposable.
The door opens and Violet steps down into the cold winter weather, steaming breath rising in the dark, illuminated by the porch light I rush over to flip—don’t want her tripping and killing herself on a rock or whatever.
“Hey, thanks for coming on such short notice.” I prop the door open with my foot, leaning on the doorjamb.
She lifts a palm to acknowledge my statement but continues down the sidewalk to the street. An old tan sedan that must be at least ten years old is parked out near the curb, and I hear her keys jingling in the dark as she fumbles her way down the walk.
Jameson grabs Violet’s jacket off the hook, shoulders past me, and jams her e
lbow into my gut before chasing her into the dark yard.
“Sooo…” Oz can hardly contain his meddling. “What the hell was that all about—and what the hell is a Kyle?”
Elliot has cleared the room.
“Kyle is a kid I’m watching. He’s sleeping in my bedroom.” Oz opens his mouth to speak, but I stop him with a brisk, “Don’t ask.”
“But—”
“Just shut the fuck up for once, would you Oz?”
This is partly his fault.
“You know I can’t do that man.” He moves into the kitchen, picks up Violet’s discarded hot chocolate, and sips from the mug. “Wow, this is good. Makes me feel all toasty inside.”
Jeez, not him too.
He grips the mug in one hand, the counter in the other. Lifts the mug again and examines it with narrowed eyes. “You don’t think that girl has any sexually transmitted diseases, do you? Before I go ham on this cocoa?”
He knows damn well what her name is, and he knows damn well she doesn’t have any STDs.
I’m practically growling. “Are you fucking serious?”
He slurps from the cup. “As a heart attack.” Lets out a loud, “Ahhh, this shit is good. Expensive, but good.”
“She doesn’t have any STDs asshole; why would you say that? And her name is Violet.”
He quirks a brow. “I’m just treating her like all the other randoms you bring home. Don’t get all bent out of shape. It’s a fair question.”
No, it’s not, and he knows it. And he knows she is nothing like the randoms I occasionally bring home. Nothing.
“She’s not like that—if you couldn’t tell.”
More slurping. “I didn’t have the chance to make a fair assessment; you basically shoved her out the door and into the cold ten seconds after we got home.” Slurp, slurp. “I bet she’s crying into her Cheerios right now.”
“Please, I highly doubt that.”
“Dude, she was stuttering—what the hell were you doing to her? She was flipping out.”
What the hell was I doing to her? Instead of defending myself to Sebastian Osborne, I roll my eyes.
“She always stutters.”
His eyes get huge. “What do you mean, she always stutters?” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Like, is she deaf?”
“No jackass, she’s not fucking deaf! Jesus Christ, what kind of question is that? Don’t be an asshole.”