The Coincidence 03 The Destiny of Violet and Luke ARC (18 page)

“So what was that about?” I ask as he trips to the side, fighting to stand up straight on his own.

He glances over me with unresponsiveness, his body tottering to the side. “You’re kind of crazy, Violet with no last name.”

“I’m crazy.” I point at myself as I gape at him. “I’m not the one who groped a stripper in a sketchy club in the middle of nowhere that has bouncers with their own special rules.”

He shrugs with his hands out to the side, tripping over his own feet. “She stuck her ass in my face. I didn’t touch her. She touched me.”

I raise my eyebrows accusingly as I fold my arms. “Is that really what happened?”

He wavers as he blinks his glazed-over eyes and then braces his hand on the bumper of a lifted pickup beside him. “I might have put my hand on her, too.”

“Why would you do that? Why not just go grope one of those skanks you always have hanging around you?”

His mouth dips to a frown. “Because I wanted the bouncers to hit me.”

“What? Why?” Actually, I can think of a few reasons, but that would imply Luke was like me and I doubt that’s possible.

“So I could hit them back,” he replies with a casual shrug.

Now I’m more curious than concerned. “Why would you want to get hit?”

He wipes some blood off his forehead that is coming from a cut on his hairline and then winces as he pulls his hand back, flexing his fingers. “I didn’t want to get hit. I wanted to get into a fight.”

Okay, now I’m just confused because that sounds like something I would do and I’ve never met anyone who has a weird obsession with danger like I do. I want to know if that’s why he wanted to get hit. If it was because he wanted the thrill of an adrenaline rush. If Luke is like me for whatever reason. “But why would you want to get into a fight? For kicks and giggles? Or do you just like getting your ass kicked?”

He grabs at the bottom of his shirt, shaking his head. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“
I
ask a lot of questions?” I watch him as he tries to get the bottom of his shirt up high enough so that he can wipe his lip. The low lighting around us is enough to highlight his stomach muscles and I can see how ripped he is and that he has tattoos.
Jesus.
I’ve seen muscled and tattooed guys before, but I’ve never had this much curiosity and draw toward them.

He nods his head exaggeratedly as he continues to fight with his shirt to wipe his lip, pulling a face at the uncooperative fabric. “Yeah, you do.”

Blinking my gaze from his muscles, I shuffle forward and snatch hold of the bottom of his shirt. I move the fabric up to his lip and he gets this goofy grin on his face.

“I knew it.” His speech is slurred and his breath reeks of booze and cigarettes. He gazes over my shoulder at the road where it sounds like a semi truck is driving by, the headlights reflecting in his eyes. “Knew that you wanted me.”

I snort a laugh and stretch his shirt far enough that I can wipe the blood from his lip. “I don’t want you and I think you know I don’t.” But as I say it, I actually picture what it would be like to press my lips against his, blood and cuts and all. In fact, it might be a bonus, make things more intense and wrong—making
him
more intense and wrong. My stomach warms and coils just thinking about it.

He winces, his relentless gaze eating me up as I smear the blood from his cut lip. “Not even a little bit.” He seems slightly saddened, which amuses me.

I let go of his shirt and step away from him, the weird stomach sensations simmering down now that I put the space between us. “Maybe you should stop talking before you say something really stupid.” But the inside of me doesn’t match my words. I feel the smallest acceleration in my pulse and my stomach starts doing the weird warm, coiling thing again.

“I only say the truth when I’m drunk,” he tells me, stepping forward. “And the truth is,” he leans in toward me, passion and Jack Daniel’s dripping off him, “That you drive me fucking crazy.” His pupils are large, the brown in them blending in with the black. “Rubbing up against my dick one moment and the next moment you’re running off all because I say you’re beautiful and I want to fuck you.”

I stifle a laugh, completely entertained now. “Actually, I think you said that we should go back to one of the rooms.” I hold my hands up to my side, pretending to be innocent, and trying not to laugh at him as his face contorts in perplexity. “Maybe you just wanted to cuddle or something. Some guys like that.”

His eyes narrow as he moves back and leans his hip against the bumper for support. “You think this is funny.” He pats his back pockets and then starts to panic, standing up straight as his hands dart around to his front pockets. He promptly relaxes as he pulls out a pack of squished Marlboros and then fumbles to open it. “It’s not funny…” He plucks one out and then goes to put the end in his mouth, but drops it on the ground. Cursing, he bends down to pick it up and doesn’t bother to brush the dirt off before he puts it into his mouth as he stands back up. “It’s not funny at all.” He snatches his lighter out of his back pocket and then drops the pack on the ground and cups his hand around his mouth. He flicks the lighter over and over but can’t get it to light. Grunting, he kicks at the dirt with the tip of his boot and then curses some more. I feel like I’m witnessing a drunken tantrum and it’s ridiculously hilarious.

I haven’t laughed in a while, but I find myself laughing under my breath as I snatch the lighter from his hands. “Here, let me help you.”

“I don’t need your help or anyone else’s,” he insists, annoyed, but still doesn’t bother stopping me as I move the lighter up toward the cigarette in his mouth and flick it. The flame burns as the paper crinkles, but he starts blowing instead of sucking and it doesn’t light. I try again and then again.

“Would you stop blowing on it so hard?” I flick the lighter again and the flame poofs up.

“Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?” he retorts in a lazy tone and his bleary-eyed gaze is unyielding. “Hey, what happened to your face?”

I put the flame from the lighter up to the end of the cigarette. “I got into a fight with the wall and the wall won.”

He crooks his brow, blowing too hard again and it burns out. “A wall?”

“Yeah, a wall.” I give up on lighting the cigarette and pluck it from his mouth.

“Hey,” he protests as I put the end of the cigarette into my mouth. I gag at the potent taste of Jack Daniel’s on it as I light it up and take a deep inhale. I quickly puff out the smoke and do it a few more times, getting light-headed and then I hand it over, the end glowing orange through the dark.

“There you go, nicotine addict,” I say as he takes the lit cigarette from my fingers.

He puts it in his mouth and sucks on it. When he exhales the cloud of smoke, he looks more calm and relaxed. “You sucked that like a pro.”

“Well, I’ve had a lot of practice,” I tell him and then laugh a little when he busts up laughing, hunching over and holding the cigarette out to the side, the cherry bright through the dark.

“And I didn’t mean it like that.” I shake my head with a somewhat real smile on my face. “I just meant that I had this foster mother who liked to smoke when she cooked and sometimes when her hands were full she’d have me light her cigarette for her.” He stops laughing and I realize I’ve just told him more about me than I’ve told pretty much anyone besides the people who’ve taken me in.

He quiets down, putting the cigarette back into his mouth. “Foster mother?” He blows out smoke. “You grew up in a foster home?” He pauses, considering something. “What was it like?”

“All rainbows and sunshine—I was completely showered with love. Can we drop the subject?”

“Was it weird or good having different parents all the time?” he continues, clearly not registering that I want to change the subject.

A sinking feeling moves through my body, so weighted and heavy I nearly collapse to the ground. “So where’s your truck?”

The lights from the strip club’s signs flash in his eyes as he stares at me. “I think I parked out back… why?”

I head for the back of the building, motioning for him to follow me. “Because I’m going to drive you back to campus.”

He staggers after me, surprising me when he hitches a finger through a back loop on my shorts. At first I think he’s going to jerk me back to him, but all he does is hold on to me for support and balance, trusting me to get him where he needs to go, which is weird.

“How’d you get here?” he mutters in my ear.

I lead us around the corner, ignoring the blast of heat when his knuckles graze the skin on my back. “I walked.”

“From where?” he asks, flicking his cigarette to the side, little orange sparks dotting the gravel.

“From nearby,” I lie and speed up when I spot his truck parked crookedly at the back of the club in front of a cluster of trees beneath one of the lampposts. “Were you drunk when you got here?” I ask.

He steps up to the side of me, releasing my belt loop and grabbing hold of my arm. “No.”

“You parked like you were drunk.” I stiffen, not liking the way he’s clinging on to me for support. It’s causing a mixture of emotions from panic to desire and those damn heated stomach sensations to surface again.

“Well, I wasn’t.” He stares at his truck like he barely recognizes it. “I was just distracted.”

I’m not sure if he’s telling the truth or not, but I lead him the rest of the way to the truck. The doors are unlocked and I help him into the passenger side, letting him put his hands onto my shoulder to boost himself in. God, he owes me big time. Just thinking about him owing me a favor thrills me way, way too much. I need to get my head out of Luke land and get back to the place where it’s only me and me alone.

Once he gets settled in the seat, I close the door and round the front of the truck, deciding where I’m going to go when I get him back to his dorm. Walk back to my dorm and then what? I don’t have hardly any of my stuff and I’m pretty much homeless, at least in a couple of days I will be.

When I open the driver’s door, Luke is already lying down in the seat. I nudge him over and then hop in, slamming the door. “Where are your keys?”

His eyes are shut, his arms flopped over his chest, looking like he’s asleep. “I think… I think in my… pocket.”

I rest my hands on the steering wheel. “Can you please get them out?” I ask as nicely as I can because he’s wasted and doesn’t really know what he’s saying, but my patience is wearing thin.

He moves his hand slowly for his pocket and pats himself down. “Hmmm… that’s weird… They’re not there.”

This night is quickly becoming the night of ill-fated events, but I’m not going to put it down as my worst. “Then where are they?”

He shrugs, kicking his feet up on the door. “I have no idea.”

Sighing, I pat down his pockets myself, causing him to laugh and squirm. The only thing I can find is what looks like an insulin monitor thing with a strip sticking out of it and also a pen-shaped object.

“Oh good, you found it…” he mutters, taking it from my hands. But his fingers falter and he drops it on his stomach. “Damn it, I’m all… I’m all…” He sighs the longest sigh in world’s history. “Violet… can you… can you check my blood sugar for me?”

I pick up the monitor and pen object and flip on the interior light, examining them. “How do I do that exactly?”

He extends his arm over his head toward me and points his finger. “Just put the pen up to my finger and push the button.”

I’m a little uneasy about helping him, but put it up to his finger, and push the button like he asked. It pricks his finger and blood pools out of it.

“Now put the strip up onto the blood,” he says, yawning.

I do what he asks and move the strip on the monitor up to his finger. He dabs his blood on it and his eyes shut, like he barely knows what he’s doing. Then he pulls his hand away and flops it down on his stomach as the machine beeps. “What’s it say?” he asks.

I glance down at the beeping screen. “Sixty-eight.”

“Shit,” he mutters, forcing his eyes open. “Can you get my pills out of the glove box?”

I reach over him, flip the handle of the glove box, and dig around the papers and past the flashlight until I find a bottle of vitamin pills. “These ones that say ‘glucose’ on them.”

He bobs his head up and down with a lot of effort. “Those would… be the… ones.”

I unscrew the cap. “How many do you need?”

“Three…”

I’m kind of worried. Luke’s drunk and I have no idea about diabetics and what happens is they don’t get the right meds. What if I do something wrong?

“Are you sure it’s three?” I ask.

He bobs his head up and down. “Yeah… three and I’ll be… good…”

I swallow hard and pour three into my hand, then put the cap back on, and put the bottle away, shutting the glove box. I nudge him gently with my arm. “Luke, here. Take them.”

His eyelids flutter open, bloodshot, with zero comprehension. He gradually lifts his hand up and scoops the pills out of my hand, opening his mouth and dropping them in. His neck muscles work as he forces them down his throat. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” I mutter, confused by the momentary exchange of gratitude. Such a foreign concept to me.