24. Did I hit a nerve?
Did I hit a nerve?
“You look like shit,” Callan says, setting his juice down, eyeing me. I feel like shit, but the crisp morning air and sun help. The stone bench is cool against my thighs, grounding me.
“Didn’t sleep,” I mumble, stuffing my face with a breakfast burrito. The campus hums with activity. The rain has finally stopped after what feels like three days, and everyone is out enjoying the clean, damp air.
My flannel slides down my shoulder, and quickly I tug it up.
Not quick enough because in the next second, Callan is scooting closer, damn near spilling the orange juice bottle, pulling it back down.
His eyes nearly fall out of his head. “Who the hell bit you like an animal?” he asks, a harsh tone in his voice.
I slap his hand away and pull it back up. “No one.”
“Oliver didn’t—” His eyes bulge once again. “Fuck, he’s going to kill them.”
“No…no, Oliver was the guy.” I sigh. “That’s not the reason for the lack of sleep and shitty appearance.”
His brows scrunch. “First, your appearance is anything but shitty. Second, elaborate.”
I lean back, abandoning my food. “Leo cornered me in the hallway last night. Let’s just say my back was against a wall. Literally.”
Callan’s face drains of all color. “What the fuck did you do afterward?”
I grimace. “Hid in my room.” Somehow, he looks even angrier. “I jammed a chair under the door handle.” I don’t mention drinking a bottle of wine or the unknown message that once again started up. I need to tell Oliver first.
“Why didn’t you call me, Roxy, or, I don’t know, Oliver?” I give him my most “are you kidding me” face. “Okay, maybe not Oliver, but next time, call me. Now I have to kill Leo myself, and it’s always easier with help.”
“I can’t tell if you're joking.” After all of the threats Oliver makes, who knows if Callan is capable? Even though I don’t suspect my friend of being a coldhearted psycho, everyone wears some sort of mask.
“I’m not.”
I take a long sip of my coffee. “I kneed him in the balls. And in the face. He’ll probably need a nose job.”
His grin is downright terrifying. I’m about to say more, but stop when Oliver comes walking up, taking the empty seat next to me.
He looks between us, eyes narrowed. “Well, don’t let my presence stop the conversation.” He extends his arm, wrapping it around my waist and pulling me into his side.
“I was just asking her if you were the vampire.”
Oliver glances at me. “Who else would it be?”
I ignore him as I start to pack my things. “I’m heading out.” Oliver looks up, a crease forming between his brows. “Catch you guys later. And Callan…” I raise my eyebrows. “No killing.”
Even if I’ve thought about killing Leo many times and had plenty of hours with my therapist talking about the trauma he inflicted, I don’t want that type of blood on my friends’ hands.
Later, to Oliver, means an entire class period.
When I step out of journalism, he’s leaning against the wall across the hall like he’s been waiting long enough to get bored.
A few girls around me slow down, double take, then keep walking.
Nobody approaches him, and I don’t blame them.
He isn’t wearing the open, careless face he likes to put on in public.
This one is closed off, radiating a clear “don’t fuck with me” warning.
“I’m going to take a wild guess and assume you’re waiting for me.” I stop in front of him.
“Wonder what gave you that impression,” he deadpans.
I look around dramatically, then stage whisper, “I didn’t see anyone else walk up to you.”
His expression doesn’t shift. “Why did you run off this morning?”
My eyes widen, and I laugh, loud enough that a couple of people glance over. “That’s hilarious.” I step closer, dropping my voice. “You want to talk about running. What the fuck was last night? You left me in the shower. You just walked out. Again.”
I square my shoulders. He stays calm, cool, and collected. I want to hit him, but I won’t. Not after last time. Even thinking about the slap, the way his face went cold and wounded at the same time, makes my heart twist into a knot.
“I had to go,” he says.
“Where? Actually, never mind.” I swallow. “It doesn’t matter. Just don’t…don’t leave me like that.”
Something flickers across his face. “It’s not what you think. I can see that pretty head of yours building worst-case scenarios.” His mouth twitches. “It’s nothing like that.” Like what? Murder. Threatening. Tying girls up. God, the list could go on and on.
He takes a half step closer. “As much as I love chasing you, the appeal died when I have to do it over every small misunderstanding. If you have a problem, tell me.”
“Did you just hear how insane that sounds coming out of your mouth?” One eyebrow lifts.
“Communication?” A short, humorless sound leaves me.
“News flash, we don’t communicate. Last night, you could’ve said one sentence.
One.” I hold up one finger to further my point.
“Instead, you left me there feeling like I was tossed aside. Like I didn’t matter.
” And that’s the crux of it because Oliver can say every pretty word in the dictionary, but actions speak louder.
He runs a hand through his hair, and for the first time, he looks…not frustrated, exactly. Tight. Like he’s holding something back. “We do communicate, Dollface.” He exhales through his nose. “And I should’ve told you. I should’ve stayed.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “What do you even know about me?”
A slow grin slides into place, cocky Oliver returning like a mask he is comfortable wearing. “Let’s see. Lyra Melody Sloane. Twenty-one. From South Bay, Oregon.” His eyes drag over me. “You like reading, fashion, makeup, jewelry. And you pretend you’re not lonely.”
The last one lands harder than it should.
Because he isn’t wrong. I’m surrounded by people who love me, who show up, who care, and somehow, I still end up feeling like I’m by myself.
It’s why Italy happened the way it did. Why I let strangers, guys I would never see again, pleasure me, then feel even more empty after.
Maybe Oliver and I aren’t that different.
We both use touch as a distraction. A way to drown out everything else.
“Okay, stop.” I lift both hands, palms out.
“If you think the small things matter, then I’ll indulge your curiosity.”
He takes my hand. Just like that, he’s walking, or rather, pulling me out of the building toward a destination he has already decided on. I follow, intrigued.
“Wait. What’s…Your car?”
“It’s getting fixed. This is another one I have.”
He has two cars that look the same. This one isn’t sleek black, it’s a pearl white, but the same style and everything.
“Why does someone need two cars?” I slide into the passenger seat. He shuts my door, before getting in.
“Because sometimes there are blondes who dress like they are sneaking around and destroy the first one.”
We sit on the roof deck of Willow Reads, the sun dragging its golden body toward the ocean. Oliver shifts, pulling me between his legs, arms loosely around me. Our feet are inches from the edge.
“You hurt me last night,” I admit.
His grip tightens around me. “I know.”
“You don’t get to disappear on me like that again.”
“You’re giving orders,” he murmurs against the shell of my ear.
I turn enough to face him. “I’m setting a boundary. If you need to leave, you tell me.” I hold his gaze. “If you can’t do that, you don’t get access to me.”
His eyes sharpen. “Access.”
“Yep,” I pop the P.
He’s quiet for a beat, like he’s choosing what to admit and what to keep. A muscle flutters in his neck. “I left because I felt myself slipping.”
“Slipping how?” I wait with bated breath.
He looks at me, and for once, the answer doesn’t seem to come naturally. “I felt out of control, and I, for once—” A humorless huff leaves his lips. “Didn’t know how to handle it.”
I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”
“I did it because I didn’t want to hurt you.” He sounds frustrated by it.
“Hurt me? Like physically?” I tilt my head, shifting my body to face him more fully. “Because you’ve technically done that before.”
“Not like that. It’s more complicated.”
“Explain it to me.” I run my finger over his tight jaw, watching him release the tension.
His eyes hold mine. “Not yet.”
“Oliver—”
“You want honesty?” he cuts in. “Then don’t ask me to describe something I don’t have language for.”
“So, what now? Where do we go from here?”
His attention drops to my mouth before returning to my eyes. “Now you tell me what happened a year ago to make you leave.”
The image of Leo pinning me to the wall last night flashes through my mind.
His hand is on my mouth, around my throat, cutting off air.
“Have you ever been hurt before?” I turn to face the sea once again, resting back on his chest. I’m not ready to give him the whole truth yet, but I can give him parts of it.
I feel the subtle change in his posture beneath me. “Why are you asking?”
“Curiosity,” I whisper.
“Dollface.” His thumb presses my chin up until I’m forced to look at him. “Tell me who hurt you, and I’ll bury them. No hesitation.”
I know he's serious. That’s the problem. It’s why I’ve kept my mouth shut for so long. And part of it is that I’m not ready to relive it. I just don’t want to do that just yet. “Two of them are already gone.”
His hand drops from my chin. “Amelia and Jade.”
I nod in confirmation.
“Then the rest of them are already dead. They just don’t know it yet.”
We sit with those heavy words between us. Neither of us is moving. Finally, I ask the question that has been on my mind since the first day Oliver started to pursue me. “Why me?”