Unbeautiful

  Ryler finally sits up, leaving my body cold.

  “I know you probably don’t want me to say this,” his hands move in front of him. “But you look really beautiful when you’re like that.”

  I offer him a dazed smile as I sit up then smooth my hands over my hair. “Thanks.”

  “Thanks for the compliment or the orgasm?” He smiles to let me know he’s joking, but I still blush like crazy. He extends his hand forward and strokes my cheekbone again, studying me in fascination. Then he sighs as he signs, “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but I have to take off for work.”

  “It’s okay.” I check the clock on the stereo. “I should probably get home anyway. It’s getting late.”

  He nods, his gaze still fixed on me. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

  I shrug. “Not much. I don’t really have a life as of now. This is actually the first time I’ve done anything fun.”

  A slow grin expands across his face. “We could have fun tomorrow if you want.”

  My cheeks are so hot I swear they’re on fire. “Yeah, we could. It’d have to be after five, though. I have a class.”

  His brows furrow. “Which one?”

  “Creative Writing.”

  “With Professer Morelliey?”

  I nod. “How’d you know?”

  “Because I’m in the same class.”

  “So we get to be college newbies together? How exciting.”

  He wavers. “I guess you could look at it like that.” He stands up and offers me his hand to help me up. Once I’m on my feet, he lets go to sign, “I can drive you if you want. From what I can tell, you don’t have a car.”

  Clearly he’s been watching me a lot, and while I’m flattered, I’m also a bit worried he might be noticing me too much. Then again, I blabbed so much to him tonight, including secrets about my brother, so does it even matter anymore?

  “Sounds like a plan,” I say as we start for the door. “Oh, wait, can I have my papers back?”

  He nods then points to the floor behind me at my papers on the carpet.

  Relief washes over me. “Thank you,” I tell him as I collect the fragments and stuff them into my pocket. “I know it probably seems crazy—that I seem crazy—by how much I want them back, but it’s just really important to me.”

  “I get it. I’d never want anyone to see the stuff I wrote.”

  It makes me wonder what he writes.

  If he writes dark thoughts like I do.

  I start to grow uneasy as I realize I don’t really know him at all. He could be the nicest person ever, or he could be like my father who seems like the nicest person ever during the day, but then night rolls around and his inner demons awaken. Although Ryler looks like he has demons, I don’t get that vibe from him. He doesn’t seem dangerous at all, just looks the part, opposite of my father and mother.

  “Come on. I’ll walk you to your door,” Ryler signs then opens his bedroom door.

  I follow him out of the room and out of the apartment. We ascend the stairs in silence, but about halfway up, Ryler suddenly slams to a halt and ducks to the ground.

  “What’s wrong?” I track his gaze to a woman walking up the sidewalk toward our building. “Who’s that?”

  His head bobs forward as he lifts his hands. “Haven.”

  “Haven…” I trail off, staring at the woman. “That person Violet mentioned?”

  When I glance back at Ryler, he nods.

  I squint down at the woman, trying to get a better look at her, but it’s too dark to make out anything other than blonde hair.

  “Who is she?”

  He frowns. “You really want to know?”

  It’s clear he doesn’t want to tell me, but the fact that he’s giving me a choice says a little bit about him.

  I nod. “I do.”

  He sighs exhaustedly then climbs to the top of the stairway. “If you’ll hide me inside your place for about five minutes, I’ll tell you.”

  Let him inside my home? I’ve never let anyone into my home, even in Ralingford. There are reasons for this. Letting someone in my home means giving them a glimpse into the part of my life I keep hidden.

  “Um, you want to come into my place?” When he gives me a funny look, I add, “It’s a mess.”

  “You saw my room, didn’t you?” He nervously smiles, his gaze dancing back and forth between me and the woman.

  “All right.” I stumble up the stairs and fumble to get the doorknob turned. My palms are so damp it takes me a few tries, but I finally get the door open.

  As he steps over the threshold, I feel like I’m going to pass out, fall to the floor right in the foyer. I manage to stay on my feet, though, and get the door shut without flipping out.

  He glances around at my unpacked boxes, the food on the counter, and the Cheetos crumbs on the coffee table. “Are you one of those procrastinator unpackers?” He looks at me curiously.

  “I guess.” I drop down on the armrest of the sofa.

  His gaze lingers on my hallway, at the wooden circle on the wall. “What is that?”

  My insides tighten. “Just something my mom put up to make me feel more at home. I don’t know why, though. I think it’s creepy.”

  “Yeah, it kind of is.” He tears his gaze away from it and focuses on me. “I swear I’ve seen it before.”

  “I don’t know anything about it,” I say then change the subject to hide my lie. “So, who’s Haven?”

  His shoulders hunch as he gazes out the window. “She’s this girl I met at a club and brought home. I think I was a little drunk because, when I woke up the next morning, she seemed way off her rocker.” He sits down on the edge of the coffee table and rakes his fingers through his hair, avoiding eye contact with me. “She kept whispering in my ear how beautiful our babies were going to be, which seemed pretty bold since we’d never actually communicated other than with fucking.” He exhales loudly as his hand falls to his lap. When he looks at me, remorse masks his expression. “She wouldn’t leave me alone and still randomly shows up at the apartment sometimes, like now.”

  I’m not sure what’s worse; listening to him talk about hooking up with another girl or the fact that his story seems rehearsed, like my stories are, which can only mean one thing.

  He’s lying.

  I force a tight smile. “Wow, I’m not sure what to say to that.”

  “How about we don’t say anything about Haven ever again?” he suggests as he stands up and moves toward me. “How about we pretend that, when we left my place, all that happened was I walked you home.” He dips his head toward my face, his gaze flicking to my lips. His tongue slides out and draws his lip ring back between his teeth. “And that I kissed you goodnight before I left.”

  He sucks in a breath and presses his lips to mine.

  I almost immediately sink into his kiss. My lips willingly part, allowing his tongue to fully enter my mouth. The kiss is quick—a sweep of his tongue, a graze of his tongue ring, a nip of my lip. But I still feel breathless when he pulls away.

  “I’ll pick you up for class around two, if that’s okay?” He pauses, staring down at me as he fiddles with a stud on his belt. “That is, if you still want to ride with me.”

  A beat of silence goes by. Liar or not, I’ve had more fun with him tonight than I’ve ever had. That has to mean something.

  Besides, who am I to judge?

  I’m as big a liar as they come.

  I nod and he smiles at me before cracking open the door. He peers out into the stairway. Once he’s satisfied that Haven’s gone, he ducks out into the night.

  The moment the door shuts, whispers start flowing all around me.

  You’re in trouble, Emery.

  What you did was wrong.

  You need to take your pill and undo your wrongdoings.

  Like my first night in my apartment, my lungs constrict, limiting oxygen flow. I hurry across the room to the kitchen, rip the pieces of paper into unreadable-sized pieces, and
discard them into the trash, hoping to get some relief. But the voices grow louder.

  Take the pill. You need to take the pill. You need to clear your head.

  Two bottles of pills sit near the sink, pills I haven’t touched in months.

  “My head is clearer than it has ever been,” I say aloud as I pick up the bottle with the pink pill, twist the lid off, and glance inside.

  Take the pills, Emery. Take them now.

  “Don’t take them, Emery,” Ellis’s voice circles around me.

  I nearly drop the bottle at the sound of his voice. I frantically scan the apartment for him, but like in the carport, he’s nowhere.

  “Ellis?” I whisper, my eyes darting from the ceiling to the floor to the living room.

  Silence.

  Guilt. I have to be hearing his voice because of guilt.

  I reach into the bottle and pluck out one of the small pills.

  Take it, Emery. Take the pill!

  I tuck the pill into my pocket and tip the bottle sideways, watching the pills rain into the sink and down the drain.

  The voices die.

  All I’m left with is the quiet and the faint echo of Ellis’s voice inside my head.

  I tiptoe back into my room, retrieve the single pill from my pocket, and place it on the nightstand. Then I collect my notebook and begin to write like I do every night.

  My brother, Ellis.

  I miss him,

  even though I never really got to know him.

  Not really.

  Growing up, he was always in his room.

  Or in the basement.

  Or sneaking outside.

  The nights he escaped,

  I envied him.

  Wished to be him.

  But I was always too subdued to try myself.

  Except for that night months ago,

  when I dared to sneak out.

  I followed him out of the Gold

  and into the Shadows and moonlight.

  I asked him earlier that day how he didn’t worry.

  He told me it was simple.

  That unlike me, he didn’t think.

  He didn’t fear.

  He didn’t care.

  He just did.

  And that he needed to breathe.

  To find the air my father stole from him,

  in the late hours of our cold basement.

  He told me I’d understand one day.

  That eventually my head would clear.

  One day, I’d see the wrong.

  And I’d also see the right.

  One day I would see again.

  God, did I want to see,

  more than I wanted anything.

  And maybe I finally am.

  For the first time in my life,

  I feel less blind.

  For the first time in my life,

  I can see my parents for what they are.

  They’re sinners.

  Killers.

  And they made me one, too.

  That night I snuck out,

  blood stained my hands

  and left a scar on my back.

  The pen falls from my hand at the sound of glass shattering from inside my apartment. A beat skips by where I don’t breathe. Then I hear a loud thump, and I spring into action.

  My heart lurches into my throat as I toss the notebook and pen aside and roll off my bed. Reaching my hand under, I scramble for the metal box, but pause.

  Do I really want to go there yet?

  I stand up with the box hugged to my chest and edge toward the hallway. I left all the lights on in the apartment, so I can easily see as I creep toward the living room. When I reach the end of the hallway, I halt to listen. The air is quiet, but the temperature has grown colder.

  Sucking in a breath, I peek around into the living room and kitchen. No one is there, but shards of glass are all over the carpet. The sliding door to the porch has a hole in the top of it, and amongst the broken glass lies a brick.

  “That explains the thud,” I mutter as I step into the room.

  I set the box down on the floor and walk over to the sliding glass door, making sure not to step on any glass.

  A note is secured to the brick by a rubber band. I pick the paper up and unfold it.

  We’re watching you, Emery. You’ve been a bad, bad girl, and now you’re going to pay.

  As tires squeal in the distance, I scurry to the window and look downward to the parking lot just in time to see a black Cadillac racing out onto the road.

  That car. It has to be a patrol car from Ralingford.

  But why is it here?

  “Shit.” I weave around the glass, collect my phone, and skitter down the hallway. I start to dial my mother to tell her what happened but pause when I catch sight of the wooden circle she nailed into the wall.

  What if she did it? What if she’s trying to scare me into coming home?

  But what if it wasn’t her?

  What if it’s more than that? What if it’s someone else? Like one of my father’s enemies.

  I hang up and put the phone away, vowing to never go to my mother for help, no matter what happens. Even if my life is in danger.

  Chapter 8

  Welcome to Hell

  Ryler

  The moment I step out of the apartment, I try to force thoughts of Emery out of my mind. The last thing I want tonight is to be distracted. And Emery is definitely a distraction, one I need to make sure I want.

  “Where the hell have you been, asshole?” Haven is waiting for me when I arrive at the bottom of the stairs. Her arms are crossed, her expression livid. “You haven’t been answering any of my calls, and your little friends are very rude whenever I stop by looking for you. They always tell me you’re not there” —she motions at me—“when clearly you are.”

  I sigh at the sight of her and all that she represents. I lied to Emery about who Haven is. I had to. She’s part of the Elderman side of my life, the life I have to keep a secret. I didn’t like lying to Emery, not one bit, which is going to make our little thing—if I can even call it that—complicated.

  I brush by Haven. It’d be pointless to try to communicate with her. She doesn’t know how to sign. I have a piece of paper and pen in the car, but I’m not about to go get them. The last time I chatted via pen with her, we ended up fucking. That was a huge mistake, considering a) she turned out to be crazy, and b) she’s Marellie’s daughter, one of Elderman’s men whose skills lie in the grey shades of life.

  “Ryler, don’t walk away from me.” She stomps after me, her heels clicking against the concrete.

  I fish my keys out of my pocket and swing around her, heading for my Dodge Challenger as she continues to chew me out. There are times, like now, when I can appreciate being voiceless because I have an excuse not to say anything back.

  “Goddammit, Ryler.” She grabs my shoulder, jerks me back, and skitters around in front of me. Her long blond hair is tangled from the wind, and her eyes burn with fury. “I didn’t just come here to talk to your back. I have a message for you. Or my father does anyway.”

  I remind myself that I have to be nice to her. If I don’t, I could piss off the wrong people.

  “Oh, I see how it is. One mention of my father, and you’ll listen to me. You must really be afraid of him. You should be.” She walks her finger up my chest and plays with the collar of my shirt. “Maybe I should tell him what you did to me.” Her fingers skate downward and stop above the waistband of my jeans. “How you got me drunk and made me touch you.”

  I shake my head, aggravated. That’s not what happened. She was sober and I was drunk when we stumbled back to my place and fooled around.

  “Maybe I can keep my mouth shut, though,” her fingers start to drift into my jeans, “if you make me touch you again.”