The Failing Hours(15)
Her eyes gleam behind the cup. “Thank you.”
“Thank you—for coming to rescue me.”
She casts her gaze down to the tabletop. “I hardly think you need rescuing, Zeke.”
My laugh is humorless. “You’d be surprised.”
Violet shifts in her chair. “I bet you’re full of surprises.”
I shift on the balls of my feet. “Are you being coy with me?”
She’s spared from a reply when the front door swings open, followed by a chorus of loud voices filling the entry hall of the house, signaling the return of two roommates, and one Jameson Clark.
Oz, Elliot, and James are laughing hysterically.
Elliot gasping for breath at something Oz just said, probably something perverted.
I lean to the right, staring out the kitchen to glimpse James brushing the cold from her sleeves. Removing her hat and mittens, shoving them both in her pockets. Peeling off her Thinsulate puffy coat and hanging it on a hook by the door.
That chick is always freezing cold; I know for fact it was her that cranked the thermostat instead of adding more blankets to her boyfriend’s bed, as if sixty-five degrees isn’t warm enough.
“…and then he looks up from the ground, right, and this girl is just staring down at him. And I yell, Hey Gunderson, why don’t you—”
Sebastian Osborne’s gruff voice comes to an abrupt halt when they round the corner, the entire trio stumbling into the doorway of the kitchen.
Three sets of round eyes, wide with shock.
“Holy shit.” Oz laughs. “Are we in the right house?”
It’s not every day I bring a girl home, but when I do, it’s not to sit around making small talk, it’s to screw. Also, it’s certainly not usually a sweet, naive-looking girl wearing all her clothes and sipping a mug of hot chocolate.
Violet has chocolate and mallow on her upper lip.
Her blonde hair and rosy cheeks and pale skin are perfection.
She sets the mug on the table, runs a hand down her silky hair, flattening the errant strands nervously, and stands.
“Hi. You must be Zeke’s roommates?”
“Unfortunately,” I mutter under my breath.
“Yes. Hi!” Jameson pushes through the guys, shiny black ballet flats tapping against the wooden floor. She unwinds her gray scarf and extends her hand. “I’m Jameson. I don’t actually live here, I’m Oz’s girlfriend.”
She throws him a thumb over her shoulder.
“I’m Violet.” She’s blushing furiously.
“You work at the library, don’t you?” James asks with polite interest, eyes shining, shit-ass grin widening. She directs a few smiles my way, glowing with excitement over this new development, wheels turning in her diabolic girl brain.
Shit. I don’t need anyone getting the wrong idea about what’s happening here, least of all Jameson, who can’t seem to mind her own business.
“Yes, at the circulation desk.” Violet clears her throat. “Well, I-I’m actually the everything desk.” Nervous laughter. “I-I tutor, I shelve books, I babysit…”
“You’re Zeke’s babysitter?” Oz pipes up from behind his girlfriend. He taps her on the arm. “I knew it. That would explain her presence. Told you he needed a nanny.”
“Shut up, Ozzy,” I growl. “That’s not what she meant.”
My roommate rolls his eyes.
“How the hell are you putting up with him? You’re a saint, aren’t you?” Oz asks, pushing through so he can be front and center in the whole, fucked up conversation. “I’m Oz, and this handsome fellow is Elliot.”
Elliot waves sheepishly, flipping shaggy brown bangs and pushing up his glasses. “Hey.”
“So what are the two of you doing?” Oz wants to know. “Having a tea party?”
“Leaving!” I blurt out. “Violet was just leaving.”
I don’t know why I say it, don’t know why I said it with so much insistence in my voice, but the words are out before I can curtail them or wipe away the wounded expression crossing Violet’s face.
You could hear a pin drop it gets so quiet.
The whole damn house is silent.
I’d chance a look at her from under the brim of my ball cap, but I don’t want to see whatever hurt I know is pasted on her face. Embarrassment. Humiliation. Shame.
Take your fucking pick.
Steaming hot, heavy mug still in her hand, she sets it quietly on the table. Stands ramrod straight. Fakes a smile. “I-I guess I-I was just leaving.” Wipes her hands on the front of her leggings. “It was n-nice meeting you all.”
Oh Jesus, the stuttering is my fucking fault.
“You don’t have to go!” Jameson starts in with her special brand of nagging as Violet awkwardly skirts past, sleeve brushing my arm. “Don’t listen to Zeke; he’s a grouchy old bear.”
Nonetheless, they let Violet pass.
“Shit. Hold up a second!” I follow her as far as the living room, hands half raised, palms up, beseeching. “What am I supposed to do about Kyle?”
She slides her tiny feet into her black Chuck Taylors, presenting me with her back. “He’s sleeping Zeke. You’ll be fine.”
Everyone stands uncomfortably, giving us a wide berth, and I expect one of them to say something snarky. Instead they actually all look disappointed.
Well, they’re about to become more disa-fucking-pointed because I have zero romantic interest in Violet. Do they honestly think I’d bang a chick like that and let her loiter around the house? She has long-term commitment stamped in the center of her goddamn forehead.
My taste in women is simple: one-night stands. Not someone you’d bring home to your parents.
Women with dark hair.
Blue eyes.
Disposable.
The door opens and Violet steps down into the cold winter weather, steaming breath rising in the dark, illuminated by the porch light I rush over to flip—don’t want her tripping and killing herself on a rock or whatever.
“Hey, thanks for coming on such short notice.” I prop the door open with my foot, leaning on the doorjamb.
She lifts a palm to acknowledge my statement but continues down the sidewalk to the street. An old tan sedan that must be at least ten years old is parked out near the curb, and I hear her keys jingling in the dark as she fumbles her way down the walk.
Jameson grabs Violet’s jacket off the hook, shoulders past me, and jams her elbow into my gut before chasing her into the dark yard.
“Sooo…” Oz can hardly contain his meddling. “What the hell was that all about—and what the hell is a Kyle?”
Elliot has cleared the room.
“Kyle is a kid I’m watching. He’s sleeping in my bedroom.” Oz opens his mouth to speak, but I stop him with a brisk, “Don’t ask.”
“But—”
“Just shut the fuck up for once, would you Oz?”
This is partly his fault.
“You know I can’t do that man.” He moves into the kitchen, picks up Violet’s discarded hot chocolate, and sips from the mug. “Wow, this is good. Makes me feel all toasty inside.”
Jeez, not him too.
He grips the mug in one hand, the counter in the other. Lifts the mug again and examines it with narrowed eyes. “You don’t think that girl has any sexually transmitted diseases, do you? Before I go ham on this cocoa?”
He knows damn well what her name is, and he knows damn well she doesn’t have any STDs.
I’m practically growling. “Are you fucking serious?”
He slurps from the cup. “As a heart attack.” Lets out a loud, “Ahhh, this shit is good. Expensive, but good.”
“She doesn’t have any STDs asshole; why would you say that? And her name is Violet.”
He quirks a brow. “I’m just treating her like all the other randoms you bring home. Don’t get all bent out of shape. It’s a fair question.”
No, it’s not, and he knows it. And he knows she is nothing like the randoms I occasionally bring home. Nothing.
“She’s not like that—if you couldn’t tell.”
More slurping. “I didn’t have the chance to make a fair assessment; you basically shoved her out the door and into the cold ten seconds after we got home.” Slurp, slurp. “I bet she’s crying into her Cheerios right now.”
“Please, I highly doubt that.”
“Dude, she was stuttering—what the hell were you doing to her? She was flipping out.”
What the hell was I doing to her? Instead of defending myself to Sebastian Osborne, I roll my eyes.
“She always stutters.”
His eyes get huge. “What do you mean, she always stutters?” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Like, is she deaf?”
“No jackass, she’s not fucking deaf! Jesus Christ, what kind of question is that? Don’t be an asshole.”
His hands go up in mock surrender. “Whoa, I was just asking. I mean, you can’t just say someone has a stutter and not expect a litany of questions to follow.”
Oh yes I fucking can.
But Oz isn’t done, not by a long shot. “What are you doing with that girl, man? It’s obvious you’re not sleeping with her.”
“Why is it obvious I’m not sleeping with her?”
He laughs. “Well, she doesn’t look like your usual type.”
She’s not, but that doesn’t stop me from asking, “And what is my usual type, smartass?”