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Havoc:Mayhem Series #4(47)

By:Jamie Shaw


"Did you get a ride back to your car?" he asks, and I tell him Rowan  drove me. I even tell him about having pancakes with her at IHOP, but I  don't tell him about the serious conversation we had afterward.

I ask him how his flight was, and he tells me the band got recognized  for the first time in the airport. I ask how Canada is, and he tells me  about the freezing weather. I ask how preparation for the show is going,  and he tells me they just finished sound check and that kids are  already lining up outside.

"What about you?" he cuts in before I can ask anything else. "How was your day?"

I think back to the pit bulls I basically signed death warrants for, and  my stomach sinks. "Fine," I say, knowing Mike has to go onstage soon.  He doesn't have time to hear about it, and even if he did, I wouldn't  want to burden him.

"Why are you lying?"

"It's a long story," I confess. "I know you don't have the time to-"

"I've always got time for you, Hailey. And if not, I'll make time. Now talk to me."                       
       
           



       

Something in his voice undoes me, and I unbottle the emotions I've been  storing all day. I share it all with him-the hatred I feel for the  dogfighters, the hope I have for the puppies and some of the younger  dogs, the overwhelming sadness I feel for the dogs we couldn't save. I  tell him about the dreams I have about the animals who never leave the  shelter, and Mike listens to it all. He listens to the negative and  helps me focus on the positive, asking how I'm going to rehabilitate the  young dogs, and by the time I'm finished unloading the weight that's  been on my shoulders since I walked into that shelter this afternoon, I  actually feel . . . better. I feel like I might actually be able to  sleep tonight.

"Thank you," I say as I crawl under my covers. It's nearing ten o'clock,  which means it will soon be time for him to go onstage, if he's not  already late. "I feel better. You can go be a rock star now."

"What if I don't want to go?" Mike asks, and I smile as I pull my covers up to my chin.

"I'm pretty sure you have to."

We both linger on the line, and I force myself to ask, "Can you do me a favor though?"

"Name it."

"Send me a picture?"

"Of what?"

"You," I answer timidly. "I don't have one."

I know I could go online. I'm sure there are plenty of pictures, videos,  and interviews. Mike is famous, and I don't doubt I could find a  picture of him that would make my heart melt.

But I want one for me. I want a smile from him that's just for me.

He agrees to send me one, and he wishes me sweet dreams. I reluctantly  hang up since I know he really does have to go, and a few seconds later,  a text dings on my phone.

I open the photo and smile at my screen as I stare into his warm brown  eyes. He's backstage at an obviously packed show, judging from all the  people I see buzzing around in the background, but his soft smile is  just for me. It touches his eyes and makes my heart swell, and I hold  the phone to my chest as I fall asleep that night, wishing he wasn't so  far away.





Chapter 38




Mike sends me a photo every day for almost a week. We even try to video  chat a couple times, but the connection is always spotty since he's  constantly on the go, so eventually, we give up trying. He flew to  Beijing last night, so now we're on a twelve-hour time difference. He  left me a voice mail before I woke up this morning, wishing me a good  day and telling me how much he missed waking up next to me. My heart  ached as I listened to his voice, knowing the sun was setting where he  was, even as it rose outside my window.

The memory of his fingers in my hair begins to feel like a fading dream,  but I try to convince myself that his voice is enough. I miss the curve  of his smile and the scent of his skin and how messy his hair looks  first thing in the morning. I miss sitting next to him on his couch. I  miss stealing glances across the room. I miss the warmth of his lips and  the softness of his touch, and my heart aches with the loss of all  these things even though I really only had them for a heartbeat in time.

Yet in spite of it all-in spite of the wound in my chest that reopens  every time we hang up the phone-I feel myself falling even more for him.  The distance between us gets greater and greater, but each passing day  brings us closer and closer. He's the first thing I think about when I  wake up in the morning, and I've never been so excited for anything as I  am for the moment his name flashes onto my phone.



"Let me use your phone," Danica orders on Friday after my morning  classes, and I glance up from my spot on the loveseat to see her  motioning for me to toss my phone to her on the couch.

"Use your own phone."

"I can't," she complains as she continues holding out her hand. Her feet  are propped on the coffee table, her toes spread with foam separators  as her glittery silver polish dries. We've been sitting together in  silence for the last half hour while she painted her nails and I worked  on a mountain of homework, since I'm sick and tired of imprisoning  myself in my nine-by-ten bedroom just to avoid her.

"Why not?" I ask.                       
       
           



       

"Because Mike blocked my number. Now let me use yours."

I make a face and go back to ignoring her, since that is so not  happening for so many reasons. For one, when she put in his number, he  would show up as Dee-licious-andra and I'd be royally screwed. And for  two, I hate her guts and there's no fucking way in hell I'm going to  give her my phone so she can try to win back my boyfriend.

"Oh, come on," she argues. "You're seriously going to be like that?"

I strangle my pencil as I try to solve organic synthesis problems. I  used to think that hell must be filled with chemistry textbooks and  structural formulas. Now, I'm convinced it must be filled with a million  Danicas painting their toes on our communal coffee table.

She sighs dramatically and lowers her hand. "I can't believe you're still mad at me."

I gape at her, and she rolls her eyes.

"It's been like two whole weeks, Hailey. What are you going to do, stay mad at me forever?"

"You called me a whore," I remind her. "You trashed my room. You flipped my desk. You blackmailed me. You broke my computer-"

"Do you need me to buy you a new computer?" she asks. "Is that what this is about?"

I swear I see red. My mouth is hanging open, but Danica just sits there staring at me like I'm the one who has problems.

"If you need me to buy you a new computer, Hailey-"

"I don't need you to buy me a new fucking computer!"

"Then what is your problem?" She sits forward and plants her feet on the  floor. "You're already dating someone else, so what are you still so  mad about?"

I glare daggers at the numbers in my textbook, until eventually Danica asks, "Is he hot?"

I scowl up at her, and she tries disarming me with a smile.

"Your new guy, is he hot?" When I don't answer, she pouts. "Come on,  Hailey. I know you're mad that I went so crazy, but can you blame me? My  boyfriend got a crush on you while he was sleeping with me."

It's like a slap in the face, and the worst thing is that I don't even  think she meant for it to be. She was just stating a fact. An  observation. A truth.

Mike was sleeping with her when he had feelings for me.

"Did you do it on purpose?" she asks, and I focus on the way her brow  turns in, the unguarded way her eyes study me as she waits for my  answer.

"No," I tell her honestly, not needing her to elaborate any further. I  didn't make Mike fall for me on purpose-I was too busy trying to keep  myself from falling for him. I never considered him developing feelings  for me even within the realm of possibility. I'm still not sure why he  did.

Danica nods to herself, focusing on an invisible spot on the coffee  table, and then she looks up at me again, "I should hate him, right?"

I don't know what to say to that. I feel like I'm slipping over a waterfall, drowning as I fall.

Danica props her feet back up on the table and begins applying a second  coat of polish. "I wish I could, but I don't. I just want him. I messed  things up with him, twice, and I want another shot."

"Why?" I ask, and when she questions me with her eyes, I clarify, "Why him?"

"Because I want him more than I've ever wanted anything," she answers  simply, and I give my attention back to my textbook. Or I pretend to, at  least. There's a feeling of wrongness smothering me like a woolen  blanket in the dead of summer, and I don't know how to kick it off.