34. Bastian
Chapter 34
Bastian
Fuck. Why the hell is it so bright in here?
I push away from the white sheets and white pillows, squinting as I stumble into the bathroom.
I’m still fucking drunk.
A much needed piss later, I splash water on my face and avoid looking at my reflection as I grab the closest towel.
It smells like Haven.
I rip away the soft, downy fabric and stare at the streaks of foundation and mascara on the stained towel. Almost absently, I swipe my hand over the granite counter’s cool, white surface.
Traces of cocaine cling to my skin.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck .
I toss the towel to the floor and rush out of my bathroom, through my bedroom, and nearly skid on the carpet when I burst into the living area and hurriedly stop.
Haven is sprawled on her stomach on the sofa.
One arm dangles over the side, the back of her hand resting on the floor. Her lips are parted, her eyes closed. Mascara smudges under her eyes.
Her hair is tangled, her dress creased.
Only one shoe on one pretty foot.
She’s not breathing.
Jesus.
My hands are on my head, fingertips laced, my jaw clenched so tight I can feel tooth enamel squeaking.
I need to call an ambulance.
No, fuck , what am I thinking? No one can find her here.
How could I let this happen?
Why the hell didn’t I let her sleep in her car last night? I insisted she stay with me. Insisted she drink more wine. Insisted I wouldn’t go psycho on her.
Why the fuck did she believe me?
My cellphone chimes urgently—my usual morning alarm. But there’s nothing routine about waking up with a dead girl in your?—
Haven snorts, drags in a ragged breath, turns her head away, and starts snoring.
I bend, hands on my knees, and try to coax some air back into my lungs.
Much belated memories of last night flood into my mind.
We ate together. Drank together. Listened to music together. Laughed at my music taste together.
Then it was late, and she could barely keep her eyes open. And I couldn’t let her sleep in her fucking back seat like she always did. Couldn’t call an Uber to take her home, because, according to Drunk Haven, her home was where the heart was, and that was in her fucked up sedan parked next to my obnoxious Tesla.
Her words, not mine.
I tried to convince her to sleep in my bed, that I would take the couch, but that’s around when she passed out.
No way in fucking hell I was moving her. What the hell would she think if she woke up in a different place than where she remembers falling asleep?
After how much she drank, though, I doubt she’ll remember anything at all.
I make us coffee, double strength. I could take pity on her—both of us—and call this a snow day, but that would set a pretty shitty example.
Plus, after the breakfast I have planned, she’ll be right as rain in an hour or two.
I take her coffee to her, setting it down on the table and shaking her shoulder. “Haven. Haven, you have to wake up.”
“Ffffmmm.”
“Come on, girl. You’ll feel better after this coffee and a shower.”
“Mmffffffgd.”
Which is ‘oh my fucking god’ in hangover. I spoke it fluently in my twenties.
“Yes, I know it hurts, but maybe you’ll remember to pace yourself next time.” I grab her under the arm and drag her into a sit.
Her head lolls to the side in an uncanny resemblance to the dead person I thought she was mere minutes ago.
“Haven.” I tap her face. “Haven.”
“Jaysussss,” she whispers, reluctantly opening a blood-shot eye. “Whaaaaat?”
“Coffee. Shower. Breakfast. You’ve got school.”
“You’ve got…” The other eye opens. “To be kidding,” she finishes lamely. “Puh-lease let me sleep.”
“Coffee. Shower.” I stand, crossing my arms.
She tips back her head, her chest heaving as she drags in a breath. “Fine.”
On her second failed attempt to get up, I grab her arm and help her to her feet. “And if you’re not done in five minutes, your breakfast is going in the trash.”
She tugs her arm free, hesitates, and then snatches up her coffee cup. As she half-stomps, half-staggers out of my living room, I swear I hear her mumble, “Yes, Daddy.”
“What?”
She swings around, eyes wide with innocence. “What?”
I take my coffee outside, hoping the combination of caffeine and fresh air will jumpstart my brain. And it seems to work until I turn to look back at my house. More specifically, the bedroom windows.
Being tinted, I can’t see inside them.
Doesn’t mean I can’t imagine what’s on the other side.
I should be a hell of a lot more worried about the fact that Haven’s in my shower right now. That she’s naked and wet, and that there’s nothing stopping me from walking in right now and joining her.
Except the laws of polite society that have made it abundantly clear that anything approaching a relationship between Haven and I would bring down a world of scorn and academic retribution.
I can’t fuck this up again.
Agony Hollow is the perfect place for me to lay low. But it won’t be if I draw any more attention to myself than I already have.
So, yes, I could strip off my clothes and step into that shower with my nineteen-year-old student. She wouldn’t stop me. No one can stop me.
—what the fuck are you doing?
Except me.
And this time, I will.
My eyes focus on the glass instead of trying to peer through. There’s a dark smear on the window, and when my gaze trails down, it latches onto the heap of feathers and maggots below.
Fuck.
How long has that tiny carcass been out here, breeding flies?
This is what happens when I start doing coke—I stop paying attention.
I get sloppy. I fuck up.
I’m left with casualties.