Chapter 3
Kayla
Working every night is the only thing that has kept me sane.
That night keeps running through my head, and I try to figure out if there were any signs I missed that things were going to escalate.
Though I remind myself that none of this is on me, I am programmed to believe that I could have stopped it.
Rogue bounces toward me at the end of my shift and leans against the bar. “You’re off until next week.”
I open my mouth to argue that I can’t afford a week off; she knows that.
She holds up a finger. “This is non-negotiable. I could have fired you, but I didn’t.”
I nod. How can I argue with that? “I know, and I am thankful.”
“You’ve been running on fumes for days—I can see it on your face. Whether you like it or not, you need time to work through whatever it is you’re going through.”
“I’m fine,” I protest, but she narrows her eyes.
“I’ve known you for three years, and you are not fine, Kayla. Go home and sleep for a week if that’s what it takes. But you are not to step foot back in this bar for seven days, or I will be forced to let you go.”
I don’t argue when Rogue has made up her mind; it’s final. She won’t budge, and I am just glad she didn’t fire me. If I had to find a new job, I don’t know what I would do. I barely have enough savings to survive the week off, let alone losing my job.
The nights have gotten cooler the last few days, and I pull my jacket on before I walk outside.
I take the long way home, needing to clear my head, and I am in no hurry.
I love having my own space, but sometimes it gets lonely, and I think that’s why I stayed with Kyle for so long.
His apartment was comfortable, and while I knew he was cheating for at least half of our relationship, it was nice not to be alone.
When I’m still half a block from home, the hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
I know the feeling of being watched; it comes with the territory of working in a bar, and I can feel when eyes are on me.
I scan the area but find nothing out of the ordinary.
The street is empty, it’s late, and I’m tired.
I don’t normally scare easily, but my nerves are on edge after the other night, so I pick up my pace.
Once I round the last corner, turning onto my street, the feeling vanishes, and I laugh at myself.
Mabel is on the front step, which isn’t unusual. Sometimes the older women in the neighborhood get together for what they claim is a book club, but I never see a book—only wine and snacks.
“You’ve got a secret admirer,” she says as I reach the bottom step, holding out a bunch of yellow flowers.
My stomach drops, and I am transported back to the one time in my life I would rather forget, or rather a person—Aaron.
I thought he was the love of my life, and he saved me from living in a toxic home.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my parents, but I was never good enough.
I’m still not, but I have come to terms with that.
Aaron used to bring me flowers to say sorry, but he was never truly sorry; it was a performance, a way to keep me quiet and sweep our issues under the rug.
At first, I believed him, but then he kept doing it again and again.
I never saw the pattern. I wasn’t taught to look out for men like him.
So when he commented on my clothes, it was in a way that made me feel good at first. He told me how beautiful I looked in certain outfits, but over time it shifted into how bad I looked.
Without realizing it, I dressed in clothes he wanted me to wear, but I was so blind to his manipulation.
“Thank you,” I say to Mabel, then make my escape upstairs. I refuse to cry in front of anyone when it comes to him; he doesn’t deserve my tears.
The keys jingle in my hands as I try to open my door.
For fuck’s sake, Kayla, get your shit together. Aaron is long gone.
The air is thick as I finally push the door open and step inside, slamming the door behind me and backing up against it.
Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth.
I repeat the mantra over and over, clutching the yellow chrysanthemums to my chest.
When I finally feel like I can breathe, I slide down the door and pull out the little white card, flipping it over.
I’m sorry.
Yeah, me too.
I’m sorry I let myself think I was ready.
I’m sorry I could see myself falling for him.
I’m sorry for the things I said. Yet I miss him, actually.
If I’m honest with myself, I miss them all, and that pisses me off.
Though I barely know them, a bunch of men with visible red flags have me all up in my feelings.
I compose myself and push up off the ground, muttering a curse—I promised myself I would never cry over a man again.
Even if I’m angry and hate apology flowers, they did nothing to me and deserve to be put in a vase.
Since I don’t own a vase, I find a jug and fill it with water and put the flowers in there before finding a bottle of red I have been saving.
I’m not really a wine girl, but it is my go-to when I feel down.
The flowers catch my eye as I take a sip of my wine. Aaron always sent me red roses, and I realize now they were never about me—it was all about appearances.
There is no way Vero could know I hate receiving flowers; he isn’t Aaron and has sent these because he is genuinely sorry. But due to my past, sorry is just a word to me, one I have heard so many times before.
I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.
I’m sorry, but you made me angry.
I’m sorry, but I did it for you.
Sorry, sorry, fucking sorry.
I spent years with a man who made me feel like his abuse was love, and I am still trying to unlearn what that taught me.
I can’t think about the night in the bar and not worry.
Not because I think Vero is dangerous to me like Aaron was, but because Vero loves hard—I see it when he is with Brawley.
I can’t ignore that my life was simple for the first time in so long until these men bulldozed through that so easily and quickly, waving their red flags.
Though I was okay with it, since I was in control—for the first time in my life.
But that night in the bar it felt like I was back with Aaron, with no control. I can’t feel like that again.
I did the right thing, or at least I think I did. But then why do I feel so shitty about it?
One glass of wine turns into another and another until I pour the last of the bottle into my glass. I see my window shift, and I shake it off—maybe I’m tipsy and imagining things.
Then I watch it slide up.
I grab the empty bottle of wine, creep over near the window, and stand flat against the wall, my heart thumping in my chest.
The window slides all the way up. A leg comes through first, followed by a black skirt with chains jingling. Whoever this is, isn’t trying to be quiet in that outfit. The woman gets all the way in and smooths down her outfit. She turns to face me and takes in the wine bottle raised above my head.
Her laughter echoes through my loft. “A wine bottle?”
“It’s heavy enough to do damage,” I say, and I won’t lower it until I know why she is here.
“I’m sure it is.” She tilts her head to look at me, a smirk still lighting her face. “You can put it down—I’m not here to hurt you. If I was, I would have come through the door.”
I lower the bottle, watching her warily.
Vero has been vocal about people from the island—specifically her.
I have seen her around the place, and Vero wasn’t wrong that she never gets out of character.
The corset she wears is tight, with a lot of black lace and chains. It’s very gothic and suits her.
“Why did you come through my window?”
“Your door was locked.”
I snort. “That’s kind of the point in having a door with a lock—to keep people out.”
She looks around the room, and I know she is judging my lack of things. I find them pointless since I have all I need, and that is enough.
“I’m Vesper.”
“I know who you are, but why are you here?”
She moves across the room, running her fingers along my table, then turns back to face me.
“Vero climbed onto the Asylum roof.”
I freeze. Why the hell would he do that? Is he still having an episode? Surely Brawley would have it handled.
“He wouldn’t come down, just sat there, dangling his legs over the edge. He was in his head about everything you said to him.”
I don’t say anything, instead tightening my grip on the wine bottle.
“He is a stubborn little parasite, so I went up there.”
“And?” I ask when she doesn’t offer any more explanation.
She turns to me and smiles, which you would think would look friendly, but it’s far from it. My gut churns knowing the next words from her mouth won’t be good.
“I pushed him off. It was the highlight of my week watching him fall.” She laughs and points to my face. “You should see your face right now. Don’t worry, I didn’t kill him. Karo brought out a mat. He’s fine, though he deserved to become a human pancake if you ask me. He is a life-sucking leech.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“I would run if I were you. I’m not here because I care about him—I care about Brawley. Seeing him miserable makes me want to kill the leech, but doing that would make it worse.”
“So why are you here exactly?”
She looks at me and shrugs. “I hate yellow.”
“It’s better than red.”
“Not when blood is red. Yellow was Vero’s idea.
Brawley tells me it signifies friendship or some bullshit, but I have no idea why anyone would want to be friends with Vero.
He’s an idiot.” She straightens up and shakes her head, as if she is having a conversation with herself.
“He isn’t a bad person, but you probably already know that.
He won’t come out of this one quickly, and I don’t know what you will do with that information—it’s not my business. ”
She moves back toward the window and gets one leg through.
“Vesper.”
She pauses and looks back at me.
“Thank you for going up.”
“Don’t thank me,” she says. “And lock your window.”
Then she’s gone. I stare at the window for a few minutes and wonder what the fuck that was. Putting down the bottle, I pick up my glass and toss back what’s left in one go.
What is it with the people on the island? I don’t know if that was supposed to be a warning or her way of trying to get me to forgive him—not that she did a good job of either.