Havoc:Mayhem Series #4(11)

Chapter 8




That night, my eyes pop wide open in the dark when a crash sounds in our kitchen. And another.

I grip my bedsheets.

And another.

In the dark, I roll out from under my covers and hit the floor, because I  am home alone, at night, and I am being fucking robbed.

Someone outside of my room is tearing the entire place apart, and my  eyes are frantically struggling to adjust to the dark to find something,  anything, to defend myself with.

This is what you get for moving to the city! an unhelpful voice shouts  in my head as I stand up, and my disoriented, panicked body spins around  and around in the middle of my moonlit room. I'm searching for a  baseball bat or a crowbar or anything except the mountain of pillows on  my bed. Why the hell do I have so many pillows?!

When the heavy footsteps draw closer to my room, I'm standing there  clutching a half-empty bottle of water in my hand. And when those  footsteps grow too loud to ignore, I launch myself into the hallway  screaming like some demon-possessed tiger-woman.

"AAAAAYYYAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

The water bottle flies from my hand and through the air, and Danica's voice yells "WHAT THE FUCK!" as it whizzes past her head.

"Dani?"

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?"

Her eyes are even wider than mine, slicing back and forth between me and  where my water bottle shattered one of our living room table lamps into  a million tiny pieces.                       
       
           



       

"I thought . . . I thought you were a robber . . ."

"So you threw a water bottle at me?!" When I just stand there like an  idiot, she yells, "Did you even call the cops before you tried to murder  me?"

That probably would've been the smart thing to do, so . . . "No . . ."

Instead, I sprung into the hallway like a five-foot-tall,  Aquafina-sponsored assassin, complete with heart-print pajama pants and a  puppy face printed on my T-shirt. I push my wild hair out of my eyes.  "Sorry."

"Whatever," Danica scoffs, nudging her way past me. "You are so lucky you didn't hit me."

"Why were you making so much noise?" I ask with adrenaline still fueling  my racecar heart as I follow her back to her room. She attempts to slam  her door, but it meets my open palms and I continue following her.

She doesn't bother going into her closet before she starts stripping off her clothes.

"Because I'm pissed!" she answers as she skillfully unzips her golden top, yanks it over her head, and hurls it at her bed.

"Why?" I ask, watching as she kicks a purple heel into her closet and disappears in after it.

"Because when I asked Mike to come inside tonight, do you know what he said?"

"What?"

Danica reappears barefoot, her pink toenails matching the thin cami she  now has on with the fuchsia skirt she wore out tonight. "He said he has  to wake up early!" She throws her hands in the air. "What the hell kind  of excuse is that?"

"Maybe he really does . . ." I reason, but Danica jabs a finger at me.

"No, Hailey. No. Mike's changed."

"How?" She shimmies out of her skirt and kicks it into the wall before disappearing into her closet again.

"Like tonight, I told him he should get the lobster risotto, but he  wouldn't. I told him how good it was, but he didn't even care!"

"That's it?" I ask, and Danica practically teleports back out of her closet, her face a mask of anger.

"That's it?"

"I mean . . . maybe he just doesn't like risotto. Mike doesn't really seem like a risotto kind of guy."

"How would you know?" Danica sneers. "You don't even know him." She  stares me down, her eyes narrowing. "Just because he buys you some  shitty little flowers because he feels sorry for you doesn't mean you  know anything, Hailey."

"I was just trying to help . . ."

"Yeah, well, you can help by paying for that three-hundred-dollar lamp you just broke, but like that's ever going to happen."

It's a low blow, and she knows it, but of course I don't think of any good comebacks until I'm lying in bed later that night.

Yeah, well, not everyone has a rich daddy like you, Dani.

That's what I should have said. But then she probably would've replied  with something even meaner. Or worse, maybe she would have told said  rich daddy about how I tried to murder her, and then she'd kick me out  and he'd stop paying for my school and I'd have to move back to the same  little farm in the same little town and live the same little life my  parents did, just like their parents did before them.

It's not that I didn't like growing up on the farm. I did. I got to feed  baby cows and play hide-and-seek in cornfields and run barefoot through  the mud. But the world has got to be bigger than cows and cornfields  and mud. My world has got to be bigger than cows and cornfields and mud.

After spending another twenty minutes imagining the blow-out argument  between Danica and me that never happened, I give up on sleep, roll out  of bed, and pad over to my desk, sinking into the canvas camping chair I  use as an office chair. My computer screen lights my room as I  crisscross my legs in my lap and let out a heavy breath, the shattered  lamp and Danica's words weighing on me.

I'll pay for the lamp. Even if it's ten years from now, I'll pay for it.  But right now, I just want to forget it. I want to forget the  suffocating feeling of living in a glass house across enemy lines. I  want to forget that I sleep just one wall away from someone who can't  stand the way I dress or talk or act or look or breathe.                       
       
           



       

I click the icon to Deadzone Four and lay my cheek on my desk as it  loads, my line of sight falling on a glass vase filled with the  sunflowers, daisies, and wildflowers that remind me of home, just like  Mike hoped they would.

Why didn't I throw this at Danica? my mind chastises. I thought there  was a robber here to murder me, and I passed up a heavy glass vase for a  freaking half-empty water bottle?

I turn my forehead into the wood laminate desk, feeling like an idiot.  I'm an idiot for throwing a water bottle. I'm an idiot for not calling  the cops before busting into the hallway. I'm an idiot for the way my  stomach flipped when Mike gave me the sunflowers. And I'm an even bigger  idiot for the way it does it again when I lift my eyes to see that his  username is active on my friend list.

You don't even know him. Just because he buys you some shitty little  flowers because he feels sorry for you doesn't mean you know anything,  Hailey.

I don't know why those words hurt so much, but they do. And I don't know  why the one person I want to talk to right now is the one person I  shouldn't, but here I am, staring at his name on my screen.

Danica was wrong about me not knowing him. In the week since I met Mike  Madden, I've learned some things. I know he loves his job. I know he  sucks at sniping. I know his mom is some kind of stain-removing guru. I  know he's great with twelve-year-old kids. I know he's thoughtful and  funny and kind.

I know he loves Danica. I know he never got over her, because he told me  so. I know that he bought her a dozen roses redder than any roses I've  ever seen.

Hey.



His message appears on my screen while I'm lost in my thoughts, and my  stomach does that flipping thing again that's really starting to annoy  me.

I stare at the message for a long time before typing something back.

Hey.

What are you doing up?

Breaking 300 dollar lamps.



I press my fingers into my eyes, wondering how I'm going to pay that  damn lamp off and wondering why the hell I brought it up. To Mike.

When a new message pops up, I pull my fingers away and read it.

Sounds like an expensive hobby.



A small, unbidden smile sneaks onto my face, and I type back, It's a long story.

I've got time.



I start to type back, I thought you had to wake up early? But then I  delete it and sit there staring at my screen. Just an accident, I  finally type. What about you? Why are you up?

Because I'm talking to you.



I sit there for a long time having no idea how to respond to that, until a second message pops up.

If I ask you something, will you be honest with me?



That doesn't sound ominous at all, I nervously type back.

Will you?



It takes me a minute, but I finally type back, Yes.

And five seconds later, my phone rings.

"Hey," I answer, and Mike's voice makes my heart trip in my chest.

"Hey."

"Sooo . . ." I nervously roll the ball of my mouse down and down and down.

"This feels like a really awkward question."

"Probably would've been easier to ask it through a text," I suggest, and Mike chuckles.

"You're probably right." A long pause, and then a heavy sigh. "Just remember what you said about telling me the truth, okay?"