“You might want to get that checked out.”
“Anyways,” I say, continuing with the story. “After she bit me, I pushed her away from me. She lost her balance, fell backward and hit her head on a cabinet. Just a bump, nothing serious. She got back up almost immediately.”
I could feel myself flush. I reach into my pocket and pull out a pill. “Mind if I have some water?”
“Sure.” Miles leaves the office and returns with a small Dixie cup filled with water, handing it to me.
I swallow the pill as Miles sits back down. He stares at me as I crush the Dixie cup and toss it in the waste bin by the door. It rims in. Still got it.
“She had more than a little bump on her head, Luke.” He says, cocking his head slightly.
“What do you mean?” I can feel my face involuntarily contort with a mix confusion and uncertainty.
He takes a deep breath and stands up. The leather soles of his shoes click against the floor as he walks behind me and grabs a baseball from on top of a cabinet. I listen as he tosses it in the air and catches it, leather smacking against bare skin. He does this a few times before replacing it. He turns the chair next to mine toward me and sits down, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped in front of him. I meet his gaze.
“She had a significant wound on her head. She lost a lot of blood. That’s what I’m saying, Luke.” There’s tension in his voice, restrained anger. Color spreads from his neck, along his jaw and up his cheeks.
“She was fine when I left.” He stares at me blankly, not saying a word. He shrugs, then leans back in his chair. “Is that what killed her? Blood loss?” I ask.
“Still looking into it. All we know is that, as of now, you were the last one to see her alive.”
“I’ve told you all I know.” Lie.
“We’re going to have to search you car.” He says abruptly.
“For what?” I snap.
“Look. We don’t know what happened to your mother. We’re trying to explore every avenue available. I’d appreciate it if you cooperated.” If I cooperated… What the fuck was I doing right now? I didn’t have to come here.
“Fine. Search my car.” I take my keys out of my pocket and toss them on a pile of folders on his desk. He’s not going to find anything.
“Thanks.” There’s that shit-eating grin again. “Speak with Jessica on your way out. You can borrow a car.”
I stand up to leave.
“We’ll be in touch.”
I find Jessica, grab the keys, and leave in a rusted piece of shit that sputters and whines all the way back to Austin.
IT’S DARK BY THE time I make it back to my apartment. I immediately sneeze as I open the door. Fucking cat. The lights are off, and I don’t hear Leah. Maybe she’s in bed? I check my phone. It’s still early; she has to be here.
I check her room. The bed’s made and Crouton is curled up in a ball on top of it, purring. There’s a sick feeling growing in the pit of my stomach. She has no car. Barely any cash. No phone. Nothing. Where the hell could she be?
I walk to the kitchen and flip the light switch.
There’s blood on the counter and Leah’s nowhere to be found.
CHAPTER EIGHT
LEAH
I DON’T KNOW HOW long I’ve been sitting here staring at the knife in front of me. My legs ache, feel shaky. I know I shouldn’t cut; it’s only a temporary release. But I don’t know how else to deal with this. Why would Luke drop something like this on my lap and then leave? What did he expect?
I look over to the journal still laying on the kitchen table. I haven’t read another word. I’m afraid of what else it might hold, how I might react. I tell myself they’re just words; they have no power.
But it’s bullshit. Words have power. They can damage you in unseen ways. The wounds may not be noticeable from the outside, but on the inside, they can consume you. It’s happening right now. I don’t want to believe the words my father wrote in the journal, but deep down I know they’re true. I suspected something like this. I just never wanted to believe it could be true.
I grab the knife from the counter with my right hand and delicately trace my fingertip along the blade’s edge. It’s sharp—a professional-grade chef’s knife. I’ve never used something this sharp before. When I first started cutting, I was afraid to use anything sharper than the unfolded edge of a paper clip. I didn’t want to cut myself too deep.
It sounds weird, but I liked seeing the blood. It was a reminder that I was alive. A living, breathing person—even if my stepmother saw me as worthless.
I began cutting on my thighs, on my hips and upper arms—anywhere that no one would notice. I graduated to safety pins and needles, then razors and utility knives, making deeper cuts the longer I suffered my stepmother’s abuse.
The rubber band helps me cope.
I haven’t cut in years, but the longer I stare at the cold edge of the blade, the stronger my urge becomes.
I close my eyes and try to control my breathing and calm myself down. Happy thoughts. Think happy thoughts, I tell myself. My mind returns to last night, to Luke. I see him again, standing in his room naked. I bite down on my lip as I think about his perfectly sculpted body, about his hands roaming all over mine. My skin tingles, not for release, but for his touch.
We nearly kissed last night. We were inches, moments away from it. I could almost taste his lips. I’ve always imagined them tasting of mint or cinnamon, something cool or something spicy. But I’m afraid I’ll never have the chance. He could have anyone, why would he want me? If he wanted me, he would’ve kissed me last night when he had the chance. I was begging for it, aching for it, and I know he could feel it too.
But he left. Just like he left years ago. It’s what he does. He’s reckless with other people’s hearts. I need to learn that and move on. But I can’t. I’m a stupid, stupid girl with a stupid, stupid crush I’ll never get over.
Tears are streaming down my face when I open my eyes and I’m still clutching the knife in my hand. I take my finger and again trace the edge, testing the sharpness one last time. My finger nearly reaches the edge when I hear the front door slam.
My head jerks up and I feel the blade of the knife slice into my fingertip.
“Fuck!” I yell, looking down at my finger. Blood gushes out of the cut and onto my hand and the counter.
I hear a bag drop, then keys, followed by the slow, measured clicking of heels against wood. A tall, slender blonde—model gorgeous—turns the corner and plants her right hand on her hip as she looks at me with her head cocked. The expression on her face says it all: “Who the fuck are you?,” “What the fuck are you doing?,” and “Am I going to have to call the cops?”
She is wearing a white, expensive looking scoop neck dress with a thin black belt tied around her thin waist; she wears it well and she knows it. I could smell her perfume, bright and citrusy and cheerful. Her bright blue eyes scan me as she bites her lower lip. I know the look. I’ve seen it time and time again. She’s judging me, sizing me up.
Her posture relaxes as she lets her hands fall to her side and her eyes soften. “Are you the new maid?” She turns around to retrieve the bags she left at the door without even waiting for a response.
Maid? Excuse me? A few different thoughts pop into my head. One, Luke didn’t tell anyone I was staying here. Two, this person, whoever she was, looked at me once and decided the only reason I would be in Luke’s apartment would be to clean it. Three, who the fuck does she think she is? And why does she have a key to Luke’s apartment?
When she returns, I tell her I’m Luke’s stepsister and that I would be staying here for a few days. I didn’t tell her about my stepmother. The last thing I wanted was to hear her spout her insincere platitudes about how sorry she felt for me.
“That’s right! I completely forgot Luke had a sister.” Her demeanor changes from frigid bitch to best friend. It’s amazing how that works, the sudden shift in attitude when a woman no longer sees y
ou as a threat. “I’m Gretchen, Luke’s assistant.”
Assistant? I still don’t even know what Luke does. Apparently something important if he has his own assistant. Why won’t he tell me anything?
She extends her perfectly manicured hand to me. And it’s then that I realize I’m still bleeding—a lot—and still gripping the hilt of the knife.
“Oh. My. God.” Her olive complexion washes out, turns ashen as she glimpses the blood on my hand and on the counter tops.
“It was an accident,” I say, dropping the knife on the counter. I whip myself around and walk to the sink behind me to wash the blood off my hand. “You surprised me when you walked in.” I say cold water runs over my bare skin. “My finger slipped.” It really was an accident. Honest.
“Just tell me when it’s gone.” I can hear her feet clicking against the wood floor. “I don’t do blood.” I wasn’t aware that people did do or could do blood. Whatever that means. “Just yell if you need something.” Her voice echoes down the hallway.
I watch as the blood circles the drain, mixes with the water, clouds it. I’m alive, I tell myself. I dry my hands with a paper towel and toss it in the garbage.
“Hey, Gretchen?” I yell in her general direction.
“Yes?”
“Do you know where the band-aids are?”
“Bathroom. Second drawer down.”
She certainly knew her way around this place. It wasn’t her first time. I mean, she even had a key. Was she sleeping with Luke? I could feel my skin flush with jealousy, but I’m able to calm myself. I shouldn’t feel jealous—Luke could fuck whoever he wanted (and he always did). I was his stepsister, anyways. And I wasn’t his type. She was his type. Tall, skinny, and beautiful. The thought of him ripping off her clothes, his hands running along her naked body made my skin crawl.
I wanted him to do that to me. Not her. Me.
I walk to the bathroom for a band-aid. I can see Gretchen in Luke’s room, laying out clothes, putting things away—touching his stuff. Why was she touching his stuff?
One… two… three… I count in my head. The endorphins from the small cut on my finger have all but dissipated and I’m working myself up again. It seems that every problem in my life revolves around one thing, one person, really: Luke. If I didn’t care for him as much as I do, none of this would be bothering me. But I do care for him and it does bother me when some girl I don’t even know rifles through all of his stuff as though they’re an item.
Maybe they are…
I don’t even want to entertain the idea.
I finish bandaging my cut and walk over to Gretchen. She’s neatly folding clothes and placing them in a suitcase on top of Luke’s bed.
“What are you doing?” I ask, scrunching my face up.
“Packing.” She says blankly, as though it was completely obvious what she was doing and I was stupid for even asking her.
“Why?”
She sighs. “Luke has a photo shoot in New York tomorrow. Didn’t you know?”
A Photo shoot? What was she talking about?
“Photo shoot?” My face says it all: I’m lost.
She drops the shirt she’s holding on the bed and cocks her head. All that’s missing is an eye roll. “Yes. An important one.” She sighs. “Honestly, I don’t know how you couldn’t know.” She returns to folding. “But I guess… it doesn’t really surprise me.” What the hell was that supposed to mean?
I had only known Gretchen for a few minutes and I knew we would never get along. She was exactly the type of girl I never got along with—a prissy little Barbie. She was one of those fake friends who would befriend me in hopes of getting closer to Luke. Once they finally got what they wanted, or they were rejected, they’d drop me.
She notices me standing in the doorway, brooding, and stops again. “Shouldn’t you be packing?”
“Wait, what? Me?”
“Didn’t Luke tell you? You’re going with him.” She said it so matter-of-fact, like this was how it was going to be and there was no other way it could be.
Why would Luke buy me a plane ticket without even telling me, without even knowing that I’d come with him, both here and to New York?
“When did you book them? Erhm, the tickets.”
“Does it matter?”
“Just curious.”
“Hmm… let’s see. I’d say a week or two ago.” She places the final shirt in the suitcase and zips it up.
Luke had this planned all along, well before he showed up at Buck Wild, well before Judith died. How did he know? How did he know I’d come here, that I’d be left with no other option? Something didn’t sit well with me. I didn’t like having my life toyed with like this.
“So.” Gretchen began, “Do you need any help packing?”
“Uhh… well—“ I stammer. I don’t have any clothes to pack—I didn’t have a chance to grab anything last night. I have nothing but the sweats and t-shirt I’m wearing. Well, I have my cocktail waitress uniform, but I couldn’t very well wear that. “I don’t have anything with me…” My voice trails off into nothing. A ghost of a voice. I couldn’t even look her in the eyes as I talked.
“Don’t worry.” She says as her eyes rake over me. She cups her chin with her hand, narrows her eyes. “I know exactly what you need.”
CHAPTER NINE
LEAH
I HAD NO IDEA what to expect from Gretchen, but I was pleasantly surprised. We went shopping downtown and bought all sorts of elegant and wonderful clothes, clothes that I wouldn’t normally wear—not because I didn’t like them, but because I couldn’t afford them. I didn’t pay for a thing. It was all on Luke’s dime. My jaw dropped when she whipped out his Black Card.
“Perks of the job.” She said with a smile. “He won’t mind if I spend a little on his sister.”
Later on, we went to a spa: manicures, pedicures, massages, people applying oils and lotions and all sorts of strange things to my body. “We need to treat ourselves,” Gretchen said. “Spending all this money is exhausting.” We both laughed.
Spas, shopping, makeovers—these weren’t things that I’d normally do. I had neither the money nor the time. And I always felt uncomfortable around the type of people who could afford such luxuries, people like Gretchen.
Strangely though, I actually enjoyed it. I enjoyed being attended to, waited on, made to feel special—that I was a person of importance. I had never felt like that once in my life. Although I know Gretchen only did this for me because Luke was her boss, it made me feel a bit better after such a miserable few days, a miserable life, really.
I don’t know what would’ve happened if Gretchen hadn’t walked in on me. I certainly wouldn’t be standing here outside the door to Luke’s apartment with a brand new wardrobe, new hair, and fresh confidence. I might still be in the kitchen, depressed and alone. Or worse yet, laying face down on the floor after cutting too deep. I’m probably exaggerating though.
Anyway, I don’t want to think about what could’ve happened. I want to focus on what did happen. That’s what matters.
“I had so much fun today, Gretchen. Thank you.” I meant it too. I hadn’t once thought about Luke or had the inclination to cut or use my rubber band for release. It was a good day, a first, and it made me forget all about what my dad had written in his journal. At least, for a little while; I’ll never completely forget something like that, something that fucked up and twisted and how it affected me.
“Now don’t get all warm and fuzzy on me.” She says as she turns the key in the lock; pushes open the door. “I guess it was fun, huh? And you look so, so good in that new dress.”
I blush. I thought the dress was a bit too revealing, something I wouldn’t normally wear. But when I saw the look on Gretchen’s face after I walked out of the dressing room—I knew I had to have it. I wanted to see if Luke would have the same response.
The lights are on when we open the door to Luke’s apartment. We drop our bags at the door and walk into the main li
ving area, chatting away about nothing in particular. Luke is sitting at the kitchen table, his hands clasped in front of him. He doesn’t look happy.
“Gretchen, can I have a word?” He says, calmly, but with enough ice to chill anyone to the bone.
“Uhh… Yeah. Sure.” Her voice wavers, laced with uncertainty and apprehension. Although I’ve only known Gretchen for a few hours, I’ve never heard her talk this meekly. I could barely hear her voice and she was standing right next to me.
Luke walks by me as though I’m invisible. His scent flares my nostrils and I breathe it in. Gretchen turns to follow him. I remain still but watch them although I know it’s none of my business. I can’t make out what they’re saying but from what I can see of Gretchen’s face, it’s not good.
Color drains from her face as Luke talks with her. She hangs her head, averting her gaze from his, letting he arms fall limply to her side. I don’t like seeing her being scolded, but I can help but find some satisfaction in knowing she can’t be his girlfriend. Luke wouldn’t be talking to her like this is she was, right?
She reaches to grab his arm, but he shakes it away. I can see tears stream down her face. She tilts her head towards me, looks at me with tear-filled eyes, and I immediately turn around and walk out of sight. I shouldn’t be spying on them.
I mill around in the kitchen, looking for something to drink. I spot the blood on the kitchen counter. Shit. I completely forgot to clean it up. I grab a towel, wet it, then wipe away what I can. I don’t know where any of his cleaning supplies are, so it’s the best I can do at the moment.
I feel Crouton rub his face against my leg and meow. “Oh my god, Crouton! I completely forgot to feed you before I left.” I’m just not with it today. Or most days, for that matter.
I pick him up and creep to my bedroom, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Leah and Gretchen are still talking and I don’t want to disturb them any more than I already have. I find Crouton’s bowl—it’s full. Luke actually fed him? I’m a little stunned. I thought he hated cats—Crouton especially. Maybe I’m wrong about Luke.
Stepbrother: Scar Tissue - the Complete Serial (An Alpha Stepbrother Romance) Page 5