36. I Love It When It Rains #4
When I reemerge from the bathroom, I’m wearing nothing but my panties and Jase’s shirt, which falls well past my butt, thankfully sparing me from the cold cushion of the foldable stool he props in front of the vanity counter.
It’s the only movable piece of furniture for me to sit on, unless he wants to drag in the patio chair from out on his balcony.
Despite the stool being flecked with dried white paint and scuffed a million ways to Sunday, it’s surprisingly comfortable.
“You sure about this?” Jase asks again, pulling the boxes of black hair dye out of the shopping bag. “Because there’s no putting the genie back in this bottle. Once it’s in, that’s it.”
I reassure him again, and he grins.
“In that case, you’re actually in good hands. It’s the only hair color I’ve ever worked with.”
“Oh?” Considering Jase’s hair is lighter than it was when we were younger, this definitely wasn’t a recent endeavor.
“A buddy of mine is into the whole L.A. rock scene, and I’ve had to help him out a few times dying it. Now, if you were using bleach or some shit, I wouldn’t know what the hell to do,” he laughs. “But with black, I’ve learned a few tricks of the trade. Speaking of which…”
He begins fishing around the mostly empty drawers below the vanity until he finds a small jar of Vaseline.
“We’re going to need to apply this around your hairline to prevent the dye from staining your skin, unless you want to look like someone smudged a magic marker over the edges of your face.
” The way he says this, it’s clear this was one of those things learned through trial and error, making us both laugh.
His expression collapses, though, when he comes to stand in front of me.
Between the ambiance of the bar and the limited natural lighting from the storm, Jase couldn’t see the mark on my cheek.
Under the bright, unflattering fluorescent lights of the vanity, however, it’s kind of hard to miss.
I wouldn’t necessarily call it a bruise, given that the skin is only slightly inflamed, but the pink hue to just the one cheek stands in stark contrast to its pale companion on the other side of my nose.
And, oh boy, does Jase look pissed. “Who?” he practically growls. “Blythe?”
“My sister, actually,” I admit, having no choice but to relay what happened back at my house.
When I’m done, the anger is still palpable in Jase’s eyes, but his touch is ever so gentle as he caresses my face to examine the mark. “Why didn’t you tell me this morning?”
“Because Aria needed you,” I say, trepidation riddling my vocal cords. “…And I have a feeling you needed her too.”
He goes still, but his eyes never leave mine, giving me the courage to press onward.
“You’re obviously living here , yet you’ve also been staying at my family’s house,” I point out. “And don’t give me some bullshit about needing your own space. You’ve been in town long before the engagement party.”
I reopen the drawer where he had gotten the Vaseline from, taking out the drugstore receipt that had no doubt come with its purchase. Not only are the other items listed the very ones occupying the countertop, but the date printed at the top declares the transaction was made on April 4th.
Jase’s lips pull into a grin, though his gaze suddenly finds the worn carpet under his feet to be the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.
“And my trip to Murdock’s wasn’t the first time I’ve seen Dash,” I interject. “I knew I had seen him somewhere before, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it until last night.”
Jase drags his eyes back up to meet mine, and I can tell he already knows what I’m going to say.
“Dash was at the country club the evening of the engagement party, talking to a certain up-and-coming congressional candidate. That in and of itself isn’t what’s weird.
It’s the fact he had a goatee and dark brown hair.
Either he recently underwent an extensive dye job or was using some kind of temporary hair color. ”
“It was a wig, actually,” Jase admits, his corresponding smile a mix between a grin and a grimace. “His stepsister, Natasha, is engaged to an SFX makeup artist, so Dash didn’t even have to grow out his facial hair. Her fiancé just used prosthetics on him.”
Natasha.
As in the girl who called Jase for what I thought would be a late-night hookup.
“She’s also friends with Stephanie Highland, so she’s been able to get into all of Trent’s parties to run recon for us without raising any suspicions,” he further clarifies.
And now I feel like an idiot. A jealous one, at that.
But none of it still explains the other inconsistencies.
“I’ve heard enough about Dash Martin before this summer, and I seriously doubt he’d go out of his way to attend a random frat party as some favor to you,” I say. “A guy like that only does what benefits him , and Trent Easton’s ‘indiscretions’ don’t affect Dash.”
“No, but Roland Easton does. He’s been going after Dash for the past two years. When I told him what Trent’s been doing, Dash looked into it and saw an opportunity.”
“So, are you on his payroll?”
He gives me a look like I asked him if he has a third testicle.
“No offense, but more than a few ‘somethings’ here aren’t adding up.” I look out at the apartment. “You bought me a dress that costs more than what I earn in a month without so much as blinking and can somehow afford to pay for this place, despite not seeming to have a job.”
Jase actually laughs. “Dash and I have an arrangement, but it’s only for this case. I’m not working for him. I have…other means of income.”
That hesitation, not to mention the wording, is enough to raise a red flag. “Should I even ask?”
He busies himself with the supplies on the counter, not offering anything, so I take another approach.
“What happened to your plans for college, if you don’t mind me asking?
I mean, you talked about wanting to go to Calarts, and since you’re already living in California, it seems even more convenient…
” The sheepish look on his face (and the fact that his eyes fall to the floor) leaves the rest of my sentence trailing off.
I’m clearly making him uncomfortable. “Sorry. It’s just…
you were really talented. I’d hate to see it go to waste. ”
The smallest smile pulls at one side of his lips. “Well, you can rest assured it hasn’t.”
He runs a hand through his hair, somehow managing to look even more uncomfortable as he pulls out his phone.
“You’re familiar with Crimson Oaths ?”
“The game everyone’s been obsessing over?”
He nods.
“What about it?”
Jase hands his phone to me with the Wikipedia page for the game on display, and I’m more than a little confused…
Until my eyes land on the list of the game’s developers.
The first one simply reads MJR.
Holy shit.
Michael Jason Rivers.
“You created this?”
“Co-created,” he corrects. “I’m one of four developers and the sole investor.”
Investor? “I don’t want to be rude, but don’t these things cost, like, a lot of money to make?”
“I used the money from my debut release.”
When he doesn’t elaborate, I click on the MJR profile to read the corresponding page, and—
Again, holy shit.
MJR is the anonymous video game developer behind the runaway hit Ender’s Realm and this year’s highly celebrated Crimson Oaths .
Next to it is a picture of a lean, yet muscular young man wearing all black, donning a skeleton mask and leather gloves at some kind of convention.
He’s holding a microphone, and despite his clothes doing a good job concealing his tattoos, there’s still a two-inch gap between his shirt sleeve and glove.
It’s not much, but I’d recognize the design peeking out anywhere. The Edgar Allan Poe quote. Not only that, but his jet-black hair and a glimpse of his jawline are still visible.
It’s undoubtedly Jase, but why the disguise?
I skim through the page, not seeing anything apart from technical jargon until I get to the part regarding Ender’s Realm .
Despite harsher critics initially panning the platform game as “superficial with subpar graphics,” the public was quick to praise it as “a return to the classics.” Though advertising was aimed at younger gamers, Ender’s Realm gained even more popularity among adults who loved the aesthetic indicative of the 90’s Super Nintendo.
In an interview, the masked developer stated, “That was the intention, to make a video game accessible to anyone and everyone. There isn’t a steep learning curve, and you don’t need to set aside an entire day for a campaign.
Even if you only have an hour to steal away here and there, you can still enjoy getting lost in the world with what time you have.
” Despite the praise for Ender’s nostalgic marketing concept, he also insisted, “I didn’t go in thinking this would be what it became.
I’d like to take credit for being some sort of marketing genius, but it’s really just a love letter to an old friend.
I wanted to make a game that even a non-gamer like her could fall in love with. ”
My breathing stalls as I reread the words, and for the second time in ten minutes, tears burn the backs of my eyes.
“I never forgot about you, Birdie. Not for a single fucking day.”