Other Side of Beautiful (A Beautifully Disturbed #1) (5 page)

“Oh, god! Elly, are you all right?” I recognize Sabrina’s voice straight away and recognize her shoes as she drops down to the curb next to me.

“She’s had a rough start. And it’s Elle now.”

“Since when?” Errol asks, coming around to stand at the front of us, the tips of our shoes touching. “Did we vote?”

Sabrina punches his leg and I feel her hand replace Benton’s with those same calming circles. “It’s a name, not an amendment.”

“I think it’s cute.” Collin, who I knew had to be lurking around somewhere, finally makes his presence known kneeling down in front of me next to Errol. “Really, Elly—Elle, what happened?”

Benton answers for me. “Really bad first day, and Cricket called.”

I hear several gasps followed by a collective, “
Oh
…”

These friends of mine are both a blessing and a curse, full of understanding and compassion for a fellow friend. They are good and loyal. But they don’t know any more about mine and Cricket’s relationship than I let on, and I haven’t let on much, which makes the understanding and compassion come across as pity.

“I think I’ll just go home and try again tomorrow. Maybe I’ll get a little more done in my WIP.”

“Might not be a good day for that, all your characters will end up dying in fiery explosions or being hacked apart in a jealous rage.” Benton teases me, though he is perfectly right.

I stand up to leave, taking my mocha with me. Benton and Sabrina both tug on my coat to get me to pause, and I look over my shoulder. “You sure you’re okay?” Benton asks first.

“Because I’d be happy to come with you,” Sabrina finishes for him. No, my pity party is a party for one, but I thank them all just the same and make my way back to my car.

Two days pass before I see my writer friends again. In that time, Kelly dragged me to a super coed techno club where every Kelsey and Britney yell over the thumping bass in that quintessential college girl upward inflection where each sentence sounds like they’re asking a question?

“Do you really know Benton Hayes?” the Kelsey legitimately asked.

“Because he’s so hot?” Britney did not let me down.

“Yes, I do?” I teased them both, although neither of the rocket surgeons picked up on it. “And yes, he is? We’re good friends?”

“Do you think you could hook us up?”

“Sorry, he works for a different service now,” I had told her and walked away laughing to myself. Yes, my bitch-o-meter was kind of registering high that day. Most coed Kelsey’s are perfectly nice, but clearly she’d caught me in a bad week. Even though I started finding my rhythm in class, I couldn’t shake Cricket’s last phone call. Her hateful words were eating away at my self-confidence, turning my normally pleasant personality into this septic one I hardly recognized anymore.

More than once, Kelly, even in her inebriated state told me, “you need to get laid.” Isn’t that the truth? It might not cure me from my funk, but it sure would help.

Wednesday night couldn’t come fast enough for me, as I longed to spend time with my friends, like-minded and with purpose. And with Benton, I shouldn’t want to see him. Actually, I should be totally embarrassed to see him. But with the way he took care of me when I had my little episode, as much as I hate to admit it to myself, being around him makes me happy. Happy in a way that the others, as much as I love them, just don’t.

Chapter 7

Elle

Group—voluntary, yet encouraged by the writing department. Scriveners is our name. It gives us a safe place to present our work for critique. Benton and I have tonight’s critique. Next Wednesday, Collin and Errol, two other guys Tim and Callum follow that, and then Sabrina chose to go by herself the last week of the month.

We gather in the littlest conference room off the second floor of the library. Benton, Collin, Sabrina, Errol, and, yes, even Tim and Callum surround me with their manila folders, thick from critiqued work just like mine, sitting on the oval table in front of us. We look less like writers and more like board members of some internet startup.

“Well,” Benton starts, “this is a piece I began over break. It’s getting close. I finally picked a title, call it Little Girl Lost.” All of us here are well aware that when Benton says ‘getting close’ it means better than anything we could come up with and should probably consider switching majors, or maybe consider truck driving school.

“
She sits on the rusted park swing, black, cracked vinyl pinches the bottoms of her thighs as she sways just enough to strain the chain links against the metal post—squeak squawk, squeak squawk—cutting the silence.

“She sits on the sand, knees pulled up to her chest looking out past the water shimmering with gold dust from the setting sun, out past the horizon to another place or another time or another someplace she’s missing in the here and now. The wind delicately stipples goose pimples up her arms and the high tide laps October chilled waves against her pink, painted toenails.

“She sits in a little café tucked into a back corner table with her nose pressed purposefully into the pages of a book while sipping intermittently, nursing a cup of strong black coffee. Fooling no one, her eyes betray her, darting from the page she’s spent the last half hour reading every time someone calls out, ‘hey’ or ‘hi.’

“Only the day changes…”

Benton Hayes, everybody. Benton Hayes. The man is human, so somewhere within his piece, theoretically, I should be able to find something to critique. But like everyone else sitting here dumbfounded, nothing comes to mind. What I wouldn’t give to have someone listen to my work and respond with the same starry eyes the rest of the group watched on his with. Each one of us waits to take a turn to talk, but when listening to a piece from the caliber of writer like Benton, we have more questions than opinions.

“How did you come up with this one?” He speaks first after probably a full minute. But after hearing Benton’s powerful words, Errol asks what I’m sure we are all thinking.

Benton, his dimple showing, looks at us with what I can only describe as dreamy eyes, as if in a trance. He laughs then, shaking his head before answering. “It’s inspired by someone near and dear to me.”

“Don’t suppose you’d divulge who?” Sabrina asks.

“Not here.”

Collin gets a greedy look on his face and asks, “Someone from your past, maybe?” The problem with having a best friend is they know too much about you. Kelly’s set me up before too. Not one of us here believes that Collin doesn’t know who the piece was written about.

Our beliefs compound when Benton returns Collin’s greedy look with a hard glare of his own, answering back, “present and hopefully future.”

“Well couldn’t you just—” Sabrina tries to get him to open up to us, but he cuts her off.

“Okay, Dinninger, guess that leaves you.” He clears his throat, and just when group is starting to get good. I want to know who Benton harbors those feelings for just as much as the rest of our table, yet at the same time, I feel thankful he wouldn’t reveal the name, because that would be one more thing for me to obsess over.

“Okay, well…I’ve been working on it for a while now. Editing and cutting. I’m really proud of how it’s shaped up.

“
He held on with his fingers digging a firm grip into my sides so I could see out over the edge, getting a better look at the fishes swirling and swaying off the underside of the boat. The water so clear I saw straight to the bottom. But dad said looks could be deceiving, that it is so deep it could swallow me up.

“I imagined a monster jaw of liquid closing in around me and tensed, pushing back from the rail. My rubber sneakers skidding against the dew dampened wall. But he held me…”

I read the rest of the piece, gaining confidence with each paragraph. My superpower can’t touch me in here, my fortress of solitude. No matter how I fail out there, and no matter what Cricket says about writers, in here, I shine.

The room stays completely silent, deflating the confidence I just finished talking myself into, making me feel ten kinds of uncomfortable. I begin playing with my hair, trying to straighten out any perceived tangles with my fingers, flattening my shirt down my stomach several times, and still no one says a word. Their nonresponse is about to suffocate me under the heaviness the silence has created. Clearly if I stay any longer the tears will start to fall, because they teeter along the rim of my eyes just waiting for an excuse let loose.

“Sorry I wasted your time,” I barely get out before the room erupts. Claps and shrieks split the air. I hear, “oh my god,” and “that was awesome,” or “holy crap,” all jumbled and layered, each voice fighting to be heard over the others.

I feel victorious in these few seconds until all good humor is siphoned from the room with two little words—That. Sucked.

Callum slouches in his seat, arms crossed over his chest. He covers his mouth in what I’m sure has to be a fake yawn and says it again. “That sucked.” Way to be constructive. “I know you took 305, Elly. I just thought you passed it.”

His buddy Tim holds up a fist and they bump them, laughing loudly and ridiculously like nothing in the world could be funnier. Tim and Callum have never been fans of my work, that’s for sure. But this story, I’ve never written a more personal narrative before. At least not one I’d ever shop. So those words sting more than I regularly would allow them to.

The tightening in my stomach warns of impending doom, and swallowing several times to force the rancid, acidic taste back down my throat, I start to stand. To get out. Benton could be a ninja with the way he sneaks up on me. Until his hands press down on my shoulders, I had no idea he’d even left his seat.

“That is hands down the best piece you’ve ever shopped.” His warm hands do something to me, and I fight the urge to rest my head against his stomach, a stomach I feel behind me so close the tips of my hair rustle with his every breath.

We might be the only two people in the room right now, everyone else having faded into the texture on the walls or the pile of the carpeting. At any point he could have removed his hands, should have removed his hands, but Benton doesn’t. His fingers squeeze tighter, using slightly more pressure to keep me in place. How did I get so lucky to get this man’s friendship?

“Thank you,” I whisper, making all the eyes now start fading back in from the walls.

Their eyes fixate on Benton and me. All too aware of the feelings I harbor for the man standing behind me which my poker face can no longer conceal. They’re kind enough not to speak on it, but my muscles tighten just the same.

With his hands still on my shoulders, his thumbs begin to massage the tightened muscles by my shoulder blades. No one else could see the way his thumbs work their magic, but they’ll sure be able to see my reaction to it if I don’t reign it in. I bite my bottom lip to stifle the sigh on the verge of escaping, instead swallowing hard and breathing out a long breath. To them it looks like my ritual, something they’ve all witnessed a time or ten. But I know the truth, and the way Benton shifts ever so slightly, pressing a little more against me so my head actually rests against his stomach now, I think he knows too.

“That isn’t a critique, Callum. It’s an assault. Fuck, you’re lucky if I don’t report you. Branagh could kick you out permanently. As it stands, so long as you don’t put up a fight, I won’t say anything.”

“Put up a fight?” Callum tries to sound indignant, and put out, and a couple of other inflections of emotion, but he just ends up sounding like an ass.

“Hey, you know the rules of group as well as the rest of us. You’ve got four weeks now to think about why crushing someone’s spirit isn’t the same as constructive criticism.”

“Bullshit, Hayes! It’s bullshit and you know it.”

“What you did tonight is unprofessional and totally uncalled for. The rules are the rules. See you in a month.”

Benton turns his head from Callum, who stomps out of the conference room. He honestly stomps out like a four-year-old having a temper tantrum. The others look at me and then Benton, still standing too damn close. Gathering up their papers, they excuse themselves, and then we are the only two left.

“You know everyone is heading down to Rounder’s. You should come.”

“I don’t know, that was so embarrassing…and besides, Kelly will pitch a fit. She’ll want to go to The Mix tonight.”

“But what do you want, Elle?” He pulls me up from the seat and spins me around to pin me with one of his challenging glares. It should be intimidating, but instead I feel hot, that familiar flutter in my belly, the one telling me my feelings for him hit DEFCON5 crush mode tonight. He said my name. Maybe he didn’t meant to. It’s only a name, but coming from him it feels so much bigger than that.

What do I want? Loaded question there. What I could have—“I want Rounder’s.”

Chapter 8

Ben

Sabrina hands her off a shot glass as soon as she steps inside Rounder’s. They walk over to the bar where Errol, Collin, and I stand in a small group waiting on them. Her gorgeous brown eyes stray to find me leaning with my elbows on the bar top. In that position, the gray Henley I’m wearing has risen up slightly in front, exposing a strip of skin above my jeans. It’s the landing strip hopefully dragging her eyes where they really shouldn’t go. But damn, I want them there. Yeah, I’m laying it on thick tonight. I want her to want me so badly that maybe with a drink in her to loosen the poor girl up, she can’t keep her hands off me.

So much for being discrete. Of course when she tears her eyes away from my crotch, I pin her again with a raised eyebrow, the stupid smirk that never fails to catch her attention, and tsk her with my fingers. Usually this would be the point where she turns away with an embarrassed blush to her cheeks, but she actually stands her ground, refusing to let her embarrassment show through. She’s awkward. I hope she always will be; it’s one of her most endearing qualities. Tonight though, I think she might be riding high off her success in group. Which she deserves to be. That piece kicked ass, no matter what Callum said. So we stand locked in a staring contest. Collin sees us and leans over to whisper in my ear. He’s being an idiot, because he can see how thick I’m laying it on, which makes me burst out laughing. Like the loud, obnoxious kind.

“To Elle and Benton,” Errol calls out and raises his shot glass.

“Unbelievable work tonight,” Sabrina finishes.

They all hold up their glasses at Elle and me, and I don’t know where her lady balls grow from, but I see them grow. Irritated that Collin and I would laugh at her, she pushes forward until she stands directly in front of me. Leaning in she whispers, “If you don’t want people to look, then you shouldn’t look so…” Elle gestures to all of me. I’m not stupid. I knows what she’s intimating. And then she shoots back her drink. I nod and shoot mine too. Wow. It is strong.

Absinth. Sabrina had ordered us shots of Absinth to honor the writers of the future by paying tribute to the writers of the past. Of course, our Absinth tastes of licorice, not the anise, fennel, and wormwood spirit of yore. Theirs could drive a man insane, dying penniless and alone in a Parisian hotel. They won. Or lost, depending on how you looked at it.

“Another,” Elle coughs out to the bartender. He hands it off. She goes to pay but I put my hand over hers and slap the cash down instead. “Thank you,” she says to me, slamming the shot and then walking over to the DJ to request a song.

When the first chords of the punk song start we all rush her, dancing and jumping and pumping our fists. With two shots of Absinth in her system, she falls on her butt twice. The first time I help her up but the second Collin is closer.

The song ends and I excuse myself to use the facilities. When people think of bars, they think of Rounder’s. Dark. Sticky. Crowded. Smelly restrooms with names, phone numbers, quotes, obscene drawings, ‘Steve loves Shelly’, ‘Melissa V is a whore’—probably twenty years’ worth of college life—scribbled onto every last inch of wall space, drawn on the mirror above the sink and scratched into the ancient hand drier. We’d stumbled onto this place freshman year. Their loose morals concerning underage drinking allowed us the freedom to Kerouac the shit out of our livers and dignities. Since then the place has become a second home to the GHU writing department.

Just like when she arrived, Sabrina has a drink waiting for Elle. The girls hug, shooting them together. Drink number three looks like it’s started kicking in already. She’s swaying slightly, and has turned rather giggly. We don’t get to see a giggly Elle, ever. Usually giggly girls bother the shit out of me, but they’re also usually fake. Elle is being as real as I’ve ever seen her. I order another drink too, shooting it back. It feels incredible, the feeling of floating. But I’m done for the rest of the night. Elle hasn’t gotten to just let loose in too long a time. She’s nobody’s DD tonight. I plan on getting her home safely.

As a slow song starts, Errol and Bri connect like magnets. Just as I’m about to make my way over to her, some leggy redhead grabs my hand, and I don’t know what to do, so I just start dancing with her. Collin escapes to the restroom. He should’ve grabbed Elle’s hand. Since that idea is nixed, she walks back over to the bar, grabbing up a handful of peanuts and pops a few in her mouth, watching us all. I sway the redhead, moving us closer to where Elle is standing. One dance is all she gets, then I’m for sure making my move with my Brontë.

Callum walks over to Elle. I squeeze the redhead’s waist—it’s a reaction to Callum showing up, but she takes it as a sign that I want more from her and leans in, resting her head against my chest. “God, look at the way you’re chewing…like an Elly-phant,” I hear him say to her. Why did he even show his face here? My first reaction is to run over and bash his face against the bar top. But I hold back and wait to see how she handles the situation. If she needs me, I’ll go.

“I’m sorry, what?” she says to him.

“You heard me. You’re disgusting.”

Elle just shrugs her shoulders. “Guess it’s a nervous habit.”

“Nervous habit?”

“Yeah, I’m always nervous that some asshat will say something rude to me in a bar because he can’t handle a girl being better at writing than him. Good thing those fears are unfounded.” I laugh under my breath, secretly high-fiving her from a distance.

His friend laughs in the background too, as the bartender hands her over another drink. As she brings it up to her lips I hear him say, “Fuck you, bitch,” and his fist pounds her shoulder. She stumbles backward, spilling the drink all down the front of herself. Shocked, she stands there with wide eyes looking ready to bolt. All I see is red. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt such rage, scary rage.

And that’s it. I shove off the redhead and am at her side just that fast, checking her over first to make sure she’s okay, and then I spin on that shithead Callum. “Touch her again and I will end you.”

“Starting to lose those cred points there, Hayes. She got something on you, or do you really just like fucking fatties?” He turns on Elle again. “It ain’t his talent you’re swallowing.”

Son of a bitch!

Then it’s like I lose total control of myself. My fist connects with Callum’s jaw over and over. His buddy Tim jumps me from behind, but Collin is at my side before I ever see him run up. A loud shout rips through the bar over the music like a battle cry, and Errol charges at full speed into the melee. Sabrina shrieks. Callum has a mouth that his body can’t back up. Tim stands a little taller than his friend, but me and my friends tower over both of them. Blood spatters on the stools, the bar, and the floor. I raise my arm again, bringing it down with so much force. Callum tries to shield his face, but my fist punches right through it and there’s an audible crack when it hits Callum’s nose. More blood flies through the air, splattering Elle’s blouse. Fuck if I don’t know whose it is, either. Could be his. Could be mine. I hope it’s his.

How could such a good night deteriorate so quickly? With all the commotion going on, I don’t see her leave the bar. But it’s like I feel her absence. Collin shoots me a ‘go after her’ look. That’s all the encouragement I need. Sweat freezes against my skin when the brisk night air smacks me hard. If I wasn’t sober before, I sure as hell am now. The rub is that she’s never had any kind of confrontation with Callum or Tim. They just decided they didn’t like her and made it their mission to ruin her life. Elle can handle those kinds of taunts; she’s a strong woman. But when he brought me into it, suggesting that she and I had a relationship, from the look on her face, his comment embarrassed the crap out of her. Swear to all things holy, if he ruined my chances with her, the idiot will spend the rest of his life as a vegetable.

She left her car behind at the bar. What is she thinking walking, especially at night? It’s winter. In Michigan. She could freeze to death, be hit by a car, abducted, or hit by a car. Yeah, I know I said that already, but I’m kind of freaking out here. The Elle I know wouldn’t be so irresponsible. She’s about a block down from Rounder’s, moving off the side of the road when I flash the headlights behind her. Elle keeps walking. I flash the headlights again. Snot and tears. She’s a mess of frozen snot and tears and sexy arms wrapped tightly around herself, trudging ahead without looking back. Those arms need to be wrapped around me. Fuck this. I speed around her, spinning so the broadside of my Jeep blocks her from going any further, taking up both lanes of road, and I fling the door open.

“Brontë, it’s cold. Where are you going?”

“I don’t know. Anywhere but here.”

“Get in, I’ll take you home.”

“Just go Benton. I don’t need your pity.”

“
Pity?
” The light from the cab shines too bright right now. I find myself squinting, my mouth hanging open like a god damn fool. What the hell is she talking about? After everything, she has the nerve to say that to me? I can’t even look at her right now. “I’m wearing that dickwad’s blood. Do you think I’d do that for pity?”

“I don’t know why you did it,” she says to me, attempting to sidestep the Jeep. No. No way. I grab her arm, not thinking about which hand I grab at her with. The knuckles on that hand are split open. Deep blue and purple bruising encircles the cuts and the whole thing looks really swollen. Really, really swollen. “You should go to the E.R. It might be broken.”

“Just get in.” It’s a conscious effort to soften my words, because she’s so damn stubborn that she won’t get in if she thinks I’m pissed. Her will is one of the things that attracts me so much, but it also has the capacity to piss me off like nothing else. Why couldn’t the night have a do over? I’m her friend. If she can’t see anything else, can’t she at the very least see that I punched a dude out because she’s my friend? But Elle acts pissy instead of appreciative. The fight drained from me, I wait. She finally climbs into the passenger side and pulls the door shut.

I back up and pull hard on the steering wheel, driving forward to ease us back onto the right side of the road. I want her to say something to me, I think I deserve it. But she just sits there, teeth chattering. As we drive, I crank the heat all the way up, directing all the vents her way. My fingers painfully prickle, wanting to touch her while she rubs hers together vigorously in front of the blasting heat.

“Thank you,” she finally manages, although it might have come too late. I barely even glance her way. And turn up the radio.