by Sara Ney
His hands go up in mock surrender. “Whoa, I was just asking. I mean, you can’t just say someone has a stutter and not expect a litany of questions to follow.”
Oh yes I fucking can.
But Oz isn’t done, not by a long shot. “What are you doing with that girl, man? It’s obvious you’re not sleeping with her.”
“Why is it obvious I’m not sleeping with her?”
He laughs. “Well, she doesn’t look like your usual type.”
She’s not, but that doesn’t stop me from asking, “And what is my usual type, smartass?”
We both know the answer to that one: big boobs, single, the end.
“Easy. Big boobs. In it for the D, and I don’t mean defense.” Oz finishes the hot chocolate from the hand-painted heart mug with a long drag, setting it down next to the sink. “So, what the hell are you doing with that girl, Zeke?”
Why the hell is he asking me this? We don’t have conversations like this, ones about sweet, naïve girls who drink hot cocoa instead of liquor, do nothing but nice things for people, and have kind hearts. We just don’t. We talk about sports, and wrestling, and wrestling practice, so I don’t know why he’s butting into my business.
He’s in a relationship, so that suddenly makes him an expert?
Fuck.
That.
His bulky arms are crossed now, serious expression taking residence on his face. The overhead light in the kitchen makes the black tattoo sleeve on his arm more pronounced.
His dark eyes bore into me; he’s expecting an answer.
“We’re just…friends.”
“Friends?” He looks confused. “I didn’t know you did that.”
“You didn’t know I did what? Speak English.”
He throws his hands up. “Friends. I didn’t know you did friends, let alone friends with tits.”
This isn’t the right moment to point out that Violet doesn’t have any tits, and it’s not something I’d want to point out to him anyway—girlfriend or not, he’s kind of a pervert.
“Fine. I use the term friend loosely,” I concede.
Honestly, I don’t know what the fuck I am actually doing with her. Am I attracted to her?
Maybe.
Okay, yes. I am.
And she’s growing on me every second we spend together. Anything more than that? I have no interest in exploring what that attraction means.
I’ve never given much thought to what I wanted in a girlfriend, because I’ve never had any intention of having one. Dating. Being in a relationship.
Shit, I barely have a relationship with my parents, and we’re related—so why am I thinking about Violet? Why am I letting her in my house? Inviting her to this fucking fundraiser?
“Violet.” Oz chuckles. “Even her name sounds like fucking sunshine and shit.”
It does. I begin rolling her name around in my head, playing it on a loop.
“James is going to be bummed,” Oz speculates.
“Oh, well in that case, let me chase after her so I can propose.” Like I care what Jameson Clark wants for my personal life.
Oz laughs at me. “I’m just saying, she’d love having another chick here to break up the testosterone.”
I snort through my nose. “James has more testosterone than the three of us combined.”
My roommate grins from ear to ear, pushing away from the counter and flexing. “I’m going to tell her you said that; coming from you, she’s going to take that as a compliment.”
“I’m sure she will.”
The first thing I hear when Jameson returns to the house from chasing Violet down is the distant sound of the front door slamming shut. Then I hear two boots drop to the hardwood floor, one at a time. The pads of her feet trudging down the hallway.
Arm pushing into my room without knocking.
I put a finger to my lips, shushing her from my spot at the desk. I don’t need her waking up Kyle, who’s curled into a tiny, breathing ball that’s been squirming every ten seconds.
Jameson’s eyes widen when she sees him.
“Knock much?” I whisper-hiss. “It’s not enough that you’ve infiltrated the house, now you’re breaking and entering people’s bedrooms?” I’m as quiet as I can possibly be through clenched teeth.
James stands indignantly at the foot of my bed, gazing down at Kyle. Whatever lecture she was about to deliver gets derailed by the sight of his slight, peacefully slumbering body.
Lucky little bastard.
She turns to face me, walking to stand beside me.
“Uh…what is going on with you lately?” Her low, easy laughter fills my bedroom. “Nice girls in the house. Volunteering. Now you’re babysitting a little kid? What the hell is happening?”
“Would you get out of my room? The kid here is trying to sleep,” I whisper frantically, raising a World War II history book, waving it in front of her face. “And I am trying to read.”
“You can’t kick me out,” she whispers back. “Not until you hear what I have to say.”
I glare at her, glare at her straight brown hair and bright blue eyes. She’s wearing a boring gray t-shirt and the same damn pearl necklace she always has on, even when it’s just a well-worn shirt.
“Technically I own this house, so I can kick you out if I want,” I argue futilely.
Another annoying laugh in the dimly lit room as she crosses her arms, studying me. “You wouldn’t do that.”
“Oh really? And why is that?”
She ignores the question.
“Look, I didn’t come in here to talk about me. We both know you and I have our own issues. I’m here to talk to you about why you just kicked Violet out of the house.”
“That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”
“I’m the one who followed her out into the cold. She didn’t even have her jacket on when she left, so yeah, you kicked her out.”
I don’t have to sit and listen to this bullshit. “Kicked her out? For the fucking record, Miss Know-it-All, I didn’t make Violet leave, I said she was about to leave. She made the choice to go.”
“Give me a break.”
“Everyone being here freaked her out—I was doing her a favor.”
“You announced that she was leaving. That’s making her leave.” Suddenly she gets serious. “You know what Zeke, all this time, I keep waiting for you to want more for yourself.”
Jameson, oblivious to my nonverbal cues to get the hell out my room, lowers her voice and steps closer.
“What were you doing with her here, Zeke? What are you doing with that girl? She’s seems really kind, and giving and gentle and—”
“Everything I’m not? Yeah, yeah, I get it. If that’s what you were going to say, fucking say it.”
Jameson slowly nods. “That’s what I was going to say.”
“Don’t you think I know what I’m doing? Please.”
James shakes her head. “No Zeke, I honestly don’t think you do.”
“Nothing. I am doing nothing with that girl.” I snort, voice raising an octave. “Why do you even care?”
Jameson hasn’t been around long, but she’s already started meddling; every now and again she gets in our household business. Manages to insert herself where she’s not wanted and raises my hackles, gets me riled up.
This is one of those moments; she’s in my bedroom and in my business.
All up in my shit.
The last place I want anyone to be.
The worst part? She’s not letting up. Won’t stop talking and won’t walk away. Jameson Clark is holding me hostage in my own freaking bedroom.
“If you like Violet even a little—and I suspect you do, because otherwise you never would have brought her here…” Her voice is low. “If you like her even a teensy weensy bit Zeke, don’t play games with her. She seems so sweet, and if you string her along…I feel like it would ruin her.”
“Ruin her?” Why would I ruin her when I like her?
“I don’t know, maybe I
shouldn’t use the word ruin, it seems harsh—it’s just she’s bright and adorable and you tend to surround yourself with storm clouds.”
“Wow James. Don’t you think that’s a little melodramatic? Even for you?”
She laughs quietly. “Oh Zeke, I’ve only said half of what I wanted to say, but I’m going to bite my tongue for now.”
I look at her then, really look at her: earnest eyes, long shiny hair—she’s not as plain and boring as she looks. If Jameson Clark had a sign around her neck, it would read No bullshit. She studies me, always doing weird shit like that. Analyzing people. Watching them.
Assessing.
She walks to the door, hesitating.
“You and I both know pushing Violet out tonight was a huge mistake, so don’t bother denying it. In fact, I predict…” She bites down on her lower lip in concentration. “I predict you lie in bed tonight once your little buddy there is gone, and for once in your life, you’re going to feel shitty about the way you treated someone.”
I lean forward, hands braced on the armrest of my desk chair. Narrow my eyes.
“Oh yeah? And why would I do that?”
She smiles—one of those pitying, patronizing smiles that says she thinks she knows better.
I’ve seen her give that same smile to my roommate a hundred times.
“That’s an easy one.”
My brows go up; this oughta give me a good laugh.
“Because you like her. You just haven’t figured it out yet.”
Violet
“Got any homework?” His voice stops me from walking past his table. For once, Zeke Daniels is at the library of his own free will, not waiting be tutored, not with a group of his wrestling buddies.
Alone.
“Yes. I-I always have homework.” I’m stumbling on my own stupid words and I hate myself for it.
Nonchalantly, like it’s no big deal, Zeke leans back in his chair, arches his spine, extends his leg, and pushes out the chair across from him.
It slides two feet and stops.
I stare at it.
He stares at it. Raises a brow beneath the brim of his ball cap. Bends his neck and goes back to work.
“Sit. There’s plenty of room,” he rumbles. Offers me a tight smile. “We should probably talk.”
Talk? He wants to talk?
“All right. Give me a minute.”
I back away, mind working in overdrive, cataloging all the things he could possibly want to talk about, and I come up with the following: Kyle. Running me out of his house on Thursday. The fundraiser next week.
Taking a deep breath, I count to ten before gathering my backpack and laptop from the back office. Find my time sheet. Clock out.
Walking to his table feels like some weird, reverse walk of shame, my gaze trained on that pushed out wooden chair.
Act casual, I remind myself, he is just a guy…
An insensitive guy.
Intimidating. Cold. Callous. Complicated. The moodiest, broodiest, douchebaggiest guy I have ever met.
From the looks of it, he wants for nothing; I’ve noticed his expensive clothing. Seen his current model pick-up truck, one with shiny silver chrome, kick plates, and detailing. Everything about him reeks of wealth and privilege, and yet, I sense that’s not where his arrogance comes from.
I wouldn’t even call it arrogance; it’s more like resentment. He resents everyone that’s happy .
When I join him, I see that he’s cleared a space for me, and I set my things down. Stand next to the chair, unsure.
His dark head is bent, gray moody eyes shielded by the brim of his black ball cap. While his pen scratches across his paper in bold, hard strokes, my eyes do a quick scan of his broad shoulders and thick biceps.
His arms, bared from his short-sleeved tee, are peppered with a smattering of dark hair. For a brief moment, I allow my mind to wander, wondering what else on Zeke Daniels’ body is covered with hair. What else on him is hard and solid and—
His head shoots up. “Where you just checking me out?”
“No!” Oh god.
“Good.” He smirks. “Because as my tutor and official play date partner, that would be highly unprofessional, and I know how you like to put up boundaries.”
Me? Put up boundaries? Hardly.
In fact, I have the opposite problem.
“I’m fucking with you Violet. You’re the least closed-off person I know—well, besides Oz’s new girlfriend, who can’t seem to mind her own business.”
Wow, he’s uncharacteristically chatty today.
Uncharacteristically pleasant.
“Sit, please, you’re making me nervous.” He smiles, a quick flash of white making a brief appearance in the small space between his lips. My stare is rooted to that spot—those teeth—until he clears his throat and breaks my trance.
Once seated, I’m determined to get actual studying done. If Zeke wants to talk, he’s going to be the one to broach the subject. Pry information out of me.
We only study in silence for six minutes before I glance up to find him wordlessly watching me, his piercing gray eyes straying when I reach up, push back a wavy lock of hair that’s sticking to my lip gloss, and oh lord, he’s staring at my mouth…my lips.
I swallow.
He looks away before I do.
“Tell me something,” he utters, surprising me.
“Tell you what?” I set down my pen, leaning back in my chair. “What do you want to know?”
“What’s your major?” He throws his hands up before I can answer. “Wait, don’t tell me. Elementary ed.”
“Nope. Take another guess.”
“Early childhood development.”
“No.” But I’m surprised he actually knows what that is.
“Hmmm.” That mammoth hand rubs the stubble on his chiseled chin. “Pediatric nursing.”
“Nope.” My head lilts to the side on its own accord, and I narrow my eyes, staring him down, measuring his sincerity. Stare into those unsettlingly light, somber eyes.
“What makes you so sure my major is child related?”
“Well,” he drawls out slowly. “Isn’t it?”
I laugh. “Yes.”
He leans back in his chair, a smug, satisfied set to his face. “I knew it.”
“N-No need to get cocky,” I say on a laugh. “You still haven’t guessed.”
“There’s always a reason to get cocky. For me it’s getting out of bed in the morning.”
We’re both quiet after that comment, neither of us really knowing what to say. I don’t trust myself to speak; I feel like I’m betraying myself by not asking about the other night, when he ran me out of his house and embarrassed me.
I know I should ask—it’s been weighing on my mind since—but I’m not sure how, even after four days and three nights with nothing to do but think about it.
The thing is, I’m not sure he cares how it made me feel to be shuffled out of his house. How embarrassed I was.
How I cried all the way home.
“Hey Violet.” Zeke taps the table with a pencil to get my attention.
“Hmmm?”
“Are we friends?” The yellow pencil is perched above his notebook and he goes back to scrawling in it, not making eye contact. The question slips out of his beautiful mouth so causally, like he’s just asked me to pass the salt at the dinner table.
“Excuse me?”
“Are. We. Friends.”
This is it. This is my opportunity.
Say it, Violet. Say the words: my real friends would never have shamed me the way you did.
Say them, Violet, say the words.
“Are we?” I ask quietly, hating myself for being such a coward, unable to say what I so desperately need to.
“You tell me.” His low baritone is soft, cautious.
“I-I thought we were starting to become friends.”
There. I said it.
“You thought?” I can see him getting cagey, the muscle in his
jaw ticking. He’s knows there’s more to it than that, he just can’t fill in the blanks by himself.
I set down my pen, clasping my hands on the tabletop in front of me. “Y-Yes. I thought we were friends, Zeke, but then when your real friends got home on Thursday night, you didn’t want me around anymore. It made me feel…”
My eyes close and I give my head a little shake. Can’t meet his eyes, face flaming hot.
“It made me f-feel…” I take a breath, breathing in through my nose; it’s the only way I can steady my voice, control my speech.
When I steel myself, raise my eyes, and look at him, he’s looking toward the bank of windows near the front of the library. Staring through them, mouth in a determined set, twisted at the corners. Not a frown exactly, but…
I let the quiet engulf us, nothing but the sounds of the library surrounding us, realizing words are no longer necessary. I’ve said what I needed to say in the only way I know how—by saying nothing at all.
Still focused on the windows, he speaks.
“I wasn’t thinking; I was reacting.” He pauses. “It had nothing to do with you.”
He doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t say he’s sorry right then, but for now it’s enough.
“All right.”
He shifts his gaze. “Is it?”
No.
I cast my eyes downward, fixating on my notebook before glancing back up. His brows are furrowed unhappily.
“That’s the trouble with you Violet. You’re too fucking forgiving.”
“Why is that a bad thing?”
“Because, when someone treats you like shit, you’re not supposed to let them. Everyone fucking knows that.”
His nostrils flare at me, eyes flash.
And before I can stop myself, the words are pouring out of my mouth, hushed but hurried. “F-Fine. How about this: no, I don’t think we’re friends, because I don’t want friends who treat me like shit. Who act like afraid little boys. Who kick me out of their house after offering me a seat at their table. You’re rude and stubborn a-and a total dick.”
A bubble of laughter builds up inside me, and I fight it the entire way—but in the end, the laughter wins out.
“S-Sorry.” I stifle a laugh. “I shouldn’t be laughing.”