Chapter 4
Roxie turned to me, brow tense, and brought me back to attention. “You okay? I’m sorry you had to deal with him. If I’d known you’d gotten tied up, I’d have saved you sooner.”
“He wasn’t so bad,” I admitted. “Nice enough, anyway.”
“Cillian O’Connell? Nice?” Roxie scoffed. “Ha. Right. Don’t let his charms fool you. He’s a complete douchebag. The definition of drunk with power.”
Power … what did that even mean? Eh, whatever. In the words of Mary, not my circus, not my monkeys. But my gut, well, it told me something altogether different. Still, I asked, “What did he do to you?”
“To me personally? Nothing. But he has a … reputation. I’d steer clear if I were you.”
“What kind of reputation?”
She started down the stairs, arm still looped through mine.
“The heartbreaking kind. He’s made it his mission or something to get every new girl interested in him.
Once they’re hooked, he loses interest, and then, poof!
Ghosts them, like he never gave a shit in the first place. Probably because he didn’t. Asshole.”
“Oh.” I nodded, and my tongue glued itself to the roof of my mouth.
She waved a dismissive hand through the air. “Forget about him. I’ll be here if he decides to bother you again, all right? I’ll windmill kick him right in the face if I have to.”
“Thanks,” I said with a laugh. And I meant it. Even if, deep down, I wanted to be bothered by him. Hot and bothered. No! I shook the thought from my head. Trouble, he was trouble. And I couldn’t afford any more of that. When it came to Cillian, my evasive maneuvers were officially engaged.
Once on ground level, we wrapped into the left-hand room littered with recliners where a giant flat screen hung above yet another fireplace.
“This is the media room,” she announced in a flight attendant tone. “We have movie nights every Friday and Saturday. Usually, it’s some kind of cheesy rom-com. But hey, beats sitting in your room and staring at the wall all night, right?”
Debatable. I much preferred staring at my walls. “Just weekends?”
“Yeah. During the week, this place turns into a ravenous study den. If you ever need help with a test, look no further.”
Study group with strangers? Yeah, no fucking thank you.
She turned. “You hungry?”
My stomach growled in perfect timing, and I gave her a sure nod.
“This way.” Roxie started toward a set of doors along the back wall.
The space ahead that greeted us was unlike anything I’d ever seen. A rounded, wood-paneled ceiling gleamed like a freshly shined pearl thirty feet above us, while towering stained-glass windows in exquisite colors stretched along the room’s right-hand wall.
Roxie snickered and mimed for me to pick my jaw up off the floor. “Yeah, I had the same reaction when I first saw this place. Come on, let’s get you some food.”
I followed, wishing I had a hood to pull down over my battered face as we swept through the mess of students still munching away on their morning meal.
A few heads turned upon our entrance, and my stomach soured.
Just ignore them. My fingers locked onto the stone around my neck, rubbing it for good measure.
Roxie stopped near a long marble countertop across the way, and a delicious perfume tangled in my nose: hash browns, English muffins, jam, and my favorite, French toast. Restaurant-quality dishes sprawled across the counter’s surface. A foodie’s heaven.
“Sue is a god-tier chef,” Roxie said. “She’s probably tied up with a mountain of dishes at the moment, but you’ll meet her eventually. Go on, grab whatever you like.”
After packing my plate with more French toast than any normal human could ever eat, we made our way to a table lit up in antique lamplight. I plopped down and traced my finger across the smooth tabletop, tracking along geometric shapes in the surface.
Most students had slipped out into the halls, their meals finished and plates stowed on the dish rack near the doors.
But, as empty as the room was, I still felt the heavy stares drill into me.
Can’t say I blamed them. Random new chick shows up part way through the year looking like she got sucker punched in the face?
I’d stare too. Still didn’t change the fact that I’d have done anything to be invisible in that moment.
“I’m sure you already know this by now, but Saint Peter’s is no walk in the park,” Roxie explained, snapping me back to reality.
“Four heavy classes each semester—three academic, one elective in your chosen field. It makes for an immersive experience,” she said, air quoting.
“Or at least that’s what the institute’s mission statement boasts. Here.”
She whipped a binder from her bag, color-coded dividers peeking out the sides, and handed it over.
“Your handbook. Everything you need is in there, including your schedule. Hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of peeking. You’re with me for two classes in Miss Celine’s room.” She met my gaze. “Literary arts. You?”
“Graphic design,” I responded.
“Ah, a modern woman, I like it. Let me guess, you started out painting?”
“Sketching.” I let the silence tangle around us, unwilling to reveal anything more than necessary.
If I let my passion run away with me, I ran the risk of a connection.
After all, that’s what art does. It connects.
Steering clear, I asked between bites, “I thought you said Miss Celine was the director? What’s she doing teaching classes? ”
“A lot of us wear multiple hats here. Despite the school’s prestigious founders, the budget can get tight, so Miss Celine insources when necessary.” She pointed to herself. “Resident assistant slash event coordinator.”
Resident assistant, got it. So, she was the dorm mom for all intents and purposes and hadn’t had a choice in helping me.
She was required to. Honestly, perfect. Made my job easier when it came to keeping my head down.
Took the pressure off. My clenched muscles loosened a tad.
No expectations for more, and yet I wouldn’t be alone should I need anything.
But, before I could correct my thoughts, hope washed in.
A dangerous thing, hope. It tricks you into believing life is more than a sick game in which everyone eventually loses.
That maybe, things could be different; maybe this change was for the better after all.
Or, more likely, maybe I’d find yet another way to mess up my damn life.
Like I’d done with Sidney. My heart leapt at the thought of her, and I pushed her image from my mind. No, I wouldn’t go back there.
Not now. Not ever, if I could find a way to wall off that part of me.
“Dorm mom, huh? Makes sense,” I muttered between cheeks stuffed with French toast, a crumb flinging from my mouth onto the table between us. Charming.
Roxie chuckled. “You know, you’re not what I expected.”
And there it was: the moment I’d dreaded since I arrived, where I was deemed unwanted by the first person I’d remotely gotten to know.
Wanting a solitary existence never made the being unwanted part any easier.
But, so be it. Better to get it over with straight out the gate.
I swallowed hard. “Weirder than you thought? Yeah, I get that a lot.”
“What? No.” She fluttered her lashes. “I was going to say genuine.”
“Me?” I laughed, almost choking on my toast. Genuinely ridiculous, maybe.
“Well, yeah. I mean, you haven’t dominated the conversation trying to convince me how important you are to the world or flaunted your family’s money at me. You’re different.” Her smile widened. “I like it. It’s refreshing.”
Warmth spread across my cheeks, and the chaos inside me simmered for the first time in what felt like forever. It stilled. I couldn’t help but smile. A real smile, not forced or bribed. Authentic. “Thank you.”
“I’m going to figure you out, Fey Masterson. Mark my words.” Her eyes twinkled and lingered on me as she tucked an escaped wave behind her ear. “Can I … can I ask you something? And please, feel free to bitch-slap me if I’m crossing a boundary here.”
I wanted to say no, but the earnest curiosity in her eyes proved impossible to ignore. “Sure.”
Her lips tightened. “How’d you get the black eyes?”
My stomach twisted. “That obvious, huh?”
“No, not really, just …” She reached toward my face but paused. “May I?”
“Uh, sure …”
She took her sleeve, dabbing at my lash line with careful, soft strokes. I froze up, my mouth turning to sandpaper. Human contact. One of my biggest triggers.
Nose scrunched, she smoothed and prodded until she gave a satisfied nod. “There, just needed a little blending. Did … did someone hurt you? Cause I’ll kill them if you want me to!”
The beast’s hollow, merciless eyes and the crack of shattered glass flooded my mind.
I choked, a sugary mouthful caught in my throat, and my hands clenched as I heaved for air.
I swear to God, if my headstone reads Death By Toast, I’ll turn in my own grave.
An open-handed slap landed square on my back, and the clog broke free.
I relished the breath flowing back into my lungs.
“Are you all right?” a woman asked out of nowhere, her voice deep and sultry. Her mauve lips curved down with concern.
“Y—yeah …” I rubbed my chest. “Got a little too excited there, I guess.”
“Sue’s cooking tends to have that effect on people,” the woman said and sat in the seat next to me, her fiery-red curls dancing about like flames. “You must be Feyanna. I’m Miss Celine. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
She extended her hand to me, and my heart accelerated.
More physical touch? Lovely. My attention fell to the half-moon shapes in my palms as I pressed my nails into them again.
Opening my mouth, I aimed to respond, to be personable and acknowledge her warm greeting, to take her hand, anything a normal person would do in a formal introduction.
Instead, my ability to speak flitted away on the wind, and I sat there blank.
“She goes by Fey,” Roxie said.