25. Chapter 23
Emery
Where the fuck is it?
Wiping the sweat from my brow, I survey my room. There is shit everywhere. Well, not actual shit. But I’ve stripped my bags, wardrobe, and bed bare because, for some stupid reason, I thought that my sketchpad and graphite could have possibly made it in between my sheets.
Now all I have is a room that is even worse off than yesterday, since I didn’t bother cleaning up the original search mess, and still no goddamn art supplies.
Even my trashy sketchbook is missing. I just really want to fucking draw.
And sure, yeah, I could totally do that with a regular pencil and paper, or heck, I could use my gift card and go to the store Darcy took me to, but I want my things, the things I followed all the rules to receive.
The things I deserve.
So, I repeat, where the fuck are they?
Because they clearly aren’t fucking here.
They should have been in the bag that Xavier brought home from the apartment, which Derek said he was packing up my things and having delivered to the dorm.
So, does that mean he packed up my things from the apartment?
If yes, then there is no way he left any of them at their place.
The man is the most detail-oriented person I have ever met.
I’m fairly confident that he has his entire life completely planned out, with a list of checkboxes next to each major milestone. They probably all have a pros-and-cons list too. Maybe even a project timeline to make sure they are completed perfectly on schedule.
Okay. Assuming Derek packed my things, then gave them to Xavier to bring to the dorm, maybe they are in Xavier’s car? And, of course, when I actually want him to be here, he isn’t. I have zero idea where he is right now, but he’s probably in a class or maybe his office, if I’m lucky.
It takes a minute to unearth my phone from the mess of clothes on my bed, but once I do, I shoot off a text to him, then proceed to stare at the screen, chewing on the side of my thumb while I wait for a reply.
If he isn’t teaching, then I should know within a few seconds. Otherwise, I guess I’ll have to wait.
Me: Are my sketchbooks and graphite case in your car?
It only takes a few seconds for the message to turn to read.
Xavier: No.
If the universe was even a little bit on my side, it would allow the glare I’m glaring at my screen to digitally transfer through the ether and come out of Xavier’s phone as laser beams that burn his stupid gorgeous face off.
With maybe a little too much force for the glass screen of my phone, I type out my reply.
Me: Were they with my things when you picked them up?
Xavier: No.
“Ahhhhhhh!”
The scream explodes out of me like a high-pitched whistle. He is so fucking annoying. And immature. And ridiculous. And irritating. Oh my fucking god. Clearly, I want to know where my things are. He must have some fucking clue. Why the hell is he like this?
How the hell did I think his aloofness was attractive? Mysterious, even? Like he has some sort of dark, hidden secret that only his true love could unravel? Is it the cat-and-mouse game? Like he knows the secrets to life but isn’t willing to share unless you ask the exact right question.
No, the guy is just a fuckface who likes to torment people. Fucking asshole.
Fine. Let’s say I believe him, when the more likely scenario is that he has stolen my things and is going to hold them for ransom. The next logical conclusion is that Derek did not pack them, which, while highly unbelievable, is the most likely option.
Well, maybe. Xavier could have dropped them at some point and not noticed. But like Derek not packing them, I just can’t see Xavier dropping something unnoticed.
Now what?
Do I message Derek? Is that the play here?
I start to pace in the small amount of space that isn’t taken up by my things but end up having to take my over-anxious self out into the main living area, even though I know Xavier will be watching me.
After finding out about the cameras, I located each and every one.
And even though there were only three, that is still more than anyone should have to deal with in their living space.
But once I found them, decisions had to be made.
Did I leave them there, so I at least know where they are? Or take them down and get into a battle of wills with Xavier over replacing them?
And what about Oakley, did I tell her?
In the end, I followed her like a creeper into our bathroom, because surely we would have privacy in there, and explained the situation to her.
At first, she simply stared at me, blinking slowly like her mental process had malfunctioned and needed to reboot.
Then she shrugged and said “kinky” and “not walking around naked in the dorm anymore,” like it was fucking normal for an ex-daddy to move in and set up cameras to watch a person when he isn’t physically here.
But also, what the fuck with the naked dorm-room strolls?
Whatever.
This is a whole lot of too much for me right now.
Which is why I want my fucking art supplies. I need to turn my brain off. I need to get everything in my head, out of it. Especially the stupid fucking gift that arrived with another goddamn note.
A Kindle. And not the base model, either.
It’s in full-color with cellular connectivity and an account already attached, ready for me to download whatever books I want.
Not that I need to download books for a while, since there are at least one hundred romance stories on there already, from a wide range of genres.
It’s at least, if not more than, an entire year’s worth of reading.
And don’t even get me started on the note.
Emery,
You are owed 17 rewards. Please consider this your 3rd.
Hudson.
It took me a minute to figure out what the three were. The Kindle, the notebook, and… the box with the big satin bow I had yet to open. It was still on my desk. For some reason, I couldn’t. Something about the box was scary.
Realistically, I know it’s just an object. But it’s the meaning behind it, I guess.
My feet carry me in figure eights around the dorm as the knowledge that I need to contact Derek starts to loom larger and larger, like it’s my only option.
He would have been the last person to see my things.
He managed to pack everything else. It has to be in the apartment.
I don’t know how I will feel if that’s not where they are.
Because if they’re not there, then they’re lost. Gone.
My entire history of thoughts and feelings, just poof, gone.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve carried that trashy sketchbook with me everywhere I’ve gone, every group home, every foster home.
It has everything in it. Just adding more and more sheets as I’ve gone along.
And now it is potentially in the trash somewhere because that’s what it looks like.
A collection of scrap pieces of paper fitted in among overly crowded sketch pages that could have multiple layers of drawings on them, just because I couldn’t find more paper and needed the outlet.
Every organ I possess aches at the thought, and I start to feel physically ill.
No, it’s fine. Derek will know where it is.
I’ll just send him a message, and he will reply and say that it’s in the apartment somewhere.
Yes. That’s exactly what’s going to happen.
Okay, cool.
Pausing my steps right in the middle of the dorm, I open my messages with Derek.
Me: My sketchpads and graphite set aren’t with my things from the apartment. Did you forget to pack them?
Unlike Xavier, my message doesn’t turn to read straight away. Which is totally okay. He is probably teaching a class right now. I’ll just go and…clean my room.
What feels like an eternity later, my phone lights up as I hang the last shirt in my closet, finally restoring my room to its semi-clean regular state.
Snatching it up, I waste no time getting into my messages.
Derek: Hi Emery, I’m sorry to hear that your things are missing. I did not forget to pack your sketchpads and graphite set. I know how important they are to you.
My heart rate increases as I read the words. He didn’t forget? Does that mean he didn’t find them?
Before I can even think to reply, another message comes through.
Derek: If it will ease your mind, I’ll go and check the apartment as soon as I am done here for the day.
My entire chest deflates with relief. He is going to go find them.
Me: Yes, please.
The message turns to read without a reply. But that’s fine. He’ll go to the apartment, find my things, and then everything will be fixed.
My phone vibrates in my hand, a pixie-like chime flowing from it continuously, and I let out a massive groan as the name of the alarm flashes on the screen.
Meeting with dean.
Fuck.