Chapter One
Lily
Three Years Later…
? “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” - Green Day ?
I swear, if this stupid keyboard goes out one more time, I’m tossing it out the window. I look at my bedroom window, remembering it is nailed shut.
Okay, never mind.
I hang my head over my desk chair, staring at my ceiling while spinning in a circle.
I have a test due in two hours. I haven’t eaten since…
oh I don’t know, yesterday? I have notes scattered along my desk, and I can’t see the floor in my room due to all the open books.
Every time I turn on my computer it gives me some type of matrix coded program, as if I’m some kind of computer wizard.
I continue to distract myself by counting the number of holes I have on my ceiling.
It should only take a couple of minutes before my screen is back up and running.
I stop spinning my chair when I hear the doorbell ring.
I tap my phone screen to see it’s 10 a.m. I shake my head, getting out of my chair.
The only person who could be ringing the doorbell at 10 a.m. is none other than my best friend, Celeste, who I will be murdering for running away last night to go make up with her boyfriend and not tell me.
I mean, I did tell her to go kiss and make up, but she could have told me she was going to go kiss and make up, instead of having me sit at home all night worrying my ass off.
“Forget your keys, did you?” I shout while walking to the door. I unlatch and unlock all the deadbolts I installed and swing the door open. I squeeze my eyebrows together, putting my hands on my hips. “What are you doing here?”
I thought it was Celeste at the door because she left her keys, but no, fucking Jace is standing in front of me looking like a deer in the headlights.
I watch his eyes dart from my legs to my face, then look back over his shoulder.
I scan my own body, noticing I am only wearing boyshort underwear and a tight tank top my breasts are overflowing out of.
I’ve worn this exact equal amount of clothing in the club, so I don’t know why his cheeks are flaming red as if he has never seen me like this before.
I slam the door in his face since he is taking too long to answer my question.
“álainn, I need you to open the door.”
“No thanks. You have the wrong house!” I yell through the door.
“Lily. Open. The door.”
I place my ear to the cold wooden frame. “Why?”
“It’s about Celeste.”
I open the door, peeking my head out. “What happened? Where is she? I swear, if you guys killed her, I will murder you and your entire family. I watch murder documentaries. I know how to get rid of a body. All you need is—” Jace shoves the door open, forcing my body into the foyer table.
“Hey! Excuse you! I did not say you can come in!” I kick my front door shut and follow him down the hallway and into my kitchen.
He sets his laptop on the counter and drops a duffle bag on the floor.
Oh lord, he is here to murder me.
“Look, I don’t have any money. I doubt Celeste hides money in the house.
I mean, Jesus, I’m in college and we live in New York.
If you plan on robbing and killing someone, I suggest you head upstate to the rich folks,” I propose, but instead of him responding to me, he lets this eerie undeclared silence waft between us—and oh.
My. God. Why is he staring at me like that?
I shake my head, lift my hands to my sides, and let them slap against my thighs. “Are you going to answer me?!”
His throat bobs and his eyes dart around the room. “I’m here to watch ya and I need you to go pack some clothes for Celeste.”
“Why? Where is she?”
“Eh, well—” He rubs the back of his head and my eyes clock his curled biceps. “Celeste and Rowan are going on an emergency trip, and Rowan told me to be here with you. I’ve got a lad coming to grab her bag in ten, so if you can hurry along, that will be helpful.”
“If they are only going on a trip then why do you need to be here?” I cross my arms over my chest and his eyes go wide as he looks from my chest back to my face. What I am wearing is probably frying his brain. Maybe that’s why he can’t answer any of my questions properly.
I huff, turning around to go to my room and find some clothes.
“Why did Rowan tell you to come be with me? I don’t need a babysitter just because my friend is going on a little romantic getaway!
” I scream from my bedroom. I start throwing clothes out of my dresser, trying to find something decent to wear.
After nearly emptying out my drawers, I find old grey sweatpants and an equally old band T-shirt.
I quickly throw them on and walk out of my room to stand in front of Jace again.
“álainn, please just go pack Celeste some clothes.”
I squint my eyes, studying him as I tap my foot on the floor.
I should kick him out. What if this is all a setup?
What if he is lying? What if Celeste is not okay, there is no romantic getaway, and he is here to do bad things to me?
Or something. If he thinks he can just barge in here and tell me what to do, well…
then he has the wrong woman. If this is true and Celeste is going on a trip with Rowan, well then sorry, Celeste, but I am not going to deal with this while you two get to play husband and wife.
I am standing my ground. Putting my foot down.
I place my hands on my hips, raise one eyebrow, and tap my foot on the ground like my mother use to do to me when I was in trouble.
Jace takes a seat on the bar stool and crosses his arms over his chest. His piercing blue eyes fix on me and my green eyes fix on him.
His blank, emotionless face is making me slightly uncomfortable, but I let minutes pass by as we both stand in our places, staring at each other.
I don’t even know how this will change the situation.
Either way, Celeste is leaving, and I can only blame myself.
If my drunk ass hadn’t let Rowan in our house the morning after the club, Celeste wouldn’t be going on this getaway slash emergency trip.
I drop my hands off my hips, giving up. “Fine.” I stomp into her room, opening her closet.
If she is going on this trip, then I am packing all the outfits she never wears— her dresses, her lingerie, even all the cute tops that I gave her from my closet, and because I am a great friend, I will give her one outfit that she will feel comfortable in: jeans and a T- shirt.
I shove it all into a duffle bag and drag it over to where Jace is sitting and typing at the speed of lightning on his laptop. “How long are they going to be gone for?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
“Well… Where are they going?”
“Can’t tell ya,” he says, his eyes glued to the laptop screen.
“Why not ‘aye’?” I mock his accent, but my smile gradually falls when he stops typing and the air becomes a little too thick.
He turns on the bar stool, facing me. His jaw clenches as his eyes search into my soul.
I look down toward the duffle bag at his feet that he brought with him.
Chills crawl over my skin at the thought of only weapons being in there.
I’ve heard what Rowan and Jace do for work and I have to admit, it’s pretty intimating, and how could I forget what happened to that man in Athens?
I mean, Rowan did have the right to kill him since he was trying to hurt Celeste, but I think about how he was found days later, shoved into a closet, missing multiple limbs, and I’m afraid I might be next.
I rock back and forth on my feet, rolling the hem of my T-shirt between my fingers.
“Forget it. I will call her myself.” I start walking away to my room, but I’m yanked back by my arm, my head snapping into Jace’s chest. I wrap my hand around his bicep for stability as his face is only inches away from mine.
This is it. He is going to kill me. I am going to be shoved into a closet with missing limbs and who knows when Celeste will find me.
“Don’t. Do. That. Again,” he says behind his teeth as I feel his thumb draw circles on my arms. His grip goes from deadly to friendly as he adds, “Your voice is too pretty to mock my accent, álainn.” I can see his irises expand as they scan my face.
I’ve never seen eyes as blue as his. They are not blue with multiple shades, no, his eyes are pure blue, like the sky on a clear day.
Freckles dot around his face, giving him a bronzy glow and god, his— I move my hands from his biceps to his chest and push him off me.
I turn on my heels, walk back to my room, and slam my door shut.
I pick up my phone from my desk, clicking Celeste’s contact.
I stand there listening to the line ring until it goes to voicemail.
“Bitch, I swear to god, if you are not already dead, I am going to murder you myself.” I pause and think about how she could possibly already be dead.
“I’m sorry. I take that back. I won’t murder you.
Please just call me back.” I hang up the phone and stare at my screen, waiting for a text or a call back.
Nothing.
I throw my phone on my bed, turning to look at my computer to see it’s finally not in the Matrix, and turn to the clock to see I now have only an hour to submit this test. My professor gave us this test a week ago, but due to me working two jobs and having half my classes online and half in person, I waited until the last minute to submit.
This test is supposed to prepare us for our civil procedure final, but the only thing I feel like it is preparing me for is my death.
Nobody knows that I barely made it into NYU Law by the tips of my fingernails. I’m smart, but for whatever reason, I freak out when it comes to exams, tests, and anything that could put my future at risk.
Throughout high school, I took specific courses to help me with test anxiety, but it didn’t remove the pressure build up I get in my chest anytime I read the first page.
Multiple choice tests tend to be easy for me.
When I don’t know the answer, I automatically pick B or C.
Everybody knows one of those options is always the correct answer.
But when we get to written tests, my stomach swirls and bubbles, making me want to vomit all my organs.
All this unnecessary stress just to receive a law degree that I don’t want.
When I was a kid, I used to play judge with my father.
I would put on my mother’s robe and run around the house with a wooden spoon, banging it on furniture and screaming, “Court in order!” That was over twenty years ago, and when I turned eighteen and told my parents I was moving to the States for college, their eyes lit up like the Fourth of July.
They failed to catch my facial expression or my denial when they started chanting that their daughter was going to be an attorney.
They held on to that little girl who wanted to be responsible for delivering justice and that same little girl couldn’t be responsible for their heartbreak when she told them that was not what she wanted.
So here I am, five years later, unable to keep my sanity, unable to keep my room clean, working two jobs, discarding and piling outfit drawings into my desk drawer, and lying to my parents when they call.