BAD WICKED TWISTED: A Briarcrest Academy Box Set (95 page)

“Or a very good tease,” she said softly.

I licked my lips. “Do you want to spend the day with us? Maybe drive out to Malibu and catch some rays?” I had plans with Blair, but I’d chuck them.

She bit her lip and shook her head. “Maybe next time,” she said as she slipped out the door.

I watched her slowly disappear down the drive as Spider walked up behind me.

“You been lurking back there, listening?”

“You know it,” he said. “This is the most excitement we’ve had in this house since Monster rolled in her own shit and we had to take her to the puppy salon.”

I chuckled at the memory. “Poor thing. She was terrified of the blow dryer.”

“And the pink hair bow they put on her—bloody ridiculous. Her name
is
Monster.”

My eyes followed his to V. “Stop looking at her ass,” I said, trying to edge him out of the door as we jostled for the best view. Like kids.

He sent me a calculating look. “You missed it at the door when she said she liked my hair. I think I love her.”

“Stay away from V.” I’d tensed up. I wasn’t kidding anymore.

“Why? Maybe she wants to get on the Spider train. You aren’t interested in her—are you?”

“No,” I bit out, my jaw clenched.

“Bollocks. You’re a liar.”

I glared at him. “I can’t date anyone right now. Not with the media breathing down my throat, expecting to see me with Blair. I made a deal with her, and I can’t just break it off. It would cause a shitstorm of negative publicity.”

He rolled his eyes. “Okay, okay, I get it. But V’s the kind of chick that won’t stay single for long. And those eyes? I mean you could drown in them. Like fucking pansies.”

“Coming from the guy who only notices tit size?”

He cocked his head. “Maybe with her, I’d do it different.”

My hands fisted. When it came to V, something in me was wired to explode. I wanted to pound his face. “
No joke
. Stay away from her.”

Spider took a sip of his coffee, all Mr. Cool to my hothead. “She cares about people. You can tell by the way she waltzed in here and wanted to make me feel better.”

“Yeah? You know what else I noticed about her? She’s rich. And she has an ex-boyfriend who’s calling her. That remind you of anyone?”

“She’s nothing like Emma. First of all, cock sucking isn’t her primary talent. Second, V’s classy. Emma is nothing but a Dallas debutante with a hard-on for diamonds and social standing.”

I tried to tune him out. But it’s hard to tune out a blue-haired English dude in his underwear. “She could be
the one
for you,” he said, his tone serious.

The one?
I reared back. His hangover had addled his brain. He didn’t sound like Spider at all. “Since when did you get all mushy?”

“Dammit, maybe you’re rubbing off on me,” he snapped and then stalked off to get dressed.

Okkaaay.

“I’d dropped out of college, had never had a real job, or even had a good orgasm. I didn’t know jack, but I did know that even after the people you love are torn from you, time keeps beating away at the black metronome that’s called
life
. It doesn’t care that you’ve cracked wide open, that you’re screaming for everyone to just stop. It doesn’t hear you. You are nothing. People still go to dinner, planes take off and land, lions roar, violins play. And you are left in your corner, hanging on to memories, nothing more than a speck of dust on the metronome’s base.”

—from the journal of Violet St. Lyons

THE PLANE TWISTS in the sky, spinning like a ballerina.

We fall and crash into the ocean.

I scream as my neck snaps forward.

Water fills up the gaping hole on the side of the craft.

My mother looks at me with sightless eyes. My father is gone from his seat.

Fear claws at me as I unclick and fight my way out of the hole.

I turn and watch the plane sink until it’s nothing but a white speck being swallowed by the sea.

My heart slams against my chest. Air. Lungs screaming.

Daddy. I kick harder.

Water and silence surround me.

I’ll never make it to the surface.

I inhale, sucking down water that sets my throat on fire.

Someone touches me, pushes me, begs me.

Again and again I swallow until I am nothing.

I am dead.

Gasping, I woke up from my afternoon nap and kicked out, legs fighting the sheets. My body shook violently, adrenaline pounding through my veins. Clutching my rolling stomach, I sucked air in through my mouth. My hands pressed against my eyes as I called out to a deaf God to make the nightmares disappear.

I raced for the bathroom, falling on top of the toilet and retching as my fist pounded the tile floor. I vomited until there was nothing left in me but memories, little pricks of pain that festered inside, refusing to let go. I collapsed on the cold floor, tucking my knees up to my chest as I rocked myself.

When would this end?

An hour later, I sat in Dr. Cooke’s office for our weekly appointment. In her forties and stylishly dressed in a pale blue pantsuit, Wilson highly recommended her as a therapist. I’d been coming here for over a year.

“How are you feeling?” she asked me as I sat in a comfy chair next to her desk and crossed my legs.

“Old as dirt. I see people my own age and want to remind them that the grim reaper can pluck them up whenever he feels like it and yank it all away. On top of that, I’m sick of being afraid to stand up for myself.” I laughed at a distant memory. “When I was a kid, I punched Dougie Lombardi in the nose for trying to look up my skirt on the playground. I got an after school suspension for that one, and now look at me—I can’t even tell a girl at the coffee shop to fuck off after she insults me. I’m just—pathetic. I hate it.”

She nodded and tapped her pencil on her pad. “Conflict is a trigger for you. If a situation makes you uncomfortable, you want to withdraw and disengage. But you can’t cocoon yourself forever—not if you want your old life back. You have to be willing to take chances again.”

She was right, but admitting I needed to change was easy. Living it was the hard part.

I stood to pace around her office. Feeling fidgety. I came to a stop at the window and peered down below. Everyone looked busy. Happy. I watched a young couple hold hands as they crossed the street and found a table at an outdoor patio. Loneliness settled in my gut.

What was Sebastian doing? Was he with Blair?
What was going on with them? When he’d pulled away from our kiss,
she
hadn’t been the reason why. What was he not telling me?

“Any more suicidal thoughts?” She always asked that one.

I sighed. “Not in a while, no.”

“Have you tried the new breathing exercises we talked about?”

Like a million times. “Yes. One long breath in and a longer one out.” I tapped my leg. “Speaking of heavy breathing, remember the guy who moved in a few weeks ago? I—I’ve played for him.” I left out the whole part about catching him spying, stripping for him, and the tequila. I didn’t think she’d approve of my methods.

Her eyes widened. “That’s wonderful progress, V. How did this happen?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. He’s probably the next big thing in Hollywood, but that isn’t the reason. It’s like something in me just
clicks
when it comes to him. He gets me and he loves music, and it makes me feel the music again.” I twisted my hands together. “There’s more. We kissed, and I—I wanted to go further. What do you think that means?”

She blinked and adjusted her glasses. “That you’re ready to move on. You’ve been an island unto yourself for two years, V. You need people.” She smiled. “Are you falling for him?”

Was I?

“It doesn’t matter. He’s unavailable,” I muttered.

Moving on, I described the details of my new nightmare. “Anyway, it was different this time. Someone in my dream
pushed
me toward the surface. He—a man—helped me in the water. It’s odd that I’ve never remembered that before.” Emotion welled up, and I plopped back down in the leather chair. “I can’t recall how I got on that cushion and most days I wish I hadn’t. But—what if—what if my dad put me on that cushion? I was swimming toward him when I blacked out. What if he was there the whole time, and I never knew it? If that’s how it happened, then why did he let go? Why didn’t he hang on?” My voice cracked.

She nodded. “It’s possible your subconscious is telling you more of what happened—perhaps because you played for your friend. This is good.” She continued. “About your dream, you might need to consider that the cushion was too small for two people or he was exhausted after getting you there. Your father was in his sixties, V. It must have been difficult for him to swim in the freezing water.”

I sucked in a shuddering breath. Her words were like knives to my heart. My parents had been elderly—I’d actually been an IVF baby after years of them trying.

“But, I wanted to save
him
.”

“Don’t you think he’d sacrifice his life for yours?” she said softly. “As a parent myself, I’d do whatever it took to make sure my child lived—even put her on a cushion and let go.”

I sat there and wept as realization dawned. I’d been selfishly wishing I was dead along with them, when
he’d
saved me and then let me go
. I didn’t know why, but somehow I knew it was true. Excruciating pain sliced through me at the image of him sinking below the waves, yet at the same time, hope bloomed.

He’d given me another chance at life.

He’d wanted me to live.

When was I going to start?

LATER THAT DAY, the florist delivered an extravagant flower arrangement to my house.

My foolish heart soared
thinking they were from Sebastian
,
but
they weren’t.

They were from Geoff. First the phone call and now flowers—did this signal something new for us?

I stared at the pink tiger lilies and gardenias that took up most of the vase amid little spurts of greenery. Beautiful and exotic, the flowers permeated my entire house, smelling of New York and the memories of a lighter girl who’d had the world in her hands.

I set it out on the balcony and stared at it. I read and then re-read the cream-colored expensive card that arrived with it.
Missing You
was all it said on the front with a picture of two cuddly teddy bears holding hands. I grinned because it was so odd to see something as cheesy as this from him. Older than me by three years, Geoff was a law student at NYU. He was also the Mayor of New York’s son. Auburn-haired and a bit stuffy, we’d fallen in love the summer I was seventeen and he was twenty. I’d never gotten what he saw in a music geek like myself when he had plenty of college girls to choose from, but he claimed he’d been in love with me since we were kids and our parents had taken vacations together.

On the inside, he’d written,