44. Trouble – Aurora
44
TROUBLE
AURORA
I haven’t come out of my room since Elijah and Seven left this afternoon to go see Julian. They needed to go check on him. They offered for me to come, but apparently it’s a long drive and I didn’t want to leave Ellie again. Atticus is staying behind as well. He muttered something about needing to check up on some things and make sure nothing from Paris is going to try to follow us home.
Eli made no secret of not wanting to leave me with him. I think he’s afraid Atticus will try to pressure me into agreeing to his plan. He almost didn’t go at all because of it. But if Julian is really lucid right now, they shouldn’t waste the opportunity to go see him.
From my window, I have an unobstructed view of the pool deck where Ellie lazes on the stone without a care in the world, her belly turned up to soak in the warmth of the sun before it can fully set behind the tall pines.
At least one of us is enjoying herself.
There’s a tap at my bedroom door, and I lift my chin from where I’d been resting it atop my folded arms on the windowsill.
“Come in.”
The door creaks lightly as Atticus pushes it open and leans against the frame with a wan grin, tapping something against his palm.
“Hey, Trouble.”
I snort.
I should be the one calling him that . He’s the one who had to go and ruin my exit plan, pulling me into something potentially far more dangerous than the shitty situation I left behind.
Atticus steps into the room and lifts the device between his fingers. “Your phone’s all clear. Doesn’t look like it was compromised.”
I take it from him, finding it fully charged and free of notifications. Oddly enough, I didn’t miss it. Thanks to Jesse, I haven’t had social media in a long time or any sort of regular or meaningful contact with any of my old friends. The only person who texts me on occasion these days is my adopted dad, and I hear from my fucking Duolingo app more than I hear from him. Now, there’s a toxic relationship.
Hi! I miss you. Do you want to practice your Spanish today?
Aurora, don’t lose your 21-day streak!
You made Duo sad. But then we kept learning Spanish without you!
How do you say ‘quitter’ in Spanish?
All the while his little green avatar wastes away to nothing but dust and bones.
“Thanks.”
“Can I show you something?”
Can’t he see I’m super busy staring out the window with a case of melancholy?
“Sure, why not?”
Anything’s got to be better than sitting here coming up with a hundred more questions that aren’t helping me formulate an answer to the one he wants an answer to. I can’t stop picturing Elijah’s scars. I don’t know how I’ll ever get that image out of my head. It’s like the lashes are imprinted on the backs of my eyelids, and they’re there waiting for me every time I close my eyes.
How could anyone do that to a person?
But Elijah isn’t just any person. He’s one of the good ones. Thoughtful. Kind.
I don’t understand how someone could know him as well as I have to guess Ambrose did, and still be able to do that to him. I thought I’d seen the face of evil, but this guy might take the cake.
I pocket my phone, and Atticus leads me through the house, taking me past the front entrance and through the formal dining room I’ve literally never seen any of them use, and around to a staircase I’ve never seen the bottom of.
“What’s down there?”
He’s already three steps down when he pauses, pushing a loose strand of his bound hair behind his ear. There’s mischief in his stare, and it makes my pulse thrum. “Don’t you trust me?”
I scoff. “No.”
“I guess that’s fair.”
I don’t budge.
“Well, you can go back to staring out the window like a sad old lady if you’d prefer. Up to you.”
He bounds down the rest of the stairs without bothering to see if I’m following him.
I bounce from foot to foot. Fuck . I’m still angry at him, but our talk out at the pool changed my perception of him, if only just a little bit.
I might not agree with Atticus’s methods, and I might be personally offended at the fact that he would pick any random girl off the street and try to use her for his own gain, but…I get it. Or at least I want to get it.
I can only pretend to know what it’s like to love someone so much that you’d do anything for them. I always thought that kind of love was fantasy or fiction, but I saw it in his eyes at the pool. He would do anything to get the revenge his family deserves.
Before I can make up my mind whether I want to stay or go, music filters up to me from down the stairs, and like a lure, I am reeled in.
The familiar melody rises in volume with each step I take. It’s “Sugar” by Sleep Token.
The quality of the sound is warm, rich, and raw. Different from how I’ve usually heard it.
I’m at the bottom of the stairs before the end of the first verse, walking through the open door into a bedroom dimly lit with only a single floor lamp in one corner. It smells woody and earthy and warm, like stepping onto a desert plain.
The room is drenched in colors that only reinforce the vibe. Like a moonlit sand dune, it’s all darkest navy and softest taupe sand with bits of scorched orange mixed in. And it’s spotless. There isn’t a single wrinkle in the navy bedding. Not one scratch or scuff on the tobacco leather recliner in the corner.
I almost knock into something next to the door as I turn and I throw my arms out to catch it, steadying the ancient-looking bust of some guy that’s perched on a little platform by the door with a wince.
The music isn’t coming from this room, I realize, as I blow out a breath. It’s farther, past another open door on the other side of the long space. My bare feet kiss the plush carpeted floor of his bedroom as I hurry across and peer through to the next room.
It’s smaller than his bedroom but just as dimly lit. At first I think it’s a smaller second library, with all the shelves and the low lounger chair pushed off to one corner, but it’s not books occupying the shelves. It’s records. Hundreds and hundreds if not thousands of them.
Atticus looks up from where he stands next to a record player.
I raise an eyebrow, a slow smile tugging at my lips as I give him a nod of approval.
“I heard you like Sleep Token,” he says, his eyes lingering on me with an expression I can’t quite read.
When the chorus starts playing, I can’t help but wonder if he chose this song for another reason, or if it’s just a coincidence.
I really didn’t expect we’d have anything in common. Atticus and I are too different.
Apparently aside from being abandoned by our mothers and listening to the same artist.
“My favorite right now is ‘Jaws’ . ”
I run my fingers over the edges of the records on the shelf. “Are all of these yours?”
“They are now. Some were Florence’s. She had a small collection we used to listen to all the time. I’ve added to it over the years.”
Art and music.
“She sounds like she was a cool mom.”
“She was.” He exhales loudly, pushing his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. “She would’ve liked you, I think.”
Is that a compliment?
“So, is this you trying to butter me up some more because I don’t have an answer for you yet.”
He presses his lips into a tight line.
Of course that’s what this is…
I pull a couple records off the shelf, finding an old Blink-182 and a special edition Nirvana.
He comes over and takes the Nirvana from my hands, rubbing his thumb over where someone has drawn little stars and diamonds in pen ink around the song “Come as You Are” in the track list.
He puts the record back on the shelf. “No. I guess this is me trying to get to know you.”
I’m not sure what I was expecting but it wasn’t that.
“Oh.”
“I misjudged you,” he explains. “And I don’t do that often—but, to be fair, most people aren’t as good at camouflaging as you are.”
Is he accusing me of something? I can’t tell, but the air feels thinner. Tight.
“Yeah, well, a childhood spent bouncing around to eight different foster homes makes you learn how to blend in.”
I don’t mean to sound so defensive, but it’s definitely coming out that way.
I might’ve been ‘camouflaging’ in the beginning while I was trying to get a feel for these guys—who they were and what they wanted, and most importantly, if they posed any sort of threat. But I’m not anymore.
I’m not sure when exactly it started to wear away. Probably somewhere between Jesse being pummeled to death and what happened between Seven, Elijah, and me on the plane. The only one I might still be wearing a mask for is him . Atticus.
And I don’t think I want to take it all the way off.
I push the record back onto the shelf, and Atticus grimaces before tugging it back out to put it in what I assume is the correct place.
I try not to laugh. He really doesn’t handle any type of disorder or chaos very well, does he? That must be hard. Not just for him, but for Elijah and Seven, too.
Much like his bedroom, Atticus always seems to be ‘in order’.
He’s in peak physical condition that makes him look like some sort of Viking warrior, and I’ve never seen him dirty. His clothes are always crisp and fresh. Unwrinkled. And he’s never without that watch on his left wrist. The only part of him that seems at all chaotic is his hair. He’s always fighting to keep it all tied back. I wonder why he doesn’t just shave it off.
“You’re an enigma, too, you know,” I find myself saying. “Seven and Elijah have shared a lot about their history with me, but you—I don’t know anything about you other than the fact that your mother left when you were a baby and that…well, that you’re kind of a dick.”
He blinks at me and I shrug.
He can’t deny it’s true. I admire his confidence and his strength. And the way he’s willing to sacrifice anything—and apparently anyone— for his family, but the way he goes about it all definitely keeps him firmly in asshole territory.
“Because I lied about what I wanted from you?” he guesses.
I shake my head.
Wrong.
It’s partly that, but now that I know more about Elijah’s past, I can’t help feeling secondhand rage at Atticus for sending me in to clean Elijah’s studio knowing how it could trigger him. He might not have known just how badly it would affect Elijah, but it was still wrong of him to do. Even if Elijah did grudgingly say that he’s glad it’s done.
“I really don’t think you’d have said yes if I’d asked you to help a bunch of criminals take down another criminal right off the hop.”
I give him a dubious look. “Hey. I totally might’ve.”
It wasn’t a joke, but he takes it as one anyway, his lips faltering into a smile as he lets out a short laugh.
It really does change his whole face.
Up until now, I’ve grown accustomed to seeing him in a perpetual state of agitation. Whatever the male version of resting bitch face is, he’s definitely got a mean case of it. But when Atticus smiles, there’s a magnetism to it that I struggle to guard myself against.
The light in his eyes and the dimple in his right cheek aren’t helping.
Why do the assholes always have to be so fucking attractive?
Who made that a rule?
He bobs his head this way and that with a doubtful crease in his brow. “Guess we’ll never know.”
“Guess not.”
When the seconds stray too long between us, I back up half a step and gesture to the shelf. To the spot where he put the Nirvana back. “That one was Florence’s?”
“This whole shelf was hers.”
He takes hold of the lip of wood beneath the records, and there’s a sentiment softening his features that I wish I could properly empathize with, but I can’t. I don’t even have a memory of my own mother to miss.
“We should listen to one.”
He stiffens. “I don’t — I don’t really listen to these ones anymore.”
“Don’t you think she’d want you to?”
A bitterness purses his lips for an instant before it’s gone. “Yeah. She probably would.”
He lets his hand fall away from the shelf and the resting asshole face is back. “But she isn’t here anymore.”
“What about your family? You said you never really knew your bio mom?”
“She left when I was only a couple months old. Couldn’t hack it.”
“So, who raised you then, your dad?”
“You know what?” He shakes his head, a muscle in his jaw flexing. “I’d really rather not talk about it.”
“You said you wanted to get to know me. Isn’t it only fair if I get to know you a little bit, too?”
He seems to mull over that, and then nods.
“I don’t think I’d say my dad ‘raised’ me.”
What does he mean by that?
He licks his lips, flicking through the records while he talks. “He was a drunk and an addict. If anything, I was the one taking care of him most of the time.”
“That must’ve been hard.”
He doesn’t reply, but his hand clenches against the shelf.
I wonder if that’s why he feels like he always has to be in control now—because he spent so long having everything out of his control.
“Do you still see him?”
His eyes darken. “No. I left when I was sixteen after he OD’d for the tenth time, and I never looked back. I don’t even know if he’s still alive.”
My chest cracks and the wall I was trying to build between us crumbles just a little more.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, and I didn’t realize I was looking at him in any sort of way, but now I glare at him with a scowl on my lips. He doesn’t need to snap at me.
“Is that where you got your control issues from?”
His lips part and his brows lower.
“Come on, don’t look so surprised. You can’t tell me the guys haven’t called you out on it before.”
He scoffs. “No, they definitely have. I’m just not used to anyone else doing it.”
“So? Is that why?”
“I don’t really know why, Aurora. It’s just how I am.”
“Kind of a cop-out, isn’t it?”
“You think I haven’t tried to change it?”
“Have you?”
He scoffs again, getting those lines of agitation in his forehead again.
“Trust me, I have. It’s not that easy. There are things that help me manage it, but it never really goes away.”
I cock my head. “Things like what? Medication?”
He shakes his head. Pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s getting annoyed, but I don’t care because I think I just realized why I can’t make up my mind about whether or not I want to accept my role in this plan he’s cooked up. It’s because of him . I don’t have a good sense of him as a person like Elijah and Seven, and I need to if this is going to work.
“So many questions…” he says in a rough whisper and drops his hand. “ No . Not medication. Working out helps. Running, too. But sex works best.”
I can’t hide my surprise as I reply. “Sex?”
“Well, not just regular sex.”
I lift a brow and wait for him to elaborate.
“You actually want to know?”
“Yeah, now you kind of have to tell me.”
I need to know what the hell ‘not just regular sex’ means.
“This kind comes with a prearranged agreement—a contract.”
“Like that NDA you made me sign?”
He shakes his head again, and is that a smirk playing on his lips?
“There is an NDA involved, but no. It’s a different sort of contract. One where the terms of what I want to do—what they’ll let me do—are all laid out in black and white. When it happens, I don’t do anything they didn’t already agree to, and they can’t say no to anything they did agree to.”
“Giving you control,” I finish for him, my throat going dry as I imagine what it must feel like to surrender. To submit.
“Exactly.”
My core tightens and my toes curl.
This brings a whole new meaning to Daddicus I’m not sure I wanted to know.
I’m curious what sort of things would be on a contract like that, but I definitely shouldn’t ask. In fact…
“We should probably talk about something else.”
His smirk turns wicked. “Why’s that?”
“Because I don’t want to know what sort of atrocities you like to do to women.”
“Oh, I don’t think any of them would call the things I do to them atrocities .”
Atticus watches me carefully, and my face heats under his stare.
What is he thinking?
Say something. Say something.
“They probably only let you because you’re attractive,” I blurt.
He cocks his head at me, narrowing his gaze. “You think I’m attractive?”
“Objectively,” I correct, fighting to swallow. “It doesn’t make you any less of an ass.”
“Well, I think you’re objectively pretty too, Trouble.”
He chuckles to himself. It’s a low, throaty sound that would make most women’s panties very wet, but not mine.
Definitely not mine.
The album shifts to another song by Sleep Token that I know better, and I pick up the cover, busying myself with reading the track list so I can avoid looking at him.
“I take it you’re done with your questions, now?”
I purse my lips.
“ My turn, then .”