The Probability of Violet & Luke

  He’s ‘s lying down on the bed next to me, on top of the comforter and that notebook I saw him put into his bag back at the apartment is opened up on his lap, his eyes on the pages. Whatever is on there has got him worked up, his eyes glossy, his fingers trembling as he flips the page.

  “Everything okay?” I ask, sitting up in the bed and stretching my arms above my head.

  He jumps and presses his hand to his heart, startled. “Jesus, you scared the shit out of me.”

  I glance from the notebook to his wide eyes. “I can tell.” I pause, looking down at the notebook again. “What are you reading?”

  He shakes his head, closing the book. “It is… was…” He touches the leather band on his wrist that he always wears, tracing his fingers over the word Redemption. “My sister, Amy’s journal… my… mother sent it to me a few weeks ago.” He sets the book aside, shaking his head. “I have no idea why she did it. I think it was another one of her games to try and get me to come home, like remembering Amy would tear me up enough that I would need to be with my mom or something.” He rolls his eyes. “She’s stupid, though. She had to of not read it because there’s a lot of discriminating thing in there about her that makes me want to never see her again.” He pauses, conflicted, fiddling with a small whole in his jeans. “Although she could have read it and was just too crazy to see how bad it made her look.”

  I’m about to say… well, something, because it feels like I need to, but then he abruptly changes the subject. “I’m glad you woke up before I left for the game. I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  I frown, bringing my knees up so there under me, then smooth my untamed locks out of my face. “Why did you say it like that—like I’m not going?”

  “Because you’re not.” He offers me this sexy lopsided grin, as if dazzling me with his charm is going to make this easier on him. “I want—no need—to make sure you’re safe for the night.”

  “Don’t try to smile you’re way out of this, Mr. Stoically Aloof,” I say, elevating my brows at him. “I want to go. Be useful. Not just sit around here and feel like I’m going to go crazy from the quietness.” Something shifts in his expression, unravels, his tongue slipping out of his mouth to wet his lips. “What is it?” I ask, not sure if he looks upset or painfully relieved—perhaps both.

  “It’s nothing.” He shakes his head, gaze glued on mine. “It’s just that you used my nickname.”

  “So…” I’m so confused.

  “So, I didn’t think I’d ever hear it come out of your mouth again since you only use it when you’re being flirty.” He’s right. I only used it when I was teasing him or trying to make him irritated because he looks sexy when he’s frustrated, on the verge of losing it with me. “I’ve missed it,” he adds, looking as though he’s going to kiss me. And I want him to desperately, not just because with each kiss it feels like he’s erasing more and more of Preston’s kisses, but because when his lips are on mine, they’re the only thing I can feel, my very own replacement to my adrenaline addiction.

  “Aren’t you going to kiss me?” I finally ask after a minute passes with him eyeing my mouth. I wince at the desperation in my voice, almost panting.

  He cracks a smile, his eyebrows elevating. “Do you want me to kiss you?”

  I remain indifferent. “Are you playing a game with me, Mr. Stoically Aloof?”

  “If I was, I’d be winning.” His lips quirk, amused, and for an amazing moment, it feels like we’re in the past again, challenging the crap out of each other. I don’t want to lose and admit how much I want to kiss him and neither does he.

  Stubborn asshole. “You want to know what?” I ask cockily, then lean in, my lips hovering over his. “I’ll win this one.” With that, I press my lips to his and give him a passionate kiss, my tongue enticing his lips open and meeting his as my arms encircle him and my fingers wander through his hair.

  “How do you figure that was you winning?” he asks between kisses, his hand tangling through my hair.

  I internally smile, almost laughing aloud at my brilliance. “Because I took the kiss from you.”

  He lets out this raspy chuckle then suddenly the kiss turns much more heated as he leans in toward me and he forces me back on my back, covering my body with his. “If that’s the case then,” his fingers slide up beneath the slip I still have on from last night, making their way up my leg, ready to enter me. Not wanting to give him the upper hand, though, I move my hand down and shove his fingers away, despite how much my body protests.

  He lets out this growl, but before he can come at me again, I put my hand down his jeans and start rubbing him, making him pant, his body going rigid as I grip onto him and move my hand up and down.

  “Dammit, Violet,” he moans in my ear, nipping at my skin, teeth piercing the skin and making those butterflies flutter in my stomach again. Huh? I guess it wasn’t the jager and vodka.

  With his body over mine, his arms struggling to hold up his weight, I stroke him, not even sure what the hell I’m doing, but just going with it. No disgust. No shame. Just want. So much want.

  I think he’s about to reach the edge and I’m smiling to myself because technically I sort of won, at least in my head. But then someone knocks on the door and my hand instinctively pauses and Luke lets out a groan in protest.

  “Luke we gotta go!” His uncle hollers, pounding on the door again. “Or else we’re going to be late and they won’t let us in tonight.”

  “Just a second!” Luke shouts back, sounding pissed. His eyes shut and he presses his face to the crook of my neck as he grips onto the blanket, trying to calm himself down.

  “Not just a second!” His uncle bangs on the door repeatedly. “We’re already pushing our luck!”

  Shaking his head, Luke grinds his hips against my hand one more time. “I’m going to fucking hurt him for this,” he mutters. Then with another grunt of protest, he pushes away from me. My hand leaves his jeans and he adjusts himself as he sits up, looking like he’s in pain.

  “You okay?” I’m trying not to laugh, but it’s difficult.

  He narrows his eyes at me. “You think this is funny?” he asks, then slants toward me with a dark, hungry look on his face. I think he’s going to kiss me, but then he says in a husky voice, “Just wait until I get back. I’m winning the next one.” With that, he gets up, grabs his wallet from the nightstand, and tucks it into the back pocket of his jeans, looking pretty pleased with himself.

  I roll onto my stomach and rest my chin in my hands as I stare at him. “You’re really going to leave me here?”

  “Well, I don’t really have a choice anymore,” he says, gripping the doorknob as Cole continues to knock on the door from the other side, chewing Luke out. “I have to go now, but I probably wouldn’t have let you go anyway.”

  I give him a dirty look. “Let me go? Seriously? What is this? 1950?”

  “No, I just care about you too much.”

  I get out of bed and cross the room to him, noting he looks a little pale again. I saw him give himself another injection this morning, so hopefully it’ll help with his paleness and exhaustion. I don’t know enough about diabetes though to know for sure. I’m starting to worry more and more though. I’ve seen him so drunk once that he needed my help checking his blood sugar and giving him pills.

  “Fine, I’ll let you make me stay here,” I say, which gets him to smile. “Now go win big.” I press my lips to his, giving him a quick kiss, then pat his ass. “That is how they do it on the football field, right?”

  He shakes his head, trying not to laugh at me. “Please stay out of trouble,” he says as he turns the doorknob.

  Rolling my eyes, I give him a salute. “Yes, boss.”

  A thoughtful look rises on his face. “You should start calling me that more. I like it,” he says and as I shake my head, and playfully pinch his side. He laughs and opens the door all the way.

  Cole is standing there with his arms folded, looking annoyed, mad, and
drunk, amongst other things. “I know I seem cool and everything,” he says to Luke sternly. “But not with this. If I get you connections, you better follow through or else I’ll drop you.”

  I can tell it irks Luke, and he probably has to bite his tongue really hard to stay calm. “Well, I’m ready now, so lets get going.”

  Cole glares at him then glances over his shoulder at me. “Ryler’s staying if you want to go hangout downstairs with him.”

  I nod while Luke scowls at Cole. “I’ll get dressed and head down.” Then I wave at Luke and shut the door before he can freak out more.

  I get dressed in a tank top and jeans, wishing I’d brought shorts, but didn’t think it’d be this hot. Then I go downstairs to see if I can stomach any sort of food. I haven’t had too many hangovers in my life, but I’m learning quickly that it makes my stomach super queasy.

  When I get downstairs, Ryler is sitting at the kitchen table, eating a sandwich, music playing in the background as he plays a game of solitaire. He seems really into it, twisting around one of his eyebrow piercings, lost in deep thought. When he notices me, he fights back a grin. Feeling better?

  I sigh and make my way over to the table. “Yeah, sorry about last night. I get a little intense when I’m drunk.”

  You were fine. He flips a card over and then studies his next move. Amusing more than anything.

  “Well, I’m glad you think so,” I say, then point to his plate. “Mind if I make one for myself?”

  He nods, setting the cards aside and getting up. I’ll make you one.

  I shake my head and motion for him to sit back down. “Thanks, but I’m good.” I open the fridge. “I’m totally self-sufficient.”

  Yeah, I can kind of see that. He picks up the deck, but then looks like he wants to tell me something as I get out the mayo, lunchmeat, and cheese. Finally, he puts the deck of cards back down. So how did you learn sign language? I tense and he must see it to because he adds, You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.

  “No, it’s okay… I guess.” I grab some bread from the loaf on the counter and a paper plate. “I learned it from one of my foster brothers.” I don’t look at him, not wanting to see his face when I reveal that I’m parentless, and keep my attention on making my sandwich. Mayo on bread, meat, cheese, topped off with more bread and done. When I finally turn around with the sandwich in my hand, I discover he’s staring at me.

  And then his hands move in front of him. I grew up in foster homes too.

  I’m in mid-bite and it’s a good excuse not to respond right away, but really I’m trying to pull myself together. This is a heavy subject, which I don’t like to talk about—my time spent being passed between families. “How come?” I finally ask after I swallow the bite and sit down at the table.

  Parents couldn’t take care of me. It’s signed so casually but I can see the pain emitting from his eyes.

  “But you’re with your dad now?” I pick some of the crust off the bread.

  I know, but he didn’t want me until I was eighteen and could pretty much take care of myself.

  I feel bad for him. I lost my parents and was forced to live with other people. Ryler’s parents gave him away by choice. “What about your mom?”

  He shrugs. Lets just say she was never ready to be a mom… then again, quite honestly, I still don’t think my dad even is ready to be a parent right now. He acts like a kid sometimes and is hard to trust… sometimes I feel like the parent. He pauses, shaking his head at his own thoughts. What about you? Where are your parents?

  I hesitate. God, how the hell did I end up in this conversation? “They died when I was five…” My voice cracks and I clear my throat.

  I’m so sorry.

  I shake it off and look for a subject change, getting so sick of hearing the word sorry. I know people mean well, but it doesn’t change anything. “I like this song,” I say, nodding at the iPod.

  He gives me a questioning looking, noting my need to change the subject, but lets it go. Yeah, Taking Back Sunday is a good band. Great live too.

  “I saw them once a couple of years ago,” I say and take another bite of the sandwich. “It was super badass.”

  We continue on about our favorite bands, but my lips are moving almost robotically, my parents taking up most of my thoughts. I just keep thinking about what it would be like if I ended up with them again, like Ryler with his dad? Of course that can never happen, but sometimes it’s good pretending, like I did for the first year or so after they died. It’s actually the first time I’ve really thought about them without freaking out. Add the light conversation with Ryler and things are going pretty good. That is until my phone starts vibrating madly inside my pocket. There must have been a delay when the battery died because a stream of text messages comes pouring in, times varying from last night to only hours ago.

  Unknown: Been thinking about u a lot and how badly I want to hurt you.

  Unknown: U think ignoring me is going to make me stop. Think again.

  Unknown: This shit is getting old u little cunt.

  Unknown: U disgust me, being with the son of the woman who took your parents life.

  Unknown: U fucking whore. Text me back.

  Unknown: Fuck u.

  Unknown: If u don’t text me back right now, something bad is going to happen.

  Unknown: I know you’re in Vegas. Hope u have fun. I’ll be waiting for u when u get back.

  They end, just like that. It’s not an ending for me, though, but a beginning of a panic attack if I don’t find a way to calm down. Because he knows where I am but the question is how? How did he find out, when hardly no one knows I’m here. The only people who know I’m here are the ones with me… and Greyson.

  “Shit.” I jump from the chair, cutting Ryler off. He looks up at me worriedly, mouthing what’s wrong. But I don’t answer, dialing Greyson’s phone number. It rings four times and then goes straight to his voicemail, so I leave him a rushed message about calling me immediately. He could be just at work, but what if he’s not. What if something happened to him… what if unknown is with him. God, I don’t want to flip out, but I’m about to. Pins. Needles. Pins. Needles. They’re poking madly underneath my skin.

  “Can you excuse me for a second?” I ask Ryler and when he nods, I dash up to the guest room, unsure of what I’m going to do. At first I’m only thinking about myself and about the many ways I could hurt myself, but then all my thoughts go to Greyson. I’m worried about him. Me. Violet Hayes. Worried about someone else besides herself. Actually, I’m worried about a lot of people at the moment.

  So I dial Greyson’s number again, squeezing my eyes shut, and holding my breath, crossing my fingers he’ll answer. “Please, please Greyson, pick up.”

  He doesn’t though, so I end up dialing him ten times, over and over again, becoming like a stalker myself. Finally he picks up, though, but is very, very grumpy about it. But I’m relieved to hear his voice.

  “What the hell, Violet,” he hisses in the phone. “I’m at work, filling in for you. Remember?”

  “Shit. Sorry, but it’s really important.” I sit down on the bed and lie down on my back. “Did you tell anyone that I was coming to Vegas with Luke?”

  There’s some clanking and banging of dishes in the background. “Yeah, Seth. But that’s it.”

  “Did he tell anyone?”

  “Probably. He tells everyone everything.” He pauses and I can hear the manager of the diner hollering something in the background. “Wait? Was I not supposed to say anything to anyone?”

  “No, it’s fine, but…” I waver, wondering if I should tell him what’s really going on. I hate telling my problems to people but it doesn’t seem like I have a choice anymore. “It’s not really a big deal or anything, I’ve just been getting these weird texts and they know I’m in Vegas with Luke, which is strange since no one really knows except you and I guess Seth.”

  “Texts from that reporter again?”

  “I don’t th
ink so. I mean, it could be a reporter, but I don’t know.” I let out a loud exhale. “Could you do me a favor and call Seth and see who he told, just so I can maybe get an idea of who’s being a douche?”

  “Of course,” he says, not pressing any further. “Give me ten minutes and I’ll take a break and go call him. Then call you right back.”

  “Thank you,” I say, feeling the slightest bit lighter, the pins and needles not so potent and sharp. So this is what asking for help is like? I should really do it more often, but then again, getting to the point of asking feels like pulling teeth.

  “You’re welcome,” he says, meaning it. “Talk to you in just a minute.”

  We hang up and I try to relax the best that I can, watching the minutes tick by, but I only breathe freely again when Greyson calls back. “So it wasn’t Seth,” he says as soon as I pick up. “While I was talking to Seth on the phone, Benny overheard me talking about it and said that some guy called the diner the other day, asking where you were.”