Chapter 4
FOUR
Sprawled on my bed, I stare at my phone, trying not to grin like an idiot as Ace’s text comes through.
Ace
So, you coming out tonight, Trouble?
I hesitate, my fingers hovering over the screen. God, I want to. But I made a promise to Rosalee, and for once, I actually think she’s right.
I don’t want to fuck it up with our new foster family either, now that I have a motivation to stay here.
Can’t. Promised Rosie I’d stay in. First week of school and all that.
I glance over at Rosalee, who’s completely engrossed in her magazine. Her lips are moving slightly, probably mouthing the words to some article about glitter eyeliner.
The phone vibrates in my hand, and I swipe the notification open immediately.
Wow. You’re… responsible. Didn’t see that coming.
I roll my eyes, but my lips twitch.
Better than you, skipping school entirely to do, what, by the way? Petty theft? Or just look pretty in a leather jacket?
His reply is almost instant as if he’s been waiting for the chance to spar.
First of all, I don’t need to try to look pretty. It’s natural. Second, if you’re gonna insult me, at least do it with some creativity.
Fine. You’re an egotistical asshole with a knack for getting his phone stolen by amateurs.
The three dots appear, then vanish, then appear again, and I bite my lip, waiting.
I got my phone back and swiped yours in the process. Don’t think that’s how ‘winning’ works, Trouble.
A flush creeps up my neck, and I huff.
Stealing a phone is child’s play. Even toddlers can do it. Try something harder.
His response takes a little longer this time, and when it comes, it’s accompanied by a photo. It shows a gold Rolex on his wrist.
How’s this for harder?
My mouth drops open slightly. I don’t know a lot about watches, but even I know that’s rich-people stuff. Definitely not something you just pick up at a garage party.
Where the hell did you get that?
Good work gets good rewards.
I let out a laugh, shaking my head.
You’re insufferable.
You’re intrigued.
He’s not wrong. Each message, each little quip feels like a tiny jolt of adrenaline.
Congrats. You can steal from people who are already too rich for their own good. What do you want, a medal?
Nah. I’ll settle for your undivided attention.
How does he manage to say stuff like that without sounding cheesy?
You’re full of shit.
And you’re deflecting. Don’t worry, though. Someday I’ll teach you how to earn one of these for yourself.
I snort.
Gee, thanks.
Stick with me, and you’ll be able to take whatever you want from whoever you want.
“Who are you texting?” Rosalee asks absentmindedly, but before I can answer, she glances up, one eyebrow raised. “Ah, yeah. That one.”
I narrow my eyes at her, but she just grins, returning to her magazine.
Fell asleep?
No, sorry. Sister. Apparently, you’re ‘that one’ now.
Damn right I am. Tell Glitter she’s gonna have to get used to me.
Cocky much?
Only when I know I’m right.
I bite my lip to keep from smiling too widely, my heart doing that ridiculous fluttery thing again. It feels like stepping to the edge of a cliff, toes dangling over rocks, and daring the wind to catch me.
Goodnight, Ace.
Sweet dreams, Trouble.
As I set my phone down, Rosalee glances at me, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips.
“Oooh, you really like him,” she singsongs.
“Go to bed, Glitter,” I mutter, warmth blooming in my chest.
I jolt awake, my head throbbing like someone’s taken a sledgehammer to it. Groaning, I roll over and bury my face in the pillow, trying to escape the harsh light filtering through the curtains.
The taste of stale alcohol clings to my tongue. My body aches, and my muscles are stiff as I try to get up. The room spins, and I press a hand to my forehead, groaning.
Why do I keep doing this?
I remember the first time I drank to numb myself.
I sat alone in our room, the sound of rain pounding against the window drowning out the emptiness that had settled in my chest after I’d gotten home from the hospital.
It was supposed to take the edge off, make the pain a little less sharp.
One drink turned into two, then three, until the only way I could get through the nights was with a bottle by my side.
Pushing myself up with shaky arms, I stumble to the bathroom, my bare feet padding against the cold tiles. The apartment is quiet. No sign of Annabelle or Good Lookin’.
After relieving myself, I shuffle to the living room, my eyes squinting as I spot the pack of Twinkies we left on the sofa.
My stomach growls loudly, so I grab the last one and wolf it down without thinking.
Big mistake. Nausea hits me like a sucker punch, and I have to steady myself against the wall.
God, food and my stomach don’t match when I’m hungover.
Glancing at the clock, my vision still blurry, I see that it’s already late afternoon. At least it’s Sunday—my day off.
I know I should probably drag myself to the gym that has poles in the back and get in some training, maybe work on some new routines to clear my head, if nothing else. But, fuck, just the thought of spinning around a pole right now makes my stomach turn.
I didn’t feel that drunk when I finally crawled into bed, but my body clearly doesn’t agree with that assessment.
When the nausea finally ebbs, I drag myself into the shower at least, turning on the water as hot as I can stand.
The heat scalds my skin, but I welcome the sensation, letting it burn away the exhaustion and the remnants of last night’s glitter.
The tiny sparkles swirl around my feet, disappearing down the drain like a shimmering whirlpool, taking pieces of me with it.
The steam fills the room and wraps around me until I step out and face the foggy mirror. Wiping away the condensation, I reveal my reflection bit by bit.
While I’m worried I’ll someday forget what Ace looked like, I could never forget the details of Rosalee’s face.
Because it’s mine.
Sometimes, I catch myself wondering if this is how she would have aged. Would she have that same faint crease between her brows from frowning too much?
I try to avoid mirrors now, doing my best not to look into my green eyes for too long, but there are times when I can’t escape it. And in those moments, I see her everywhere—in the curve of my cheek, the arch of my eyebrow, the shape of my lips.
Even in the glitter all over my body, a deliberate reminder of the sparkle I stole from the world. I wear it as a promise, a penance, trying to carry her spark to shimmer in her place. As if that could somehow fill the void she left behind.
As if anything or anyone ever could.
Especially not me.
There are days when I want to smash every mirror I see, to shatter that reflection into a million pieces so I don’t have to face her, face myself. I don’t. Instead, I cover myself in glitter, paint on a smile, and pretend that the girl in the mirror is someone else.
Someone who didn’t get her sister killed.
Someone who deserves to be here, living and breathing, while Rosalee isn’t.
My damp hair hangs down my back, and with it out of the way and the glitter gone, the burn scar with its ugly, jagged edges on my right shoulder is visible, a permanent map of pain etched into my flesh.
At least it’s not red anymore. It’s simply… there. Always there.
When I’m honest, the glitter is also a mask. A way to hide the parts of me that I can’t bear to face. To hide the scars, bury the guilt, and convince everyone, maybe even myself, that I can still shine, even if it’s a lie.
I’ve thought about covering the burn scar with a rose tattoo, a tribute to Rosalee. But I can’t bring myself to permanently hide the ugliness. My fingertip traces the outline of it, feeling the raised, uneven skin beneath. I deserve to look like this.
She paid a far greater price because of me.
An image flashes through my mind. Rosalee slumped in the back seat, blood trickling out of her nose. The memory is so vivid, so real, that for a moment, I swear I can smell the gasoline and burned rubber, and a scream rips through my head. It’s so real it almost echoes off the bathroom walls.
“No, no, no…” I whimper, whirling around and barely making it to the toilet before I heave, expelling the Twinkie and whatever else was left in my stomach. Tears stream down my face, mixing with the sweat on my skin.
When will it stop? When will I be free of these memories, this guilt?
Deep down, I know the answer.
Never.
This is my cross to bear, and I’ll carry it for as long as I have to.
Until we meet again and I can beg for their forgiveness for the rest of eternity.
I pull myself up from the bathroom floor, my legs shaky beneath me. Part of me knows this can’t go on forever, that one day I’ll hit the kind of rock bottom you can’t climb out of. For now, I keep telling myself there’s still time, still a way to pull myself out of the wreckage. Just not today.
Slipping into sweats and a cami, I twist my damp hair into a messy bun and make my way to the living room, where I collapse onto the couch and grab the remote, flicking on the television to my comfort show.
MasterChef is a reality television show about aspiring home cooks battling it out in a high-pressure kitchen.
It’s a familiar, soothing background noise that doesn’t demand my full attention.
I can’t cook for shit, yet somehow, this show helps ground me.
I’ve seen all episodes a hundred times, and today, it lets my mind drift, which I know isn’t good.
I need a distraction, not to fall even deeper into this hole.
The second-best option, after getting my ass up and to the gym, which is still out of the question, would be to smoke a blunt or start drinking again, but I’m out of both.
We need groceries badly. No, wait, I need groceries. Annabelle won’t be around anyway.
I’m officially on my own now.
Fuck.
Desperate for anything that could help, I reach for my latest distraction—a diamond painting kit I impulsively bought online last week. I dump the tiny, colorful gems onto the coffee table, watching them scatter everywhere.
I hoped it would keep my thoughts at bay, but it’s mindless work, placing each piece into its designated spot, so methodically filling in the outlines of a unicorn, but it doesn’t stop my mind’s downhill path.
As a diamond slips from my fingers, hitting the floor and rolling under the couch, I curse under my breath and bend down to retrieve it.
I try to focus, but my hands keep fumbling, knocking more diamonds onto the floor, and my patience snaps.
Abandoning the diamond painting, I shove the remaining stones across the table, letting them scatter wherever they may.
This isn’t fucking working.
None of it is.
A glance at the clock tells me that If I head out now, I can grab a bottle of whiskey and some groceries, then take a couple of hours to get ready to go to Vortex.
I tell myself it’s just for fun, just another night to forget. Deep down, I know it’s more than that. I’m chasing something—validation, control, a way to feel like I matter, even if it’s only for a few hours and only to someone who doesn’t even know my name.
Annabelle would call it self-sabotage wrapped in a glittery bow, and she wouldn’t be wrong. What does she know about surviving when all you want is to disappear? She’s got her perfect boyfriend, her perfect little escape plan. Me? I’ve got whiskey and a dance floor.
Maybe one of the guys who was so eager to leave with me last night will be there again.
If not, I’ll find someone else.
I always do.