Chapter Eleven #2
“What do I look like, her gay best friend? She’s got a wide screen TV and room service, I assure you she’s quite happy tucked up in bed watching sappy movies.
” To prove his point, Rhys brings up some camera footage on his phone of Harper beneath the covers, a wooden tray of several desserts poised over her lap.
I don’t get the chance to ask why the fuck he’s keeping surveillance on her, because he barges past and takes the stairs two at a time.
I suppose at least we know she is safe, even if it is creepy as hell.
“Besides,” Rhys calls back. “I’m here under her strict orders anyway.
” That has me groaning. Since when did Rhys follow orders, and what exactly has Harper put him up to?
Climbing the staircase, I shoulder past him, the smell of damp and burnt toast following me to the third floor.
My key jams in the lock, like even the door knows I shouldn’t be here anymore.
Inside, the studio looks worse than I remember.
Or maybe it’s just me seeing it clearly for the first time.
The cracked linoleum, the wire bedframe shoved against the wall, the half-eaten takeout containers lined up like trophies of failure.
The radiator clicks once and dies, leaving the air stale and cold.
“Wow,” Rhys says from the doorway, his tone dripping with disgust. “This place screams serial killer starter pack.”
“Leave me alone,” I reply flatly, crossing to the corner where my duffel sits. I start throwing clothes inside. Hoodies, shirts, the few pairs of jeans that don’t have holes in them. There’s no system to it. Just the need to get my stuff packed before someone from the court decides to do it for me.
Rhys doesn’t step inside, but he doesn’t leave either.
He lingers in the doorway like a bad smell, his designer jeans and expensive jacket looking almost obscene against the backdrop of mold-stained walls and the faint scratch of rats inside them.
His hair is styled in that I-woke-up-like-this way that takes at least an hour, and his tattoos catch the thin light from the hallway, wrapping around his throat like the armor he never takes off.
I can feel his shrewd gaze on me as I crouch to drag out the last box from under the bed.
It’s filled with books, sketchpads, and a few old photos I can’t bring myself to throw away.
Lifting Jeremy’s guitar from the corner, I close the duffel with one harsh tug and swing it over my shoulder, the strap biting into my palm.
The walls are starting to close in, misery stitched into the cracks. Nights staring at the ceiling, wondering how I’d fucked up my life this badly. Days where the silence was so thick I thought I might choke on it.
“Enjoy the show?” I glare at Rhys, who still hasn’t moved from his spot. “You can head back to your luxury suite now and laugh about my suffering.”
“Do you always have to be so mundane?” Rhys sighs, rolling his eyes. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small white card, the kind that smells faintly of money and arrogance. I glance at the printed address but make no move to take it.
“No need to be shy,” he says, waving it closer.
“Meet us here, if your rust bucket of a truck can actually make the trip.” Curiosity gets the better of me.
I snatch the card from his hand and glance down at the address.
Before I can ask, Rhys leaves, that trademark swagger already back in his stride.
“I’m not staying anywhere with you,” I call after him. Rhys pauses, slowly turns back with one brow arched in mock amusement.
“Oh no? What’s your plan then? Shack up with your parole officer?
Pitch a tent behind the courthouse?” He chuckles, dragging his thumb across his lip ring.
Then his phone buzzes in his pocket, bringing him back to reality.
His expression sobers, just barely. “Running won’t fix shit, Scum.
It just makes you harder to find.” I open my mouth to bite back a retort, but he cuts me off with a knowing look.
“You know she won’t stop looking,” he adds. “The place I’ve rented is big enough that we don’t even have to see each other. Just… humor her by being there.” My throat constricts, the grip around the guitar tightening.
“Why are you doing this?” I frown. Rhys is a bully, born of privilege and bred by entitlement. He doesn’t care for anyone other than himself. Yet his gaze softens as he assesses the wall beside my head.
“I’m trying this new thing where I only care about making Harper happy. It’s a nice reprieve from antagonizing my father for a while, plus it’s real easy. All Harper wants is good food, some nice clothes, and endless sex. I mean, the orgasms that girl can have are just—”
The sound that escapes me is low, the kind that promises violence and broken legs. Rhys’s grin widens, proud of himself for getting the reaction he wanted. He flicks invisible dust from his jacket, smug as ever.
“But for some reason,” he continues, “she also wants you. And like the obedient little lap dog I am, I’m here to collect.
You probably thought you had that golden retriever thing going on, all sappy eyes and bleeding heart.
Turns out I’m more of a mastiff. Loyal, sure, but I tug the leash when I’m bored. ” He bobs his brows, conceited as ever.
The duffel digs into my shoulder, the urge to leave this studio apartment far behind, but I can’t bring myself to move.
Because for one split second, I see something different behind his grin.
The man standing before me isn’t the one who harassed scholarship students, or the one who wore his anger as easily as he slipped into a fine suit.
No longer the arrogant bastard who’s made my life hell, but someone who is trying far too hard to sound like he still enjoys this game.
“You’ve changed,” I mutter.
Rhys tips an invisible hat, grin returning just enough to look like himself again. Then he finally leaves, footsteps fading down the corridor until it’s just me, the hum of the dying light, and the echo of everything I thought I knew.