“Hey,” Drix says. I can’t look at him, and he needs to be okay with me not looking at him. One frigging person in my life needs to be okay with me being upset and withdrawn for two flipping seconds. “Elle, it’s okay.”
That’s the thing—it’s not okay. I’m seventeen years old, I don’t know who I am, and I don’t have any idea how to get my parents to take me seriously. I’m trapped, and I can’t breathe.
There’s shifting on the bed, his body moving toward mine, and nausea creeps along my stomach. I expect Drix to force me to pull my hands off my face, demand for me to look at him, and he’ll be one more person pushing their way into my world, but that’s not what happens.
Instead a strong arm slides under my back, another arm goes under my knees, and a surprised breath leaves my mouth as he lifts me and then cradles me in his arms. At the top of the bed, he holds me close, he holds me tight, and I rest my head in the crook of his neck.
Drix is warm, Drix is solid, and he rests his head against mine as he says, “It’s okay to cry, Elle. Sometimes, this past year, I cried. Sometimes hurting happens.”
And it does. The pain inside me at losing so many dreams with the possibility of never knowing if I’ll be able to fight for them is too much to bear. The pain of looking in the mirror and having no idea who is staring back is enough to make me feel a little insane. So I rest into Drix, hold on to him, and I cry.
Hendrix
Every eye in the room is on Elle, and I’ll admit, I’m one of the many who can’t stop staring. She’s in a long fitted emerald green dress, her hair is pinned up, and there are perfect spiraled tendrils that flow around her bare shoulders. She’s the most beautiful creature in the room, and there is an easy and fluid grace with the way she moves as she greets one person to the next. She’s busy, yet she takes the time to find me as she works the room. Each and every time she briefly looks in my direction my heart stops.
Her eyes will glitter like fireworks, that smile shines like the sun, and then because she and I aren’t supposed to be near each other, she’ll turn her head, granting her attention to some other lucky bastard.
But she doesn’t smile at them like she smiles at me. Her eyes don’t dance with them like they dance with me. I feel like a fraud in a suit I could never afford after working for a year straight, but each and every time Elle gives me that one second, a rush of energy keeps me here. I’m willingly enduring hell for the chance that her eyes will meet mine one more time.
The muscles in the middle of my back tighten. I’m playing with fire, and I’m going to get burned. I’ve got to be smarter than this, but when I look at the doorway, I only want to stay.
Today, I held Elle as she cried. In years past, when girls cried, I ran in the opposite direction. But Elle—she’s different. She makes me different, and that makes me want to stay, if only to keep seeing her, even at a distance.
I shake another hand as Cynthia says a name I won’t remember. She’s been by my side the entire time, beaming because I’ve remained longer than the half hour they demanded.
To be honest, it’s been tough to concentrate on the people Cynthia introduces me to. My attention is split between Elle and the jazz band on the stage. The band is good, but they aren’t great. Hearing that steady beat has created an itch under the first layer of my skin I can’t reach. Since being home, besides playing guitar with Axle or Marcus, I’ve avoided music, preferring silence, but I can’t avoid it here, and listening to it is like being a heroin addict who is taunted with a needle full of the high.
“How are you handling the transition from the program to your life at home?” the man asks. I think Cynthia said he had something to do with finance in some part of government.
“It’s going well. My family encouraged me to enter the program, and they have been very supportive of the changes I’ve made since returning home.” The rehearsed answer slides more easily now that I’ve said it a hundred times tonight.
“What are your plans for your future?” the woman on his arm asks.
“College,” I say, but I have no idea if that’s true. Before the arrest, I never thought of going to college, but it’s the answer Cynthia said will make people happy. That’s what I’m learning that this year will be about—making everyone else happy.
“I have one more year of high school,” I continue. “For now, I’m searching for a part-time job, and I’m helping my older brother raise my younger sister.”
The woman touches a hand to her chest as if that’s the most heart-wrenching thing she’s heard, and the man tips a glass full of golden liquor in my direction. “Keep up the good work, Mr. Pierce. We’ll be watching, and we look forward to you doing great things.”
No pressure there. They leave, and Cynthia mumbles we should take a breather, which means something important or unimportant has popped up on her cell.
From across the room, another man walks up to Elle, thirties maybe, and she greets him with the same polite smile as she has with everyone else. Like the other times, he talks, she nods, he talks some more, and she chats along with the conversation, but there’s a strain that hasn’t been there before. Her eyes more narrowed, her smile stretched.
He moves. A centimeter at a time until he crowds her space. Elle subtly steps back until she hits a chair. That dark shadow that lives inside me growls as Elle’s polite smile dissolves and her body goes rigid. Her shoulders roll back like she’s considering taking a swing, and fire sparks from her eyes. I’ve been in more than a few fights in my life. Most of them because I was a bastard, so I’m well versed in that stance.
Elle glances around, the same way she did when she was on the midway when those guys were stalking her. I step forward, but Cynthia angles in front of me, blocking my view of Elle. “Where are you going?”
I roll my arms to keep myself in check. “Elle’s uncomfortable.”
Cynthia glances over her shoulder, and spits out a word she’d give me hell for saying aloud. She’s texting again on the cell I’m convinced is physically attached to her hand. “Elle isn’t your concern tonight. In fact, Elle isn’t your concern at all. I thought we had this conversation. If you and Elle are seen together, even as friends, it will appear like there is something more, and that will be the headlining story, not the governor’s program. We need the press to focus on the important issues, and today I’ve been entirely too busy turning that picture of you with a puppy at a historic hotel as another headline of you saving the day.”
The man extends his hand to Elle, and after another scan of the room, she accepts. Sludge oozes into my veins as it’s like watching a naïve calf being led to the slaughterhouse. Several other couples dance to the bad beat, and they make room for Elle and this bastard.
Elle’s jaw juts, and rage radiates from the proud way she holds herself as he takes her into his arms. He crushes her to him as if she’s a rag doll. His hand slides along her side, breezes past parts high he shouldn’t be near, then rests his hand too close to parts south on her back.
My ears ring, and as if hearing the warning bells herself, Cynthia’s arm shoots out to block me as she puts her phone to her ear.
“Where the hell is Andrew?” she spits. “He’s supposed to be watching over Elle.”
The girl on the midway would have nailed this man in the nuts, and I find myself wishing she would because otherwise I’m going to have to get involved.
“Andrew,” she says the name again. “Where is he?”
Andrew—the jerk she dumped on the midway, the jerk who is supposed to be attached to her side at public events. Yeah, Elle’s given me an earful on him, and I’ve seen him around. He’s more interested in what’s at the bottom of a liquor bottle than helping Elle. He’s currently failing at his job, and I’m more than happy to meet him in a dark alley and teach him with my fists how to care for Elle.
The anger that controlled me for so long before
the program rears its ugly head. “You’ve got ten seconds, Cynthia.”
She holds the phone away from her mouth. “You can’t intervene.”
“Five.”
“Andrew is on his way.”
“Three.”
“You go over there, and any progress we made on this program will be ruined.”
“One.”
“You do this, and it will ruin you. The governor overlooked the puppy, but he will not overlook you insulting one of the most influential people in politics. You are still on probation, and if you cause a scene tonight, it will negatively affect your future. Do you understand?”
As I take my first step forward, Andrew approaches Elle. Giving a light bow to her as if it’s a couple hundred years ago in a castle, he cuts into the dance with a laugh and a smile. Jealousy becomes a new monster as she offers him a relieved lift of her lips.
I’m her hero, not this jerk.
She accepts his offer to dance, and the only solace I find is that his hand is in a respectful place, his body isn’t pressed to hers, and he doesn’t focus on Elle, but on the rest of the room as they talk and dance.
Every muscle in my body is still poised, ready to rip apart, ready to kill, and that reaction belongs to a part of me I tried to leave behind in the forest. I pinch the bridge of my nose and breathe. I need out of this suit, I need air, I need freedom.
“You’ve done enough tonight, Hendrix,” Cynthia says. “Why don’t you go back to your room?”
The criminal is no longer needed and has been ordered to return to his cage. Like the chained animal I’ve become, I obey.
Ellison
My heart drops and my throat tightens. Drix is gone. I don’t know why it saddens me, but it does.
The song ends, Andrew releases me, and we both politely clap for the jazz band. The scent of Terry Clark’s strong and sour cologne smothers me, and I search for another smell for comfort. The scent of spilt champagne, the bacon in the hors d’oeuvres, the trace fragrance of Drix’s rich scent that stayed with me long after our afternoon together.
Reclaiming my game face is key, and I need to control the turmoil in my mind because more conversations are waiting to be had. More smiles, more handshakes, more hugs, and I tremble. The thought of another man touching me after I was mauled by Terry Clark’s eyes, by his words, by his hands causes nausea to twist my stomach.
Terry Clark. Talking with him was hell, and dancing was worse than death, but I didn’t know how to say no without offending him and he is not a man I can offend. In fact, he was on the short list of people my parents told me to keep my mouth shut around.
This was the type of scenario that caused me to call Henry crying months ago. It doesn’t happen often, but it does happen. Perfection. I will be perfection, and I will gain my parents’ approval. I will convince them to let me take coding this coming year. I will earn that internship, but I had no idea perfection meant selling a portion of my soul.
“You look pale,” Andrew says. “Let’s go outside for a few minutes. Give you a break.”
Andrew offers me his elbow, and I loop my hand around his arm.
“Just a few seconds, Ellie, and I’ll have you out of here. Fake it for a bit longer.”
Right. Appearances. They’re important. More important than the tears I’m not allowed to shed because I’m angry. More important than the fact that my skin feels tainted, that my body feels used and that I want nothing more than a scalding shower.
More important than an entire room of people who just witnessed that show and did nothing because Terry Clark has lots of money and he has a lot of power and he and my father often butt heads because my father doesn’t like to be owned.
Andrew leads me through the entrance marked No Entry, the one the waiters and waitresses have used. We go down a long hallway, then out the exit. My heels click on the concrete of the loading dock, and my cold skin is shocked by the humidity of the hot, dark night. I release Andrew and gasp for air as if I’m a fish out of water.
My hands run over my arms. Fingernails scraping. Like that will be enough to rid the memory of Terry Clark touching my skin, of him “accidentally” brushing the side of my breast and of him squeezing my butt before he left me with Andrew.
You’re so grown up now, Ellison. A woman. I bet you gain the attention of many men. Bet you’ve had experience with many men. Your father is smart to use you.
Flipping pervert. “That man needs to die.”
Andrew chuckles, my hands begin to shake, and I want to hit myself when a renegade anger tear slips down my cheek. Men suck, and Andrew belongs in that category.
I spin and stick a long pointed fingernail into his chest. “You think this is funny?”
“No,” he answers, yet he’s all mocking teeth. I have never wanted to slap anyone so badly in my life. I take that back. I have wanted to slap several people in my life, and Andrew is, once again, on the list.
“Take off your jacket,” I demand.
He proves he’s the devil when he permits that evil smile to widen. “Why, Ellie, I’m honored you’re still crushing on me, and while I’d like to strip for you and get it on, we’re going to have to wait until you’re eighteen. I have a no-minors rule, but the moment you blow the candles out on your cake, I’m game.”
“You’re sick, and I go by Elle.”
He shrugs one shoulder, still smiling. “You’re the one telling me to take off my clothes.”
“I want your jacket so I can sit and not ruin my dress, you moron.”
That grotesque smile doesn’t wane as he slides his jacket off and dangles it in the air by two fingers. I shove the middle of his chest with my fingernail, and he rocks before I snatch the jacket. Lightweight. Andrew is tall, and he looks solid, but unlike Drix, he moved.
I spread his jacket over a bench and sit. Every muscle in my body sighs in relief, especially my ankles that are tired of maneuvering in heels I’m sure are a form of capital punishment in other countries.
“I was there when your parents told you to stay away from Terry Clark,” Andrew says.
I take off my shoe and consider throwing it at him. “He approached me.”
For 1.2 seconds, I consider reminding Andrew that my parents threatened him with death if he left my side tonight, but I don’t. Doing so would make it sound like I needed his help, and admitting that makes me feel weak.
“The Elle I knew a year ago would have given Terry Clark a verbal beat-down and a slap that included claws and his blood. But I guess your dad is right—you’ve matured. Seems a lot changed while I was gone.”
I circle my ankle to ease the tension. “When did he say that?”
“Before the fund-raiser began. I overheard him talking to your mom.”
My head snaps up because I wasn’t expecting that response.
“Your dad thought you were going to fight him on that damn dog you convinced the felon to take on, but he said you stood there, took your punishment and agreed to everything he laid out for you without argument. Both of your parents were impressed. Have to say, I am, too. I thought everything with you was always a fight, but I guess you’re learning how to play the game.”
Andrew’s monologue is salt on a bleeding wound. I’m being torn apart. Between who I am to the core of my being, the person who would have stood up for herself, and the person I’ve been asked to pretend to be. Have to admit, I’m ashamed, at least when it came to Terry Clark, that I did keep silent.
Mature. What does being mature mean? Mature feels an awful lot like being tamed, and so far, I’m not caring for the view from my cage. “Why does being mature mean I have to let people treat me like crap, all while I smile and act like I’m grateful for being dumped on?”
“If you look at it that way, we all might as well hang ourselves by a showerhead now.” Andrew removes a package of cigarettes fro
m his pocket and knocks them against his open palm.
“You shouldn’t smoke,” I say. “Studies have proven it will kill you, and if that doesn’t change your mind, studies have also proven it causes you to age faster. You seem a little too self-obsessed to be okay with wrinkles at twenty-five.”
“This is Kentucky. It’s politically correct to smoke.”
I shoo him away with a flick of my fingers. “You’re wrong, but if this is how it has to be, then go be politically correct farther down. I don’t want to smell like smoke, and I don’t want to die from secondhand lung cancer.”
He does what I ask by positioning himself downwind of me, places the cigarette in his mouth, and cups his hand over the lighter. I watch as the flame sparks to life. A few puffs in and ashes form at the tip. Andrew places the lighter in his pocket, draws in a deep inhale then releases a long stream of smoke.
“You really going to do this, Elle? You want in on the political game?”
“No on the game, but changing the world is a good thing. I don’t mind helping Dad. He does amazing things for people who need help.”
“You should join the Peace Corps if you want that daydream because politics is a game. Even you can’t change that.”
While the Peace Corps is admirable... “I believe in my dad. I believe in what he’s doing. Guys like Terry Clark are awful, but my dad is someday going to make people like that obsolete. No more playing their games. No more letting money have power. He will protect the people.”
Andrew flicks the ashes. “You think that’s how it is?”
“I know that’s how it is. Dad came from nothing, and he remembers where he came from and how hard it was. Dad wants to help people.”
He watches me as he sucks on the cigarette again. With the exhale, he shoots the smoke into the starless night. “Here’s the truth even your parents won’t tell you because they don’t have the heart to kill that innocent optimism that even I find attractive—you can’t fix things without compromising yourself and your beliefs.”