22. That’s What I Call Crazy
THAT’S WHAT I CALL CRAZY
PRESENT
Birdie.
The second that name slipped from Jase’s mouth, he had sealed my fate. I was no longer Ali Sharpe or even “that dork in the glasses.”
I was little, ugly, baby Birdie.
The nickname stuck so well that even a few teachers slipped up and called me that on occasion.
What hurt more than anything else was Jase’s behavior.
He didn’t try reaching out to me again, never spoke to me at school, and refused to so much as look in my direction.
As far as he was concerned, I didn’t exist. That didn’t seem to be good enough for Sienna and Trent.
I was a bad joke they couldn’t drop from their set, like Jase needed to keep reassuring them I was nothing more than navel lint, something so insignificant that I wasn’t worth the time to even acknowledge.
And when they forced him to address my existence, I was met with nothing but disgust.
I still remember the look on his face in English class when Trent kept pestering him, asking if he wanted to kiss me again.
Jase had been finishing a bag of potato chips and only acknowledged the remark by making a face directed back at Trent. “I’m eating,” he had grumbled, like the very thought was enough to induce vomiting.
Whatever smidgen of hope I had that maybe deep down Jase felt bad for what he had done died that day. All he regretted was that Sienna and Trent could use our shared history as ammunition to further annoy him.
Jase wasn’t mine. He never was. Yet, I couldn’t rid myself of the pain that flared in my chest any time I saw him with Sienna.
The two never even officially dated, and I saw her flirt openly with countless other guys in school, but that didn’t stop her from sitting on his lap in the cafeteria whenever she felt like it.
Sienna had Jase wrapped around her finger, ready to answer her every beck and call, and she relished rubbing my face in it.
Sienna never had to say it out loud, because her expression spoke for itself.
That’s right, bitch. He’d rather have whatever scraps I throw at him than have all of you and your birdie, bony ass.
When Jase moved away before the end of sophomore year, I assumed the antics would go away with him.
They didn’t. I was an easy target for both Trent’s and Sienna’s forms of sadism, and they weren’t about to cut me some slack.
If anything, Jase’s absence fueled the fire.
It was no longer enough that the Untouchables hassled me.
They made sure anyone who cared about their social status got in on the action.
People didn’t even have to say anything to taunt me. A chorus of bird whistling did just fine. Well, that and your occasional barking. At least a quarter of our class did one variation of it to me during our graduation ceremony when my name got called for me to accept my diploma.
“Fucking douche-nozzle ass-face son of a bitch.” I’d like to say I was able to process my emotions during the early hours of the morning and that I’m now a calm, even-tempered member of society. However, I chuck a stack of notepads under theregister counter, still muttering obscenities.
“I’m sorry?”
I jump at the voice, spinning around to see Reed staring back at me, looking like a puppy I just kicked.
Given the tats and his all-around don’t-fuck-with-me vibe, it’s always adorable to see this side of him, only…
it now dawns on me that I’m not being as quiet as I thought I was, and he thinks my outburst was aimed at him .
“Oh, sweetie. No.” I wrap an arm around him, and I can feel the tension loosen in his muscles. “I’m just venting. About someone else. ”
“You sure?”
I chuckle. “Unless your name is suddenly Jase, positive.”
That adorable, soft expression is instantly wiped away by a look I recognize from my brother when he goes into overprotective mode. “Did he hurt you?”
Unlike Derek, who may second guess breaking his future sibling-in-law’s face, Reed doesn’t have the same reservation.
You mess with someone he cares about, he’s ready to put you in your place.
And as lanky as he may be, I’ve seen him throw a punch.
The guy’s got more behind him than most people would give him credit for.
As tempting as it may be to see, I nevertheless shake my head. “No, he’s just poking at old scars.”
Old scars that suddenly aren’t feeling so old.
“It also doesn’t help that there’s still the taint of Sienna Hawthorne being in my house,” I admit.
“After Trent’s little country club dinner drop-in, he’s made it more than clear he’s not going anywhere.
And with Jase at the house, it’s only a matter of time before Trent uses his long-lost buddy as an excuse to swing by, too. ”
As much of an asshole as he may be, I still doubt Jase would actually invite him over, but I wouldn’t put it past Trent to ‘surprise’ his friend.
Considering how my parents handled Sienna’s visit, I can’t expect they’d do anything different with Trent.
No one wants to end up on the Eastons’ shit list, and forcing pathetic little Ali to spend time with her abusers in her own home is just the cost of doing business.
It’s not so much a matter of if Trent will show up but when …unless I can get Jase’s sorry ass kicked out of the house.
Reed must share my train of thought, because he calls attention to the obvious fact. “Your stepmom clearly doesn’t want Jase there, so getting him kicked out won’t take her much convincing.”
And I remember the phone call I overheard last evening. Jase is definitely up to something, and from what I heard, it sounded an awful lot like he’s looking to make some kind of deal.
When I mention the name Murdock, Reed’s metaphorical ears perk up. “You sure that’s what he said?”
“Yeah, do you know him?”
“It’s not a person. It’s the old factory over in Lexington where they throw raves. Invitation only. If you’re looking to pick up an addiction, it’s the place to go, and they get a lot of top-shelf inventory from the West Coast.” Reed shoots me a knowing look. “Where did you say he came from again?”
Don’t look at me like that. I’m not one to snoop, but desperate times call for nosy measures.
During my lunch break, Maggie drops me off at my house, and I’m relieved to see Jase’s bike isn’t in the driveway.
This is the first time since I returned from college that I’m home during the day, so I have no idea what to expect.
Thankfully, the only people I hear as I step inside are at the back of the house.
I slip upstairs and down the hall, armed with the reassurance that Maggie is parked nearby, ready to text me in case Jase shows up.
I don’t need to find his whole stash. If Jase is in possession of so much as a joint or a pill, Blythe will happily show him the door.
She already established when he first came here that she has a zero-tolerance policy for anything relating to drugs, alcohol, or smoking.
Hell, even a pack of cigarettes could get him out on his ass.
By the time I reach Jase’s room, I’m practically grinning at the thought.
There’s no way he doesn’t have something less than reputable in here.
I mean, he’s a nineteen-year-old guy for crying out loud.
However, a minute into my investigation, it’s obvious something is…
off. Every last drawer in the dresser is empty, as is the closet.
The only clothes in the entire room are the set folded on his bed.
I’d be inclined to think maybe he only brought a week’s worth of outfits and hasn’t done laundry yet, but there isn’t anything even in the hamper.
Not to mention, he obviously expected to stay in town for a good chunk of the summer, so where are the rest of his things?
The only evidence someone is staying in this room, apart from the set of clothes on the mattress, is the toiletry travel bag on the nightstand filled with your standard toothbrush, combs, and what have you.
There isn’t a laptop, an extra pair of shoes, or even a phone charger.
I look under the bed just to make sure I’m not missing something, but nope.
Jase doesn’t have so much as a suitcase, gym bag, or backpack.
What the hell?
It’s not like he’s storing his things in his car. He doesn’t have one.
My phone vibrates from my back pocket and not a second later do I hear footsteps making their way up the stairs.
Since the hall is a straight shot, it’s not like I can duck out of the room without being seen.
My only option is to hide, and the hinges on the closet door are in desperate need of some WD-40, so unless I want to announce myself, that’s not an option either.
Only once I’m on the floor, trying and failing to squeeze myself beneath the bed, do I process the sound of those footsteps.
Unless Jase has suddenly taken up wearing stilettos, the person coming down the hall isn’t him. Still hiding on the other side of the bed, I shimmy my phone out of my back pocket to see the message I just got isn’t from Maggie.
It’s from Wes.
I know there’s that whole 48-hours rule before I’m supposed to text, but I was hoping you might join me for dinner Friday night.
Even lying on the floor, hiding out from God only knows who, I’m smiling like an idiot.
Unlike the jackass whose bed I’m partially wedged under, Wes isn’t allergic to messaging me.
Despite Jase claiming to have called and texted last night when he was looking for a way in the house, my phone still shows zero evidence of him so much as butt dialing me.
Honestly, how over inflated does his pride have to be not to ask me for a simple favor?
In Jase’s case, he’d rather go down like the Hindenburg than fathom the horror of sending me a quick, “Can you unlock the deadlatch on the front door?”